The last time James and I were there together comes to mind. It was on a whim actually. I’d woken up and craved crab cakes Benedict. And I suggested that restaurant. Bits and pieces of the brunch come back to me. I overdosed on mimosas—the sweetness of the Piper champagne sliding down my throat helped dissolve the residual anger I was feeling from an argument I’d had with James about his mother the night before. He’d defended her yet again when I told him that she’d suggested my oven was dated and I might want to upgrade it. She’d even chip in. He couldn’t see why that would get under my skin. How she was constantly putting me down in her passive-aggressive way. He just didn’t see it. End of story. It infuriated me.
I try to remember our server from that day. I can’t picture her face, but I do recall that she was engaged. James complimented her ring, which struck me as odd because the one he’d picked for me was a simple gold eternity band, and he didn’t even wear one.
Ironically, I’d gotten over that fact pretty quickly. It was my mom and sister who’d questioned me when they noticed his ring finger was still bare after our wedding. But I’d waved it off. I’d never been conventional in that way. If it had been up to me, our wedding and reception would have been low key. Just friends and family on the beach catered by our favorite burger place. But it had been the opposite—a large crowd of people, most of whom I didn't know, noshing on caviar. Because that's what his mother had wanted.
“Did she work Sunday brunch?”
Nick nods. “Yes, almost never missed one. Hated it because of all the drunks, but said she made the most tips on that shift over any other.”
My heart begins to quicken as I recall something else. We’d just gotten home from the restaurant, and I was kicking off my shoes into our bedroom closet when he said, “I forgot to tip our waitress. I have to go back.”
I thought he already had—I’d glanced at the bill, then saw him put down a fair amount of cash, but my mind had been fuzzy from falling asleep in the car on the way home. I told him that and laughed, pushing him down on the bed and nuzzling his neck, my champagne buzz making me horny for makeup sex. But he pulled back. “I have to go. Her shift might be over soon. We’ll pick up where we left off as soon as I get home. Promise.”
Was that the day he met her? Had my crab-cakes craving been responsible for introducing my husband to his mistress?
I shake my head slightly at the irony. They’d met right under my nose, and I was too drunk to notice it, or maybe too confident. So confident I’d let him travel all over the country dangling his ring-free wedding finger. I don’t say this to Nick, not wanting to rehash the memory. Instead, I order a third drink, this time a pi?a colada, deciding getting drunk right now sounds pretty damn good.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
JACKS—AFTER
It’s possible I might be the only person living in Orange County who doesn’t like the ocean.
Let me rephrase that. I like looking at it—there’s something beautiful about the way the sun reflects off the whitecaps, making them sparkle. And I’ve been known to go down to the shoreline and splash my feet, letting the waves brush up against my thighs as they rock me back and forth, licking the salt when the occasional droplet finds my lips. But something always stops me from diving in, from cutting my arms through it like a knife. I like the idea of it—of floating on my back and imagining my hair air-drying into loose beach waves that are never actually achievable. But each time, I get only as far as waist deep, eventually inching back onto the dry and safe sand.
Beth thinks it’s because our mother taught us how to swim by throwing us into the water. “Sink or swim,” Mom had said with a laugh. I realize now that we were in the shallow end of a pool—only three feet deep, and we were never more than an arm’s distance away. But still, it was terrifying. Beth paddled her arms and kicked her legs with gusto, propelling her head above the surface the very first time. I froze, sinking quickly, my mother yanking me up before I ever reached the pool floor. The second time, my survival instinct kicked in, and I used my body to fight my way to the surface until I touched the uneven orange tile on the side of the pool. Yes, I learned how to swim quickly. But that didn’t mean I had to like it.
From the dock, I eye our boat floating in the ocean and glance at Nick. “Do you think that’s safe?”
“I do, but I also run into burning buildings for a living. So I may have a different definition of the word?” he says, sliding his T-shirt off.
When we’d walked up to the check-in point for Blue Water Rafting Adventures, I noticed a woman appraise Nick, and then me, clearly trying to figure out how we made sense. We don’t, I wanted to call out. He’s younger. And hotter. And PS: We aren’t even together. We’re trying to figure out why our partners didn’t want us anymore.
I tug at my board shorts and reach my hand behind my back to make sure my bikini top is secure before grabbing a life jacket from the shelf, wishing I’d said yes to the coffee that Nick offered me when I’d met him in the lobby at five this morning. But my head had been throbbing from one too many drinks last night as he pressed a brochure into my hand that promised an exhilarating ride as we toured grand sea caves and spectacular lava arches. “Lava whats?” I asked, my voice cracking slightly.
“Not a morning person?” He smiled, crunching his empty coffee cup in his hand and shooting it into a nearby trash can like a basketball.
My hangover combined with my unease about our boating adventure had left me feeling off. It didn’t help that James had asked me—no, begged me—to do this exact trip when we were on our honeymoon, but I’d refused, blaming my fear of the water. He’d said that I was using it as a crutch. I’d called him insensitive. It was our first big fight, and it had happened during a time we were supposed to be experiencing wedded bliss. I’d called Beth crying, asking her if it was a sign. Had I married a jerk? She’d laughed and said I needed to take a step back and look at what we were fighting about—a silly sightseeing tour, not something important. I’d hung up feeling better, and hoped our disagreement was just random. And back then, it was. But our problems began to bulge at the seams years later, his insensitivity so frequent that I almost forgot that he hadn’t always been wound so tightly. That he used to have more soft spots for me to fall upon.
I tried to talk my way out of this outing as well, but Nick used my desire for information against me, telling me he’d booked us with Adam, the same guide Dylan and James had used. And not only that, but he’d managed to get the concierge to give him a rundown of every activity James and Dylan had done together. “Answers,” he said. “Just remember that. We’ll get them if we go.”
Adam turns out to be a sun-kissed twentysomething with a boy-band haircut and shorts that are dangling dangerously low on his hips. He looks like he’s going to use the word bro and pump his fist for emphasis. I whisper to Nick, “That’s the same guy they had?”
Nick nods, and I try to imagine James taking instruction from a man who looks like a Calvin Klein model. It couldn’t have gone well. James had been a natural athlete his entire life, playing soccer and football in high school, even making the lacrosse team his junior year with hardly any experience. He was always in some kind of sports league, and shortly after we got married he took up running—competing in several half marathons. And even though he was still in good shape before he died, he’d definitely been starting to feel older, making several comments about his back feeling tight, his knee giving him trouble. So to take instruction from a younger, very fit guy about anything? That could definitely rock him.