“When was the last time you even had sex?” Josie asks, eyes narrowed on our friend.
Addie’s jaw practically unhinges. “I have sex.”
Another huff escapes me, this one full of skepticism. “When?”
“I have sex.” As the words leave her mouth, her eyes dart to one side. “I’m just going through a bit of a dry spell.”
“Well you better un-dry that spell, because you’re about to be working with a bunch of really hot men,” Sutton says. “If you think you’re horny now, just imagine how horny you’ll be having to spend all that time with JJ”
If possible, Addie’s jaw drops farther. “Take it back.”
Sutton grins, eyes dancing. “Why? We all know it’s true. You as his coach? There’s gonna be all kinds of delicious gossip flying. Bet you could write a year’s worth of Calliope columns using Addie’s life experience alone. The first headline: How Not to Fuck Your Enemy.”
“JJ is not my enemy.” Addie lifts her chin, keeping her expression even in a pathetic effort to look nonchalant.
“Oh no, just your archnemesis,” Josie teases.
Addie huffs. “He’s a player. And a dad. And married.”
“Ugh, I hate his wife.” Josie scowls.
“Doesn’t matter. He’s still married, and I’m not interested.” Addie scrutinizes me. “So you’ll have to come up with something else ridiculous to write about.”
I sink against the couch, nerves swirling in my stomach. Yes, I will. The question is, what?
TWO
SAVANNAH
“Thank you!”I call to the Uber driver as I step onto the broken sidewalk. The door to my building is decorated with a glowing wreath and the banister is wrapped in a string of Christmas lights, thanks to the first-floor residents. They’re a family of six in a two-bedroom apartment. I don’t know how they do it, but I rarely hear the eighteen-month-old twins even cry. Even now, just after nine, the only sound echoing in the tiny foyer area is laughter. The building has seen better days, but I love every inch of it. Especially the people inside.
The Donovans live on the first floor. John is a firefighter. When he’s not on shift, he’s busy with the kids. His wife Erin is a pediatric nurse. They work opposite shifts to save on childcare, yet every time I see them together, they’re smiling.
I pause outside their door, letting the happiness that spills out into the hallway soak into my bones. The television is on, but I can still make out the voices of both parents. If I had to guess, Erin is headed to work in an hour or so. She probably just woke up and is spending a little time with the kids before she leaves.
“Come on, Pip,” John says. Piper recently turned four. “It’s time for bed.”
“Can we fly there?” she asks, her high-pitched voice so sweet.
I watch her and her siblings on occasion. Once in a while, when one parent is running late and the other has to leave for work, they call me and I’ll pop down to help out. That little girl in particular has a ton of energy and a lot to say.
My kind of girl, obviously.
“A jet or a bird tonight?” he replies.
He never says no. God, what that must be like. When I was growing up, my house was either extremely loud or extremely quiet. Loud because my father was yelling or quiet because I was home alone.
My father believed children should be seen, not heard. Maybe not even seen, honestly. He left when I was eleven.
My mother? She fought. Fought with him. Fought to keep him. Berated me for being the reason she was stuck with him.
“If only you hadn’t been his.” She said it often. As if it was my fault that she cheated on her boyfriend and got knocked up by the man she didn’t want.
With a breath out, I step back from the Donovans’ door and trudge up the stairs. Thinking about my parents always puts a damper on my mood, so I try not to do it often. Twice in one night is well beyond my usual limit. I typically try not to think of them more than twice in a month.
The smell of garlic and tomato sauce hits me as I round the steps onto the second floor. The nightly news blares from inside the apartment, but Rosalie is louder.
“That boy was always bad news,” she says in that thick Italian Boston accent that always makes me smile.
