Our Options Have Changed: On Hold Series Book #1 Read online

  “Where’s the Red Poppy Ale?” I am not having an emotional landmine-filled conversation with my shiftless little brother in the lager aisle at the local liquor store.

  “Why do you want that crap? Get Jack’s Abbey instead.”

  Now we’re on even more familiar territory.

  “I like Flemish red sour ales, Charlie.”

  “You have the taste buds of an eighty-year-old nun, Nick.”

  “Glad you’re buying and that you’re the pack mule.” I hand him four four-packs. He grins.

  And then I pick out two six-packs of Jack’s Abbey.

  The grin falters.

  “Nick, you’re not—”

  “Pack mules don’t argue, Charlie, they just figure out how to carry the burden.”

  “That’s you, man.”

  That’s been me. True. For fifteen years, I’ve adjusted to whatever life’s thrown my way, as long as it didn’t involve emotional involvement.

  Chloe’s now about as emotionally involved as anyone can be.

  Do I want to reset the clock? They’re a package deal. Chloe and the baby. I know that.

  Oh, how I know that.

  Charlie buys my beer without comment and struggles under the weight of the huge cardboard box filled with beer. I enjoy my freedom, stretching as we walk.

  “You’re right, Charlie.” I take mercy and grab two six-packs from the box. He squares his shoulders with relief.

  “How’m I right?”

  “Freedom. It has a different feel.”

  “Different good, or different bad?”

  That’s the question.

  Which is it?

  Five minutes later, we’re back home, beers open, Charlie cutting the tape on the Never Liked It Anyway box.

  He pulls out a blue strap-on.

  “Aw, man. Nick, you have a First Aid kit somewhere, right? I need latex gloves to touch this.”

  I take the box out of his hands and reach in.

  “Jesus!” I shout. “That dildo has to be twelve inches long!”

  “Chloe always was uninhibited in bed.”

  I throw it at his face. Years of pitching baseball in high school pay off as the end of the wiggly rubber dildo slaps Charlie flat against his nose, like a musketeer’s loose glove being used to challenge a man to a duel.

  “Nick!” he screams.

  “Don’t you talk about sex with Chloe.”

  He looks at the strap on resting at a crooked angle on the ground, then at me, mouth gaping. Charlie points down. “You just threw the strap on she used on her ex-lover at my face. That’s the epitome of talking about sex with Chloe. Plus you almost broke my nose!”

  “Charlie.” I’m being irrational. I know it.

  I don’t care.

  A vision of her using it on—

  No.

  Nope.

  Not going there.

  “Technically,” I declare, “the auction never said she used it on him.”

  Charlie just laughs.

  I stand abruptly, knocking over the rest of the items in the box, which include a Coldplay t-shirt, some Cashmere sweaters in a size too small for me, the Dave Brubaker vinyl album (which I might keep), the Rush album (which Charlie claims dibs on), a nice Rolex my son could enjoy, and Montblanc pens that are better suited for James McCormick than anyone else in the world.

  Joe has also added a tube of warming gel, a non-fiction historical monograph on sodomy and pirates (signed by the author), a mood ring made for a man’s ring size, a small polished Zen rock with the word Patience etched into it, some t-shirts, and a set of Buckyballs.

  He’s random, if nothing else.

  “You paid over a grand for this shit,” Charlie says with a low whistle, palming the Rush album as I leave the room, marching down the hall into my bedroom, furiously changing into a t-shirt and running shorts.

  I ignore him and come out into the living room, finding my running shoes by the door, throwing them on.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Going for a run.”

  “Nick, you haven’t gone for a run since the kids were toddlers.”

  “Maybe that’s what freedom’s all about. Discovering new things.”

  “The only new thing you want to discover is Chloe, man.”

  I nearly hit him. I do. I come so close when our eyes meet and he leans away. I walk past him, slam the door, and go for my first run in years.

  The only problem is that I’m not sure what I’m running away from.

  Or to.

  Chapter 14

  Chloe

  Day Three with Charlotte.

  “You girls have fun!” Charlotte chirped, as we struggled out the door this morning. “Get some of the almond biscotti, and some of the chocolate dipped. And some anise flavored.”

  “While we’re gone, Mom, do you think you could maybe unload the dishwasher?”

  “Well, I would, of course,” she said, “but I don’t know where you keep things. It would just make more work for you. I’m going to call Howard. I forgot my email password. He’ll know what it is.”

  Everyone should have a Howard. I need a Howard.

  “Then this afternoon, you can take me to O. I need one of those stress-reduction treatments—the two-hour full-body massage with herb-infused lotions and ambient sound from a dolphin’s womb. And the rosemary mint martini in the sippy cup.” Her eyes glazed over. “I need a break from all this stress.”

  “Right. Maybe,” I answered.

  That was half an hour ago.

  And here I am, in the middle of Boston Summer Soup, wearing a baby who is not much more than a tiny octopus tucked into a diaper.

  “Don’t talk to strangers,” I instruct Holly, who is tucked into a Baby Bjorn on my chest, tuft of straight jet-black hair tickling my chin. “Be aware of what’s going on around you. Mind the gap.”

  The T train is pulling up. Please god let the air conditioning be working.

  The doors slide open, and yes! The temperature inside is at least five degrees below unbearable.

  I hoist the folded stroller and hitch the diaper bag up on my shoulder. I stagger onto the train.

  On the T now, I spot two empty seats and sink down gratefully, the stroller propped up on the railing next to me. Holly is quiet. I pull out my phone.

  Hi Howard, I type. Hope all is well. I know you must be missing Charlotte.

  Three dots, wiggling.

  Hi honey, Howard responds. Is she getting to you already?

  Oh no, I type back. It’s great. I just think we’re stressing her out. Not good for her.

  I’m on it.

  That’s all he says. I love Howard.

  My phone pings. It’s Charlotte this time: Chloe, just so you know, the cat box needs changing.

  I look at Holly, who catches my eye, eyebrows raising as if she’s taken aback as well.

  Solidarity. My daughter and I are one.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I whisper, grabbing the stroller.

  Holly replies with a fist punch into thin air, followed by a spectacular belch that I feel.

  I feel it because that’s not just a burp. The space between the Baby Bjorn and my only clean T-shirt is now a war zone.

  We are home by noon, sweaty and exhausted, with two white paper bags containing three dozen Italian biscotti. Tucked into the diaper bag is a can of ground espresso, a pound of fresh handmade linguine, and a small plastic Madonna that the shopkeeper pressed on me when he saw Holly.

  When you work in an office, you have no idea how long a weekday really is. It should be dinner time by now.

  My mother sweeps into the kitchen, beaming.

  “Wonderful news!” she trills. “Howard is on his way. He said he couldn’t be without me one day longer.”

  I smile. “That is wonderful news. I’ll make up the other bed.”

  She smiles back. “Oh, no, dear. We’ll need to use your bed. After all, there are two of us and only one of you.”

  Right.<
br />
  Although technically, there are now two of me.

  Nick

  Congratulations, I type. It doesn’t convey what I feel, but it will have to do. I’m done with ambiguity.

  Screw indecision.

  I know what I want.

  I hit Send. I start to turn off my phone, but the finality is too much. I set it down, face up.

  I stare at the pile of papers on my home office desk. It is noon, and I have a massive proposal due tomorrow, complete with a contract that needs to be pounded out for final negotiations. Legal already went over the portions they need to review. My turn to figure out the rest.

  If I bury myself in work, I can give myself hours of hope. Not hope, exactly, but something more than this grinding ambiguity that turns my gut into a barbed wire fence. At best, Chloe will reply sometime today.

  Or never.

  A black plastic bag with a slim tome in it taunts me. Yesterday, I went to the Harvard Book Store and bought Chloe’s baby the best children’s book ever.

  Walter the Farting Dog.

  Simone hated that book.

  I smile at the memory.

  Movement on my fading phone screen catches my eye. Three dots.

  Three beautiful, sophisticated, exceptionally delicious Chloe-flavored dots.

  Thank you, she texts back. Sorry for not replying sooner.

  The phone is a football in my hands, and I’m fumbling at the goal line. It lands on the carpet. I pounce.

  How is the baby? What’s its name? I reply.

  Her name is Holly. She’s perfect.

  You’re perfect, I almost type back. Sheer force of will stops me.

  I’m sure she is, I answer, smiling as I tap out the words. I remember babymoons. Welcome to the wonderful world of daughters. Start saving now. Justin Bieber obsessions aren’t cheap.

  I hit Send and stare at the screen. A physical ache builds between my ribs. The space inside me where Chloe belongs is empty. I wonder if she has holes inside her shaped like me.

  I’d like to be in that hole.

  I grimace. That’s not what I meant.

  And yet...

  Minutes pass. No reply. Shit.

  Twenty minutes pass and I realize I am no better than my teenagers, breathlessly waiting for the next Snapchat post from a crush.

  With a sigh, I return to work, happy to have some communication with Chloe. At least we “talked.” She knows I’m here. She can find me when she’s ready.

  If she’s ever ready.

  The words on the first contract in front of me blur. I feel my pulse in my eyes. The first delivery date for five designs is egregiously soon. Slash. The terms for failure to deliver are draconian.

  Slash.

  I need to take out my frustration somewhere.

  My red pen’s half empty by the time I make it through the twenty-nine pages of this mess.

  Bzzzz.

  I leap across the desk and read:

  sorry. diaper blow out. typing one fingered with baby on arm

  God, I want to see her. I take the leap.

  I’d love to meet her, I type.

  An eternity passes in the form of one minute. Then two. Five.

  Finally:

  Tn8?

  I’m reasonably fluent in textspeak, but this is a new one.

  Yes, tonight, I reply, assuming.

  k

  Tn8 and k are my new favorite words.

  I’ve got it bad.

  Chapter 15

  Nick

  “Utterly inappropriate baby gift?” Charlie asks, as if we are in a countdown.

  “Check.” I humor him.

  “Her ex’s strap-on dildo you bought for her on an online auction site where people assume she’s a porn star?”

  I frown. He’s not wrong, technically.

  “Check,” I say softly, tapping the table next to the box in question for emphasis, jaw tight.

  “Condoms?”

  “Charlie,” I growl.

  “What? I was about to ask if you’d choked the chicken in advance so you don’t jump the gun when you finally do the two-backed nasty, but I thought that was little too personal.”

  “Thank you for your exquisite tact.” I shoot him a sour look. “And all those mixed metaphors.”

  He shrugs. “So?”

  “So what?”

  “Did you?” He makes a hmph sound in the back of his throat, the noise suggestive and inquisitive at the same time.

  A perfect encapsulation of my brother.

  “None of your business.”

  He grins. “Smart man.” He frowns. “Unless being old changes that.”

  “Changes what?”

  He lowers his voice. “Maybe instead of worrying about jumping the gun, you need Viagra?” He gives me a once-over. “You are six and a half years older than me. Plumbing changes.” He frowns, looking down at his own pipe.

  My response makes me realize where Elodie got her eye roll.

  “No.” Hell, no. Hell, no on many levels. “I’m going to meet a newborn, Charlie. Not sleep with her mother.”

  “Babies nap. You could have a little afternoon delight.”

  “Babies also wake up and scream bloody murder. Trust me. I know this. Simone and I should have named Jean-Marc ‘cockblocker.’”

  Charlie’s in the middle of a swig of ginger ale. He begins choking.

  I grin.

  “Wait ’til you have kids.”

  “It’ll be a long wait,” he gasps.

  My front door opens, and in walks a giant black hole whose gravitational pull yanks at my wallet.

  “Speak of the devil,” Charlie says, as my youngest chucks a hockey-sized bag across my threshold, his face buried in a phone screen.

  “Dad?” Jean-Marc doesn’t look up. “Can you help me with that?”

  Charlie grabs the bag, then gets yanked back to the floor. “Jesus, JM! Or should I call you CB?”

  I give Charlie a dirty look.

  He winks back. “What’s in there? Gold?”

  “Close. Textbooks. A bunch of my new friends weren’t patient enough for the buy-back at the university bookstore, so I paid them out. Need to list them online at a profit and make bank next semester.”

  Says the kid who cries poor all the time.

  He finally finishes his business online and approaches me for a hug. Jean-Marc is dark like Simone, but with a Grafton male body, which means tall and lean. He’s a good two inches taller than me now. Did the kid grow in the last two months?

  “How’s school?” I ask, realizing my cheek is brushing something on his chin that approximates a beard. He’s only been at NYU for a handful of weeks. There are no grades.

  He pulls back and laughs, blue eyes like mine practically glowing. “Straight A’s so far.” He shoots me a defiant look. “I didn’t give permission for you to see them, by the way. You know about this law called FERPA?”

  “Yes. You’re eighteen now. I don’t have the legal right to see your grades unless you give permission.”

  “Cool, huh?”

  “Saved my ass when I was an undergrad,” Charlie says.

  “You got into Yale Law, Charlie.” Jean-Marc says with a worshipful tone. Haven’t heard that directed toward me since he was eleven.

  “Yep. Bor-ing. Who wants to spend their days in classes and research, all cooped up in a...” Charlie’s voice fades out as he catches my eye. “I mean, great job with the 4.0.” He winks at my son.

  Jean-Marc laughs, then looks at me. “Who’s the present for?”

  Before I can answer, Charlie says, “Your dad’s girlfriend’s new baby.”

  My son frowns. “Girlfriend? Baby? I go away for a few weeks and everything changes. Do I have a little sister now?”

  I cock one eyebrow, gut clenching. I know he’s joking, but the teasing puts me on edge in a disarming way. “No need to play dumb. Elodie told you.”

  “No. Amelie did.” He laughs. “Elodie chased you down in bed with a chick. Amelie won�
�t let her live it down.”

  “Woman. Not chick.”

  He shrugs.

  “And she has a brand-new baby?” His look makes it clear he thinks I’ve gone off the deep end.

  He might be right.

  “Adopted. In the last two weeks. The adoption was in the planning stages for a long time before we met. She’s a single mother by choice.”

  “Oh.” The corners of his eyes and mouth drop down in a contemplative look. “Makes sense. Is that the baby gift?” He takes the wrapped book out of my hands, then grins, looking like a little boy for a split second. “It isn’t… ?”

  “It is.”

  “Walter the Farting Dog. Spreading the joy of flatulent canines to a new generation.” His eyes meet mine, nostalgia and memory reflecting back like sunlight on a prism.

  And then: “Anyone using the washing machine?”

  The moment has passed.

  “Nope. It’s all yours,” Charlie declares, gesturing like a model on a game show.

  “You gone all night, Dad?” Hope blossoms in my chest. He’s asking to spend time with me.

  “No. I’ll be back after dinner.”

  “Cool. Board game?”

  “Cards Against Humanity?” Charlie asks with an eagerness that makes me groan. “I’ll make nachos.”

  “Sure.” I’ll suffer through my brother’s perverted card combinations if it means time with my son.

  “See you tonight.” His back retreats down the hallway. I hear shuffling sounds, then the water turns on for the laundry.

  “Have fun,” Charlie says, laughing. “Remember when the height of his day was sitting on the sofa, being read to?”

  I look at my kid, whose size-fourteen shoes now litter the shoe rack, longer than mine.

  “Like it was yesterday.”

  Because it was.

  * * *

  The entire drive over to Chloe’s place in Cambridge feels like someone has a radio dial in my head and is hitting the Scan button over and over. So many words. So many thoughts.

  Not enough kissing.

  I’m not sure what I’m supposed to feel right now. I miss her. More than I have any right to admit.

  I admire her. The kind of woman who decides what she wants and doesn’t wait for someone else to make it happen is appealing. Simone expected me to make her happy. Demanded that I take charge of her emotional state. Insisted that I was responsible for whether she had a good life or not.