Zoey
I’m eighteen again. We’re alone in our mutual friend Scooter’s one-room apartment just like last time. Only this time Jude’s not drunk and neither am I, at least not on booze. I feel light-headed and deliciously warm, but it’s not from all the Fireball and Boone’s Farm apple wine we consumed in real life. Here, in this unreal moment, the warmth is from the feel of his bare skin, all of it from calf to collarbone, pressed against mine. The light-headedness is from the brush of his lips on my lips, the way his tongue sweeps my mouth and the soft scrape of his fingers as they make their way into the only piece of clothing I’m wearing—my underwear. And then he’s touching my clit, and I’m moaning into that perfect mouth of his, and he’s whispering back, “I want to make you see stars, Zoey. I want to touch you and lick you and push inside you, filling you up until you see nothing but stars.”
“Jude…”
It’s my orgasm that rips me from the dream and back into the cold light of day. I swim through the euphoria back to reality. I’m alone, in the guest bedroom in my house, with an ex-husband down the hall and nothing but my own hand pretending it’s Jude. It’s both the best and worst way I could have started today.
Orgasms are good even if they’re not from someone else. And, damn, it’s been a long time since I’ve relaxed enough to have one. But now it’s going to make it that much harder to forget him and get on with my life. Because that’s really what I have to do until this whole divorce gets sorted and Adam moves out. And then I should probably throw all my time and energy into my career, since it’s so new. If I think about what my life needs, rationally, logically, like Spock or a robot or something, it needs a lot of things, but rekindling a spark with an old flame isn’t on the list. But, damn, I want that most of all.
I sigh as I sit up and run my hands through my hair before opening my bedroom door and walking to the bathroom. Adam is coming up the stairs in running clothes, a sheen on his skin. He stops at the sight of me and stares. The look on his face is unpleasant at best.
“Good morning,” I say casually, because I’m not going to let him suck away my post-orgasmic Zen.
“You sleep in that now?”
I look down at my white tank top and men’s boxer briefs. This used to be my M.O. before I met Adam. In fact, I not only slept in men’s boxer briefs and generic white tanks, I put them on as soon as I got home. And my hair used to spend more time in a messy topknot than out of it. I didn’t even own a straightening iron until after I met Adam and wanted to look more grown-up because he was so much older than me.
“Yep,” I respond simply and yawn—loudly—without covering my mouth.
He’s absolutely horrified, and I stifle a smile. “What happened to all the silk pajama sets I bought you?”
“Goodwill,” I reply, stepping into the bathroom and closing the door. I lean against the closed door and lift my hands to my mouth to smother a giggle as I hear him swear and stomp loudly to his bedroom.
Okay, maybe that was uncalled for and kind of juvenile, but, damn, it was fun.
Twenty minutes later I’m dressed for work in a charcoal pencil skirt with a cream-colored sleeveless top and a pair of killer Louboutin heels. I decided to leave my hair wavy today, but it’s pulled back in a low, messy chignon. I feel like a million bucks as I lean against the marble countertop and sip my English Breakfast tea.
Oh, how I’ve missed my teapot collection, I think as I glance at the row of stunning ceramic and porcelain beauties in various shapes and colors that line the long shelf above the eat-in nook. I glance down at the Wedgwood one—my favorite—that holds the rest of the tea I’m currently drinking. It feels good to be here again, despite Adam. I put a lot of love and care into this place. We hired a lot of professionals to help, but I still insisted on doing some of the work myself, like scraping the wallpaper off and replastering holes in the walls and painting the crown molding. I told Adam it was because I was a perfectionist and needed to do it myself, but the fact was it gave me an excuse to be alone, away from him. Because he never lifted a finger on this whole place. I once asked him to change a few casings for the light switches, and he paid the contractor to do it.
Adam walks in, dressed for work in a perfectly pressed summer suit. He runs a hand through his hair and makes a sour face at the sight of me. “I hear your lawyer finally contacted my lawyer.”
“That’s good.”
“Unfortunately, no, it’s not good,” Adam says and stomps over to his precious thousand-dollar espresso machine. I hate that thing. It’s like some kind of alien ship landed on the counter. “She’s not being reasonable.”
“She’s supposed to ask for nothing more than the pre-nup outlined,” I reply firmly.
“Yes, and that’s unreasonable, Zoey.” He sighs loudly, like I’m a disobedient, dim child. “The pre-nup states that it would be yours in the event of children. You didn’t and can’t give me children.”
“That’s not true. The pre-nup says the house is mine and the children’s, not justifwe have children,” I reply sharply and place my teacup down on the saucer beside me with a shaky hand. “And I can have kids. The doctor only said it would probably take longer than normal.”
“We tried for a year, Zoey, and you couldn’t get pregnant. If you don’t want to face reality, it’s not my problem anymore.” He rolls his eyes and hits a button so the ugly espresso machine rumbles and spits aggressively. “And as for the house, you didn’t even come up with the down payment for this place. It came out of my trust fund.”
“I worked for your company without my own paycheck for two years. And you wrote the pre-nup. I didn’t ask for the house. You gave it to me.”
“I gave it to our unborn children that will never exist,” he snaps. “Because you’re barren.”
I stare at him. Did he really just go there? The doorbell rings, but we both ignore it. I’m rooted to the wood floor, anger making me rigid. “I loved you. I gave myself and everything I had to this marriage. I joined not only my assets with you but my life.”
My voice is shaking and he looks annoyed by that, which makes me even angrier and more on the verge of tears than I was seconds ago. Still, I right myself, leveling my shoulders and holding his gaze as the doorbell rings again. “I am not going to be punished for something that is out of my control. And in the end, Adam, I’m happy we found out I might have difficulty conceiving, because it showed me what a mistake you were, how unworthy you were of me in the first place.”
I storm past him and into the front hall to answer the door, because the bell is being rungagain. I swing open the door and find Morgan standing there. My brother looks like he just stepped off a billboard, as per usual. He pulls off his aviators and smiles, but it fades almost immediately. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. What do you want?”
“I thought I’d drive you to work since that asshole stole your car.”
“Oh. Thanks.” I take a deep breath. “Let me grab my—”
