Page 28 of Sunny Side Up

Ted looked at me with a deep focus, his head ever-so-slightly cocked. “I think you’re brilliant, Sunny. I find you fascinating. I’m not sure I’ve ever met someone like you before.”

My stomach flipped. I couldn’t tell if it was the second speech comedown or his voice, which had just gotten deeper, this time with a gravel to it.

The waiter brought out the next course. Everything was family style, which Ted served to me first every time before serving himself.

More food, more wine, and our conversation flowed into get-to-know-you fodder, which eventually led to our relationship status.

Ted asked all about my divorce and I was surprised to hear we were on similar timelines.

Both of us had been with our partners for about six years.

Ultimately, he didn’t feel that he and his wife were in love anymore and they’d split up amicably.

“Divorce is awful,” I said, eyes down as I took a long drink from my wineglass.

“It was for the best.” He caught my eye when I looked back up. “I want more passion in my life. Someone I can’t live without.”

My heart was racing, my chest rising and falling quickly as I tried to steady myself.

“So do I,” I said. “To passion.” I held up my glass.

“To passion,” he said, in a tone that made it clear we were no longer talking about passion for “what we do.”

Two enormous slices of chocolate cake landed on the table, but I found myself too jittery to eat.

“Sunny.” I looked up into Ted’s eyes—a dark grayish green, I noticed just then—which were watching me intently.

“I’m glad we’re working together; I have an instinct about these kinds of things, but at the risk of being unprofessional, I must admit I’m interested in you beyond that.

You’re funny, confident, driven, and self-possessed; that’s what I’m looking for in my life at this point. ”

His voice lowered to that low growl once again. “And you’re beautiful. I haven’t been able to take my eyes off you.”

He cleared his throat, clearly not wanting to misstep: “Of course, our priority is SONNY, but I’d like to spend more time with you. As long as I’m not misreading this situation. If I am, we can just forget this conversation happened…”

My breath caught in my chest. So it hadn’t been in my head.

There had been tension building between us since the moment we met.

Our palpable chemistry had grown more pronounced over dinner, thicker with every accidental brush of our hands as we reached for something on the table, every sip of that rich red elixir, every glance at one another’s eyes and lips, his gaze lingering more than once in the deep V of my dress, my mind flashing to scenes of him throwing me up against a wall, hand in my hair, hot mouth on my neck…

But this was about more than just sexual tension. Nobody had said something like this to me in years. Not since the early days of Zack falling in love with me. This was validating. This was different. Ted was different.

“You’re not misreading anything,” I said, my own voice low and just quiet enough that he had to lean in toward me. “I’d like to see where this goes, too.” Then I took a bite of the cake, suddenly insatiable despite the multiple courses of pasta we’d just consumed.

“This is delicious,” I said, pointing at the slice with my fork.

“ You are delicious,” he said, reaching for my hand. If anyone else had said that to me, the spell between my legs would have been immediately broken. But coming from Ted’s mouth, I melted.

Ted’s Escalade was idling outside the restaurant.

He wanted to wait with me until I caught a cab.

I wasn’t sure how to approach the official goodbye before I headed all the way down to my neighborhood and he drove all the way up to Greenwich.

We had both admitted to “wanting to see where this goes.” Did “ this ” start now?

A cab spotted me from two blocks away and made a beeline toward my side of the street. “You know, I’d offer to walk you home,” Ted said with a glance down at my four-inch heels, “but I’m guessing those boots weren’t made for walking.”

I grabbed his arm, leaned into him, and groaned at the dad joke. “Noooo, Ted. Not the Nancy Sinatra reference. That was really bad.”

“Come on,” he said with a laugh. “I’m a man inspired.” The cab pulled up; I watched the driver of Ted’s SUV get out, walk toward the cab, then lean over into the window, possibly buying us time?

Ted placed his hands on my hips and pulled me into his.

I inhaled the amber of his cologne mixed with whatever Real Adult Man pheromones circled him like an aura.

He lifted up my chin, held my eyes for an eternity or half a second, then lowered his voice.

“I can’t wait to taste all of you. But for now… ”

Then he pulled me in for a deep, intoxicating kiss.

Ted’s driver had prepaid my cab, along with a whopping tip, which explains why the cabdriver was so nice to me despite the time he spent waiting for our make-out session to end.

Walking into my apartment, the taste of Ted’s lips still on mine, I was startled by a flash of Dennis the night he’d salvaged my Valentine’s Day by taking me out for ice cream.

I pictured us sitting at War Horse, crying with laughter; Dennis helping himself to a bite of my gelato like we were some old married couple; and then Dennis, on my stoop, stepping away with apparent disgust from my invitation to a goodnight kiss.

He had access to my mailbox but had only sent that one-time letter.

He had my number now but didn’t use it. I knew that I could text him , but I’d put the ball in his court.

Whether or not the ball had deflated, the next move was all his.

Either he just wanted to be friends, or worse: He didn’t know what he wanted.

Ted did. Ted wanted me, he went after it, and after that kiss, he just might get it.

Your loss, Dennis.

Collapsing onto my couch, I opened Instagram and immediately searched for Ted.

I wanted to replay our kiss, over and over, but his Instagram was mostly blurry pictures of tee boxes at the three different golf clubs he belonged to.

Not surprising. I was impressed he had an Instagram at all: Ted had an assistant named James, a Stanford graduate, specifically dedicated to online press—and in-print press that mentioned the online wings of his many ventures.

Avery dealt with James directly. Recently, during a particularly late night in the office, Avery had told me that James said Ted only read “the headlines,” with the one exception being Bad for Business press, which James flagged with a red plastic tab and left on his desk.

(A relief, considering it meant Ted wasn’t out there reading about my embarrassing dating escapades on Sunny Side Up .

To him, my newsletter was a potential marketing funnel for SONNY, the end.)

Avery and I were both fascinated by the idea of having “a James,” but we decided it felt fitting. I once read that Elton John had someone who handled all his text messages, so.

Ted’s Instagram had fifteen pictures total, so I quickly got to the bottom of his grid.

And there, in post number one, was an uncomfortably close-cropped photo of a blond woman in sunglasses, with the same blindingly white teeth that Ted had.

Had to be his ex-wife. Below the picture, two people had commented.

One said: Beautiful! Glad you finally caved and joined IG.

The other said: Babe! No! Delete this photo of me! I look awful!

Bingo. I clicked her profile, which was open to the public. She appeared to be at least ten years younger than Ted (which meant not that much older than I was). She was also considerably more Instagram-savvy than Ted, as evidenced by the hundreds of pictures I had to creep through.

She looked like she was about my height and the same shade of blond, but she was about as opposite in body as you could imagine. Her Tracy Anderson–toned legs, arms, and abs threatened to send me into a spiral. How could he be into me, after marrying a woman like her?

Swiping back over to Ted’s profile, I saw something else that made my heart stop. It wasn’t the dazzling profile picture, or the blue check mark next to his name.

It was worse.

It was the username of someone else who followed him.

Sandwiched in between The New York Times and the Auberge resort handle in the list of mutual accounts was a very familiar handle: the one belonging to Zack’s podcast.

Zack followed Ted. Did Zack actually know Ted?

They must operate in similar circles. I sunk into the cushions, gripping my phone.

What would Zack think if he knew that I, his ex-wife Sunny, was now in business with Ted?

That Ted was interested in something more?

That he had kissed me so passionately outside of Rao’s that I was ready to take off my clothes right there on East 114th Street in the middle of February?

Would he be jealous? I certainly hoped so. Not because I wanted him back, god no, but because I wanted him to experience what it was like to feel inferior. He’d never been the jealous type when we were together, but who knows how else he’d changed since our divorce.

Now, my ex-husband’s username flashed like a taunt. I hadn’t looked at it in weeks, trying to focus on myself, trying to move on. But here it was, right before me, impossible to ignore. I clicked on the screen and let myself scroll.

I regretted it immediately. There was Zack, smiling in the company of women who looked like lingerie models, on various luxury beaches, dancing on tables at clubs.

It didn’t look like he was newly divorced or mourning a relationship at all.

In fact, zooming in on his most recent photo, I noticed a face that was all too familiar.

Yup, I looked at the brunette tucked under Zack’s arm. It was definitely Jessica Rose Baker.