Slip of the Tongue (22 page)

Finn sighs deeply, heavily, as if he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. He kisses my nose, my eyelids. “I wish—so many things, Sadie. I’d erase all this for you.”

I don’t want it erased, though. Is a scar bad if everything that led to it was good?

It doesn’t matter. This is real life. Things can’t be erased. Mistakes can’t be undone. I’ve made a choice that has found me in another man’s apartment, another man’s arms. And I feel something here, something surprisingly solid. The timing, our connection and proximity—Finn has a point. It
is
as if something greater is bringing us together. Could it really be fate? He wants me—he told me as much to my face. Nathan has said he doesn’t. How far are they each willing to go? How far am I?

EIGHTEEN

Ginger isn’t at the foot of the bed when I wake up the next morning. I wonder how Nathan would feel to know she waited for him all night on the tiled entryway instead of her normal spot on the bedroom carpet.

But when I get out of bed and head into the living room, I stop. Ginger’s tail is sticking out from behind the couch. Nathan is sprawled out underneath a blanket, his feet sticking out the bottom. I grip one foot like it’s a raft and I’m stranded in the middle of the ocean. His skin is ice. Our no-heat tradition seems more stupid than adorable.

“Nathan, honey.” I shake him. “Honey.”

He squints and groans, “Sa-die.”

“Go get in bed. It’s freezing out here.”

He shuts his eyes again, stretches one arm to Ginger’s head, and ruffles her fur. “
Extreme Hangover
,” he mumbles. “
Home Edition
.”

I smile. His hair is pointing in every direction. I can smell alcohol from where I stand. “The hard stuff?” I guess.

He nods.

“When’d you get home?”

“Said I’d be here when you woke up.”

It would’ve taken no small effort to get here by this time while wrecked. I’m still mad he spent the night out, but that gesture helps his case. “Come to bed.”

“Can’t move.”

“Then I’ll bring the bed to you.” I get our huge, fluffy comforter from the bedroom and cover him with it. I tuck in all the corners. Not a single appendage on his body should be cold.

His eyes are shut. He’s still petting Ginger, his long fingers sifting through her fur.

“Need anything?” I ask.

He swallows audibly, smacking his tongue in a battle with dry mouth. He feels for my hand. I stare in disbelief for only a second before I give it to him. My heart rate kicks up a notch. He pulls gently. Before he can change his mind, I untuck and burrow underneath the covers. He brings me close to his body. For all his muscle, Nathan has the most comforting arms in the world. I hope he can’t feel my racing heart.

I rest my cheek on his pec. His feet may be cold, but his chest is hot. It’s my home. He cocoons me with the comforter from head to toe under a white cloud. I can’t see his face, but he’s here. I feel him. Safe in his arms, I wonder if I could say anything to him right now. I wonder if I should.

His breathing evens out. I think he’s fallen asleep, but he slips his hand into my sweatshirt. He rubs my back. I’ve needed this simple touch, and I want to be content with it. But my imagination has other ideas. The thought of him and Joan in this same position hits me hard. I don’t even know if it’s Joan I’m picturing—it could be any woman. Donna. Kendra. Cindy Crawford, who Nathan has a thing for. Last night, I lost my right to care about that, but I do. Intensely. Even though I was the bad wife, even though I let another man inside me and I haven’t even showered yet, I’m terrified that Nathan has even so much as looked in another woman’s direction.

I unearth myself from the comforter, sit up, and look back at him. “Where were you last night?”

“I told you.” Nathan sighs, drowsy. “Mikey’s.”

“Who else was there?”

“All the guys. I lost money. Not a lot, but—”

“And the wives?”

He pauses and, infuriatingly, chuckles softly. “What, you think they had their own table going or something?”

“So Joan wasn’t there?”

He wrinkles his nose and opens one eye. “Joan? Mike’s fiancée?”

“Do you know another Joan?”

He closes his eye again. “She lives there. She made us food.”

I fume. Cooking for Nathan belongs to me and me alone. “Why didn’t you order out?”

“Uh. She offered, so we let her.” He shrugs. “She stayed in the bedroom the rest of the time. Why?”

I shake my head. My thoughts tumble around like dice. Can Nathan lie this easily? If so, since when? I’m not sure how to interpret him, as if he’s speaking a foreign language. On a night five years ago, Nathan called me twenty minutes before he was supposed to pick me up for the theater. He’d lost the tickets to a Broadway show we’d been looking forward to for months. He said, since I was already dressed up, he was sending a car for me. We’d have dinner instead. It was a lie. I knew before I hung up that he was going to propose, and he did. During a sunset helicopter tour of New York City. We were over the Empire State Building, where we’d spent half of our first date.

Now, I’m wading in uncertainty. What he says is convincing, but it’s also convenient. He can say he was with Joan, and it wouldn’t be a lie. I’ll only know if I ask him specifically whether or not he’s slept with her. But at the moment, he’s not doing everything in his power to keep me at a distance, and for that reason, I don’t want to bring it up. “Never mind.”

“Can I go back to sleep now?”

I nod, even though he doesn’t see. He’s already drifting off again. “Do you want me to stay?” I ask.

He breathes through his mouth for a few seconds. “Hmm? No. Take Ginger out.” For being barely cognizant, he says it with edge, as if I’ve angered him.

I get out from under the blanket—my touch, my love, spurned once again. Ginger looks up. “Walk,” I say, and she leaps to her feet.

“Sadie . . .” Nate says. “Favor?”

I turn back. He’s like a little boy, puffy-eyed and bundled in his blankets.
Come back
, I want him to say. Or,
I’m sorry
. At this point, I’d even take a confession.
I slept with Joan
,
it meant nothing
,
I love you
. “Anything,” I say, and I mean it.

“Make coffee.”

How can two meaningless words feel like the tip of a blade pressing into my chest? Not sharp enough to pierce the skin, but a reminder that he could if he wanted. I take a deep breath and realize I’m wrong. It’s not what he says that stings. It’s what he doesn’t. “Sure, babe.”

I could put on a pot to brew while I’m downstairs, but I have some things to make up for myself. After making myself presentable to the public, I swap my slippers for Chucks and Nathan’s ratty sweatshirt for my coat.

I walk Ginger in the direction of Quench. It’s Nathan’s favorite coffee by a mile. Despite his hand on me a few minutes earlier, I can’t help feeling chilled to the bone. As if a freeze rises from the storm’s leftover puddles. Nate’s momentary lapse can more likely be credited to a hangover than a change of heart, and it hurts. “Take Ginger out,” he said, and, “Make coffee.” His orders were as empty as the neighborhood on this Sunday morning.

Since there are no patrons at Quench, I bring Ginger inside. They know her here. Gisele, the chipper culinary student who works mornings and weekends, comes out from behind the counter to greet us.

“How’s my favorite pup?” she asks. She sets a paper cup with water in front of Ginger.

Gisele treats Ginger better than some customers, and I don’t blame her. New Yorkers are heinous before caffeine. “How’s school?”

“I’m the only one in my class not hanging on by a thread because Thanksgiving break is on the horizon. In other words, I love it.” She brightens as she goes back to her place behind the register. “By the way, I might take International Cuisine next semester. Maybe you and Nathan can be my guinea pigs.”

“We’re always up for that.”

She grins. “Where is he this morning?”

“Asleep,” I say. “He hit the booze a little hard last night.”

With a laugh, she shakes her head. “It must take an entire brewery to bring down a guy his size.”

“Don’t let his height fool you. If there’s hard liquor involved, he’s the tallest lightweight around.”

We exchange a smile. “Two coffees?” she asks.

I glance at the pastry window. “We need sustenance too. What’s Nathan order these days?”

“He hasn’t been by in a while.” She has her back to me as she pours our drinks. “I was going to ask if he got a new job or something. I don’t see you guys walk by anymore.”

“We’ve been out of sync lately,” I say. “We used to try to leave around the same time, but because of my promotion, our schedules are different.”

She puts our drinks in a tray. “Cool.”

“I guess we’ll take two dark chocolate pistachio croissants.”

She picks up tongs but only puts one pastry in a bag. “He doesn’t like those. I’m not supposed to tell you because he knows you love them.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Why should I care if he doesn’t like them?”

She shrugs. “Maybe he doesn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

I roll my eyes. “Nathan thinks everyone is as sensitive as he is.”

“Croissant for you, glazed donut for him. I think he’s ordered that a few times.” She passes two pastry bags across the counter. “Donut’s on the house. Tell him to feel better.”

“Thanks, Gisele. I will.” I pay for mine with a smile.

At the condiment station, I pop the lid off my drink to pour half and half in my coffee. I’ve been to Quench a hundred times, but this morning, an old memory nags me. I haven’t thought of it in years, but I’ve never quite been able to shake it.

When I was in college, in this exact same spot, I bumped hands with someone while reaching for creamer. Between his soulful green eyes and shoulder-length, dirty blond hair, he was, up to that point, the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen. The sun came through the window, turning the amber strands in his hair gold.

“Sorry,” he said. “After you.”

“Thanks.” I poured half and half, sneaked a glance at his pink, ripe-looking mouth, and then passed the container. He smiled as if he knew exactly what effect his protruding, full lips were having on me. I could sleep on the bottom one for fuck’s sake. I nearly lost my balance.

“Pistachio?” he asked. He was talking. I had no idea what about. Who knows how long I’d been on the planet of dumbstruck women.

“Excuse me?”

“Is that the pistachio croissant?” he asked. “I was going to try it . . .”

“Oh. It’s the best.” We both looked at it. “Do you want some?”

He was surprised. “Okay.”

I tore off a piece. “Hope you don’t mind my germs.”

“Not one bit.” He took it from my fingers. I watched him chew and lick a dark-chocolate glob from the corner of his mouth. “Delicious.”

“Told you.”

We smiled at each other a little too long. I couldn’t think of one normal thing to say. I just wanted to tell him how
something
he was—cute, sexy, unexpected. I looked good, hair straightened and makeup done, dressed up for a class presentation I had later that morning.

Finally, he said, “I’m waiting for someone. Can I sit with you for a minute?”

I hadn’t planned on staying. I was going to class early to rehearse my PowerPoint slides. My feet wouldn’t move, though. “Sure.”

He picked up his coffee, chose a table by a window, and pulled out a seat for me. “You go to NYU?”

“How can you tell?” I asked as I sat.

“Your bag looks heavy. Textbooks?”

“And a laptop.” I set my oversized tote on the ground. “Back problem waiting to happen.”

He smiled. I almost missed the dimple that creased his cheek because of my fascination with his lips. “I’m a photography major. I want to take beautiful photos. Or, photos of beautiful things.” He tucked some loose strands behind his ear.

“I should’ve guessed.”

“How come?”

“You look like an artist,” I said shyly, but it was the truth. I could see him in a paint-splattered smock or easily commanding a room full of models. “Maybe it’s the hair.”

His eyes brightened. “All right, then. I’ve been debating a haircut, but if you like it, that’s a solid argument against one.”

I blushed and glanced at the table. It wasn’t every day a man this good-looking noticed me, much less deferred to my judgment. There was a lot I wanted to ask him. When would he graduate? Had he moved here from somewhere? I wasn’t sure where to begin.

Before I could figure it out, banging against the window startled us both. A plump redhead pressed her breasts and palms against the glass. “I overslept,” she shrieked with huge eyes. It took a moment for me to recognize my classmate out in the wild.

“Becky?” I asked.

She bolted toward the door and blew inside the coffee shop like a hurricane. “I was supposed to get up early to finish my slides but I drank too much last night. I overslept. Please help me. Please, please—” She grabbed my arm and pleaded with the man across the table from me. “I’m sorry to steal her, but both of our grades are on the line.” She returned to me. “I
need
help
finishing them before class starts. Bring your coffee. I need it.”

I didn’t know why I was already halfway out of my chair. Becky and I were presenting to our Ethics and Media class, but we’d decided to be responsible for our own parts. Her desperation, her
I need, I need,
sent peals of urgency through me, though, and it was true. My grade on this project was tied to her. “I’m sorry—” I didn’t know his name.

“Ah—” He looked between Becky and me. “You have to go? You’re sure?”

“Class starts in an hour,” Becky said. “We have to go. Now.”