“I can make you happy,” she says softly and steps into me, so our bodies are pressed against each other from chest to hips.
“I’m involved,” I remind her.
“Not with the right person if you’re so sad.” She pushes up onto her tiptoes and now her face, her lips are much closer to me. Much too close. Or not close enough…depending…
“I’m married.”
“I don’t care,” she whispers and leans in. Her lips make contact with mine and I feel a lightning bolt of guilt shoot through me, followed by panic. I firmly but gently put my hands on her waist and push her backward. She takes a step and then another, and I slip away from the wall and take several steps into the center of the sidewalk, away from her.
“I’m married,” I repeat a little harshly. “And I don’t cheat.”
She makes a face like I’m overreacting. Like I’m the crazy person here. “Okay. Whatever.”
With that, she stalks back into the bar, and thankfully, I see the Uber pull up to the curb. I jog over to it and jump in the back. I tell the guy my address, close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. I just turned down sex. Free, easy sex with a girl who wants me because I’m fighting to save a marriage I’m not sure I even want. Life fucking sucks.
Chapter 2
Callie
The afternoon sun is bright and I actually get a little itchy as I drive slowly down the narrow tree-lined street with the picturesque brownstones lined up like a wall on one side and the scenic park on the other. It’s not quite full-on suburban hell, since Park Slope is still in the middle of a bustling urban jungle, but it’s the New York version of that existence, and I swear I’m allergic to it.
As the street curves left, I see the numbers I’m looking for carved into the thick stone above one of the doors. I parallel park between a silver Mercedes and Ashleigh’s Range Rover and tell my little 2009 Volkswagen Bug convertible not to feel inferior, before getting out and stretching. I had opted to drive here from California, which had been grueling. And New York isn’t a city that makes driving easy or even necessary, but I like the sense of security and freedom my car gives me. I can just jump in it and drive away, from anything and everything, if the need arises.
I glance at Devin and Ashleigh’s home. It is the typical Brooklyn house, well, for the wealthy, anyway. Three narrow stories, all stone, with a bay window to the left of the stairs leading up to the double oak doors, which have leaded glass and wrought iron inserts. It looks exactly the same as the ten beside it, and when I step onto the sidewalk and glance down the block, it almost makes me feel like I have double vision—I just keep seeing the same thing, over and over.
As I walk to the door, I try to picture Devin and Ashleigh’s existence. I bet he comes home from practice and plays with Conner in the big park across the street while Ashleigh scurries around the kitchen making pot roast and cookies.
I stand on the wide front stoop with the oversize black lacquer planters filled with colorful flowers, and ring the doorbell. It’s a long few minutes with no response, but I know that’s Ashleigh’s Range Rover because it still has Maine plates. Shemustbe home. I turn and scan the park across the street to see if maybe she’s there with Conner. Finally, seconds before I’m about to give up, the door flies open and Ashleigh is standing there in a bathrobe looking irritated. When she realizes it’s me, her face morphs to shock and…guilt? Why would she look guilty?
“Callie!”
“Yeah,” I confirm like an idiot and step across the threshold to hug her.
She hugs me back, halfheartedly at first, but then her shock wears off and she hugs me more tightly.
“Devin was supposed to call you,” she stammers, releasing me and adjusting her robe, tying it tighter.
“He did,” I say and smile, hoping it makes her smile and removes the awkward look from her face. It’s making me uncomfortable. “I didn’t talk to him. He just left a message. Is he on a road trip?”
“No. He’s…” Ashleigh falters and then shakes her head. “You should call his cell.”
“Why?” I ask. She glances up the staircase toward the second level. “Ashleigh…what’s going on?”
“Callie, you know I love you but…this is something you should talk to Devin about,” Ashleigh tells me quietly. “Call him.”
“I could just hang out with you and Conner until he comes home,” I suggest.
“Conner is with Devin. And I’m busy. Can you just call Devin?”
“Ashleigh…” My mouth stays open but I stop speaking as I hear her name.
A male voice I don’t recognize is calling it from somewhere behind Ashleigh, inside the house. I glance over her shoulder and see a guy—stocky, brown eyes, brown hair, five o’clock shadow—standing in the archway to the kitchen. He’s wearing an untucked dress shirt with a tie loosened around his neck. I take a step toward him.
“Who the hell are you?” I demand. He looks nervous suddenly. Ashleigh swivels to face her male guest.
“You need to go,” she tells him flatly. He simply nods and starts toward us and out the front door.
“Call me if you need to talk some more, Ash,” he says firmly as he passes me on the stoop.
