Will looked half-astonished, half-ready to run out the door, his mouth slack with disbelief.
I put my hand on his arm. “I was laughing because I feel bad for you. You didn’t know you were going to end up with me and all my… baggage.” I started laughing so hard, tears streamed out of my eyes.
Will smiled nervously, not quite getting the joke, but he had yet to make a break for it, so I took that as a good sign. I hiccupped and finally calmed.
“So, he what? Never came home?” he asked.
“Nope. Gone without a trace. New Jersey’s finest can’t even find him.”
“That’s crazy.” He stared at me for a moment. “So what am I then? An angry screw? A way to get back at him?”
“No, not really. You would think so, I guess. And I am angry. But this… this doesn’t feel angry. I don’t feel like I’m using you to get back at anyone. And I’ve discovered things, you know? Things that he’s kept a secret that a man shouldn’t keep from his wife. It makes me think that maybe he never loved me the right way.” I was rambling. I didn’t know Will well enough to explain how Greg may or may not have loved me.
Will resumed tracing patterns into my palm. “So, you didn’t answer me. What was this to you? What is this to you?”
“An awakening,” I replied, kissing him gently. “This is an awakening of the senses. A welcome back party.”
His arms went around me as he hungrily returned my kiss. I pulled him on top of me, wrapping my legs around him.
“Well, it’s a great party,” he murmured.
When I woke up several hours later, sun streamed in through the windows. I sat up and looked around. I was alone in the room. I stretched languidly under the six-hundred-thread-count sheets, enjoying my first post-coital morning in a long time. I was startled by a soft knock on the door, followed by a quiet, “Hello?”
“Come in!” I called to Sarah. “I’m alone.”
She came in carrying her black strappy sandals.
I giggled. “Oh, that must have been some walk of shame, girl. What are we, twenty-five?”
“Owen drove me here,” she retorted. “I told him no way was I walking back at nine in the morning, holding my shoes and wearing the same clothes from the night before. I am past that point in my life.”
“How was your night?” I asked, eyebrows wiggling suggestively.
“Uh-uh, you first. How was yours?”
“Oh, pretty wonderful. I can’t believe you get to do this all the time!” I flopped back onto the pillows. “I’ve never had a one-night stand before!”
“When did he leave?”
“I have no clue.”
She reached over and plucked something off the pillow next to my head. “Oh, my God. What an amateur. He left a note!”
Holding the sheet over me, I reached up for it. “Give me that! That might say something personal!” I grabbed it out of her hand.
Claire,
I had a wonderful time. Hope you get through your “something.” Your husband has no idea what he left behind. Next time you’re on the west coast, call me day or night. I still have your cell # and I’ll call you next time I’m in New York. I’d love to meet up. And I really hope I see you again. I mean that. Love, Will.
“Well, that’s about the sweetest Dear Jane letter I ever read,” Sarah said.
“It’s not a Dear Jane letter. That would imply that I’m being dumped, which implies that I wanted more than this one night. Which I don’t.”
Sarah stretched her arms wide, grinning and turning in a slow circle. “So how does it feel to be me?”
“It’s a great party,” I replied.
We spent our last day in San Diego doing a vineyard tour of southern California. Sarah deemed it “No Napa Valley. But pretty damn good.” And that was okay by me. It was the happiest day I’d had in a long time. We were giggly, surely obnoxious to some. I thought of Greg barely at all, Will frequently, and Drew once when our vintner pompously instructed us to swirl and sniff the glass prior to tasting. I remembered Drew doing something similar, mockingly, and declaring the wine, “Woodsy. Or is it Woody?” and us breaking into laughter. Where were we? A wine festival, years ago somewhere in New York state. Greg was with us, but I had no memories of that trip that included him. I made a mental note to call Drew as soon as I got home and apologize for avoiding him the past few weeks.
That night, we ordered Chinese take-out and laid off the booze. I was too old to drink for two consecutive nights, and my digestive system was not thrilled with my recent tear. We rented girly movies about finding true love and happily ever after and talked about what a bunch of shit they were.
“Not all men are scum, Claire,” Sarah amended.
“Not Owen?” I asked, realizing she had successfully evaded the “How was your night” question.
“Actually, no. To tell the truth, Owen is the first guy I’ve been genuinely interested in for a very long time.”