Was it just my imagination or was Athena glaring at me? But Athena always glared at me, because my wife’s parrot absolutely hated me. So surely that was nothing new.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
I was a grown man thinking a parrot knew the secret depravity in my heart.
But the way Athena paused preening her feathers and looked me over contemptuously. . .like she could read my mind, still made me nervous.
“I’m looking forward to talking later,” Christabelle had said. “We were so young, Frankie. Young and foolish. We’re older now.”
When I made no response, she put her manicured hand on my arm, then dragged her fingers down my bare skin, her eyes dewy and big, long lashes sweeping beautifully across her cheeks.
“Later, then.”
I glanced over at Jillian as she was putting on her shoes, but she didn’t seem bothered.
Guilt laid low in my gut.
I shouldn’t go tonight. . .
Being around Christabelle was too tempting.
There was too much of a risk that something could. . . get out of hand. Go further than I wanted.
But if I didn’t go I would always wonder.
What could have been.
I was a very happily married man.
But there had always been. . .in the back of my mind. . . that wonder.
What would have happened if I’d kept trying after our last fight? Would we have gotten back together?
Our love was passionate, epic, glorious. We made love just as hard as we fought, but after that last fight, Christabelle had left.
I had been so pissed she rejected my marriage proposal that I didn’t go after her.
And by the time I got over myself, and reached out again, it was too late.
My wild and rebellious Christabelle had left school and changed her number.
It had been for the best, I reminded myself.
Christabelle and I would never have worked long-term. We were like oil and water. But sometimes. . .you just wanted to mix oil and water and see what happened next. And that’s what life had been like with her. Glorious mad explosions mixed with furious lovemaking and then we started the cycle all over again.
I was determined to put that toxic cycle behind me when I met Jillian.
After all, I hadambitionsin life.
Jillian was in all ways the opposite of Christabelle. Quiet, calm. She actually thought before she spoke. She dressed to avoid attention, her soft brown hair usually in a neat and tidy braid, her gray eyes gentle.
Instead of Christabelle’s frenetic energy, her nails that dug into my skin, Jilly was soft, relaxed, a homey warmth to her that soothed me. Coming home to her was like a warm cup of cocoa.
So why did I want to slug a shot of fireball whiskey right now?
Because even though I was very happy, there was always that thought in the back of my head.
Sometimes on those long, dull inventory days. When we had to do taxes. On a gray March day when the world was small and Mrs. Greenberg said her peppermint schnapps latte wasn’t up to snuff. . .
