Page 1 of Pure Abandon

I’m standing on a corner in the rain. How did I get here? How did I come to this point in the road?

The corner is wet, my clothes are soaked, but I can’t move. I’m here to see him.

Him.

There he is. Walking out the front door of the hotel. Right where he’s supposed to be.

Through the parting umbrellas, I can see his face. Those golden eyes and chiseled chin striking alongside his broad shoulders and strong thighs.

He’s carrying an umbrella, shielding him from the rain.

So in control. So dry.

He’s wearing grey. That’s the color. The color that defines my life.

Nothing is black and white.

Just grey.

I want to run, dash across the street and grab him. Hold him in my arms, feel his tongue in my mouth.

I want to caress him, feel his hand under my skirt.

But my legs are lead. I can’t move.

He’s waiting for me. This is my moment.

But do I turn to him or run away?

Far away.

“It’s your turn.”

It’s three a.m. and the baby is crying… again. Jackson came into our lives a year ago and has been the joy of my life. I love his little smiles, but not at three a.m. His teeth are coming in and it’s as painful to me as it is for him. I haven’t slept in weeks.

Hell, I haven’t slept in a year.

Crawling out of bed, I throw on my robe and head down the hall to the nursery.

“What’s the matter, sweet boy?”

Jackson’s sobs stream down his face. My poor, sweet angel always looks so sad in the middle of the night. I scoop him up, and head toward the glider.

“There, there. It’s okay.”

And that’s all he needs.

He slumps in my arms as peaceful as ever. A little piece of heaven in my hands. But while he sleeps, I lie awake. Once I’m up, I’m up.

There are a few things in life I know to be certain. The best coffee beans are grown in Guatemala, Humphrey Bogart was the greatest actor of all time, the Mets are the most underrated team in baseball and I am unequivocally, madly in-love with my husband and son.

Though, sometimes, I question the husband part when I hear the words, “It’s your turn.”

With Jackson asleep, I head back to the bedroom. It’s 3:45 a.m.

“Is he in bed?” Gabriel asks, sounding like he’s been up for the last hour. Wearing only a pair of black boxer briefs, his lean six-foot-two frame takes up most of the bed, leaving me a tiny space in the corner.

“He is. If you were up, you could have gotten him.”