I give them each a quick kiss and inhale their small child scent. I miss the way they smelled as babies, so I assume I’ll miss this one day as well. So I want to get as much of itwhile I can.
It is hard to leave them, but it’s silly to stay and I can’t risk waking them up. So I tiptoe quietly out and go in search of Ned.
I find him in the kitchen, bent over and unloading the dishwasher. Wow! That is an incredible ass. But as soon as the thought crosses my mind, it is extinguished by a tidal wave of guilt.
Jennifer is dead, but she is still my wife. Ned is half my age and my employee. I know my therapist would say that attraction and arousal are normal, healthy human responses. But I’m not there yet. It simply feels like betrayal.
Ned closes the dishwasher door and turns around. A startled laugh bubbles out of me.
“Another makeover from Lottie?”
His brown eyes widen and his hand flies to the sparkly hair clips in his hair. He has the cheekbones to carry the excessive blusher my daughter has painted on him. It looks good, if dramatic. As if he is an eighties pop star and not the victim of a toddler’s playing.
“Oh crap, I completely forgot!” he says.
I can’t stop grinning. “It looks good.”
Ned flashes me a smile, and suddenly I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. Fuck. Something about this light. Those eyes. That smile. He really does look like Jennifer.
“I’ll just go wash this off,” he says as he turns and walks away.
I nod to myself in the empty room. What the hell is wrong with me? Have I finally cracked? Am I losing my mind? Why am I still seeing Jennifer everywhere? It makes no sense.
Numbly, I drift out of the kitchen and into the living room. The TV is on mute, playing Casablanca to itself. A cup of coffee is on the table. Now all I can imagine is Ned sitting here, waiting for me. And it does something strange to my heart.
I don’t realize that I’m standing here, staring at the silent room, until Ned comes and joins me.
“Great film,” I say in a lame attempt to disguise my odd behavior.
“Yeah,” Ned agrees easily. “When it came out, the queues for the cinema were insane.”
I turn to him with a quizzical look. “Didn’t it come out in 1943?”
His brown eyes widen. “Um…yeah. I was on about a film festival.”
“Oh.”
He turns back to the TV. “Was it really 1943?”
“Something like that.”
“It has aged well.”
It is hard not to stare at Ned. Casablanca is a great film. A classic. But it has definitely aged. It looks even older than I feel, and that’s saying something.
“Would you like a drink?” I say, instead of quizzing him on his odd opinions on films.
He looks up at me and bites his bottom lip. I can see his inner battle reflected in his eyes. I’m pleased that part of him wants to stay in my company.
“I’d love one,” he breathes out on a soft exhale.
I nod and head over to my drinks cabinet. My hand automatically goes to the everyday whisky, but sod it. Saving stuff for special occasions is just a waste. Life has taught me that.
I pour Ned a glass of my most expensive whisky. Then I experience a wave of crushing doubt. Maybe he didn’t want to stay because he enjoys my company. Maybe he simply likes my whisky.
I grimace at my dark thought. Ned is not so shallow. I’m being an asshole. And even if he is only staying for my drinks collection, what do I care? I still get to enjoy the pleasure of his company.
I hand him his drink and he takes it with another smile. Then he sniffs it carefully. His eyebrows rise.
