“Oh, I couldn’t possibly go out with him,” I said.
But two hours and two glasses of wine later, I was singing a different tune. When Peter Hoffman walked up onto the porch, as handsome and tall as I remembered him, and wrapped me in that big hug of his, I wondered why I had ever let him get away. Oh, that’s right, I thought, James.
“You look great,” he said.
“Likewise.”
I took in his perfectly fitted straight-legged pants—which I knew my mom would hate but I loved—and custom-made shirt and flashed him my most generous and beguiling smile. What am I doing? I told James we would try to work it out.
“Do you want to grab a drink and catch up?” he asked.
“It has been ages.”
I turned to Sloane and Emerson. Why not? I mean, we were only catching up. It wasn’t like we were procreating.
Plus, I should get to have a last hurrah before I made my final decision. On the walk to Full Moon, one of the nicest bars in town, I discovered that Peter was a literary agent in Greenwich, who commuted to the city. “Greenwich” to me equaled “married with kids.” So I could only assume that he was divorced.
But over drinks, I discovered that he had never married. He had dated two different women for three years each, the second of whom had been the reason for his move to Greenwich.
“But I could be persuaded to move back to Manhattan.” He winked at me.
Suddenly, I was on guard. Did that mean he wanted to move back to the city with me? This was moving a bit fast. My mind was racing, trying to change the subject. But I was suddenly completely blank.
“You ruined me for anyone else,” Peter said lightly, before I could start talking about the only topic I could think of: cheese.
I laughed. “Oh, Peter. That’s not true.”
He stopped and looked me dead in the face and said, “Yes, it is, Caroline. That night we had together was so magical, I couldn’t ever forget you. I still can’t, which is why I’m here. I’m hoping you’ll give me another shot.”
I looked down into my wine, my happy, fun buzz suddenly gone. “Oh, Peter,” I said. “That is incredibly nice of you to say.”
I had to think. And quickly. Peter was a nice guy. A cute guy. A fun guy. But that night was not magical, and he was certainly not worth ruining my kids’ lives over. But what do you say?
I put my hand over his gently. “Peter,” I said, “I really like you. But my life is complicated right now. I have a lot of decisions to make. But I promise you, if I decide against James, you will be the first person I call.”
That was probably true-ish. No, it wasn’t. I would not call him if James and I got a divorce. But that was a nice thing to say. Actually, a nice thing to say, the thing the old Caroline would say, was that I was not interested in dating him ever and that if James and I broke up, he had freaked me out so thoroughly that I would never go out with him, because I would be afraid he was trying to trap me into marriage.
But, see, the South had gotten the best of me. And now I was a nice girl who tried not to hurt people’s feelings. Well, mostly. I was getting ready to hurt Sloane’s. I’d held my tongue, because I knew she was having a hard time, but this sweatpants-and-beer-gut look was over. Tomorrow.
I thanked Peter and said I needed to get home to the baby, even though I had put him to bed and, because of Hummus’s magic, was assured he would sleep until seven a.m. I ran into Emerson and Sloane on the walk home.
How lucky. I’d been wanting some time with these girls all to myself. Sloane needed a boost. I could tell. Besides getting her into shape, I was going to get her out of the house more. Before I went back to New York, that is.
“So,” Sloane said, “how was the sex?”
I looked at her like she was nuts. “We just had a drink!”
“Noooo.” She laughed. “With James.”
“Oh,” I said. “The sex with James was great. The sex with James was never really the problem.”
Emerson winced. “Well, actually . . .”
I laughed. “OK. Yeah. The sex was the problem. Just not the sex with me.”
“I miss it so much,” Sloane said.
“I can’t imagine,” Emerson said. “I would die. Seriously.”
“You can’t even have phone sex,” I realized out loud, suddenly aware of how very grim my sister’s life was every other year. “That is horrible.”
“Yeah. But we have sex letters.”
Emerson and I both burst out laughing. “Excuse me? Sex letters?” I said.
“Oh, my God,” Emerson said. “You mean to tell me that when you’re up there every night demurely writing, those are sex letters?”
She nodded and giggled. That was the thing about Sloane. She always surprised you.
“What do you say in a sex letter?” I asked.
“Well, I’m not going to tell you,” she said. “But after a while, they can get stale, so I’ve serialized them.”
Emerson stopped in her tracks. “Serialized them? Like a novel? Like a slutty little novel?”
“Little Sloaney is a slut,” I said. Then I got serious. “Speaking of,” I said. “First thing in the morning, we are starting boot camp.”
Sloane groaned.
“I’m serious,” I said. “I love you, and I’m not going to watch you walk around here in sweatpants anymore.”
“I’ll be in charge of postworkout smoothies!” Emerson said gleefully.
“You should see these new Pilates moves I learned at the Cloister.”
“From the instructor or James?” Emerson asked.
We all laughed.
I knew already that we’d stay up too late, that we’d all hate ourselves when our alarms went off at six so we could work out before the babies got up. But this was the thing about sisters. No matter how much you laughed, no matter how many hours you talked, no matter how many months you got to spend together, it never seemed like quite enough.
* * *
AS PREDICTED, THE HANGOVER sisters—as an LA waiter had nicknamed us at a brunch nearly five years ago—did not exactly perform at their peak the next morning. We had barely made it over to Starlite Island on our paddleboards, but when we got there, it was so beautiful it was worth the effort.
We had decided to forgo towels or mats. There was nothing like being on the sand, feeling your hands and feet in it, getting it in your hair. We were beach girls. We had been raised like this. We waded through the chilly water and onto the island, sliding our paddleboards far enough up on the shore that they wouldn’t be carried out to sea.
“Oh, hey!” I said brightly. “We could do paddleboard yoga!”
Emerson looked like she was going to kill me.
“Or not,” I said.
We sat on the beach for a few minutes, the water lapping around our feet. I hugged my knees to my chest, looking back at the house, the one we’d been looking back at our whole lives. It was amazing how even though it was so close, when you got over here to Starlite, you felt so very far away.
Sloane leaned her head on my shoulder. “It hasn’t changed at all, has it?”
I shook my head.