What am I doing? I’m meeting a woman who isn’t my wife for dinner.
The muted lights from Olive Garden shine onto the hood of my car, and I wait for her to arrive. Every time headlights swing into the parking lot, I think it’s her.
Every minute, I try to talk myself into leaving.
I almost do, in fact. I’m just starting up the Land Rover when she pulls in next to me, as stealthy as a shadow.
I don’t know if I’m pleased or disappointed.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” I admit as we meet on the sidewalk.
She smiles confidently. “You’re here to see me.”
She’s dressed in a tight skirt and tight top, the top two buttons undone. I can see the swell of her breasts and the top of a lacy red bra.
“I shouldn’t be,” I say simply. “It’s wrong.”
“Don’t think about it,” she advises, and she pulls me through the doors. “I’m hungry, you’re hungry, and we’re across town from anyone who might know us. Everything is all right, Jude. We’re just having dinner.”
“We’re just eating,” I tell her pointedly, and she rolls her eyes.
“A booth for two,” I tell the ma?tre d’.
He glances up. “And are we celebrating anything in particular?” He looks from Zoe to me.
Zoe nods. “Yes. It’s our anniversary.”
I want to elbow her, but don’t.
“Oh, happy anniversary, my dear,” our waiter tells us as he guides us into the restaurant. “What number is this?”
“It’s our second date of many to come,” she says as she sits down, and my stare pierces her. “I’m celebrating them all.”
The waiter smiles like it’s the most romantic thing he’s ever heard, but all I want to do is bolt from this place. This was a mistake. A big one.
“Two long islands, please,” I tell the waiter. “And make them strong.”
My thumb taps the tabletop. I’m nervous, and I hate that. I’m letting a twentysomething kid intimidate me?
But it’s not that.
It’s the knowledge that I’m risking my marriage to be here, and how fucking dumb is that? Zoe looks at me.
“What’s your middle name, Jude Cabot?”
“That’s an odd question.”
She shrugs. “I just want to know about you. Is that wrong, too?”
I shake my head. “No. I suppose not. It’s Ashton.”
“My, isn’t that fancy!” She laughs and our drinks arrive. She holds up her glass. “To Jude Ashton Cabot. Maybe I’ll call you Ash.”
I clink my full glass to hers and take several long drinks.
“They used to call me that, actually,” I tell her, and I stare across the room. In my head, I see my old football field, and I hear the chanting crowd. “In high school. Ash, I mean. It was on the back of my football jersey.”
“You were the quarterback, I presume? King of the field?”
“Of course,” I snort. “If I do something, I do it right.”
“Oh, I’m sure.” She’s glib now. “Did you play in college, too?”
“Only for a while. I got injured sophomore year and Corinne didn’t want me to play anymore. It worried her too much.”
“You quit playing football for your wife?” Zoe is incredulous.
“Well, she wasn’t my wife at the time,” I amend. “But yeah. It worried her too much.”
“Do you always stop doing things she worries about?” Zoe arches her eyebrows, and her question seems sarcastic, and I know she’s talking about being here with her right now. I look away and she laughs.
My belly churns with a dark sort of excitement, and I hate it and love it at the same time. My desires are so dark and seedy now. It’s new, it’s novel.
“Look,” Zoe says, as if she knows exactly what I’m thinking about. “The best thing about this dinner is that reality is out there.” She motions toward the window with a fluttery hand, and her bracelets jingle. “We’re in here, and we don’t have to acknowledge it or think about real life. Isn’t that awesome?”
I’m still silent, undecided.
“We can be what we want in here,” she adds softly. “I won’t judge you, and you won’t judge me, and we’ll just be. No expectations, no rules. You’re not a therapist and I’m not a waitress, and we’re just Jude and Zoe. Does that sound good?”
I hate to admit that it does. I don’t have a wife who has issues and is never home. I’m just Jude. I can separate the aspects of my life. My dinner with Zoe doesn’t affect my marriage with Corinne. I’m just passing time. I’m not really going to do anything.
She raises an eyebrow. “Does it?”
“Yeah, actually.”
She smiles.
“Good. Let’s get another drink.”
I order two, one for each of us, and she studies me.
“You know, you look exactly like your brother. What’s it like being a twin?”
“Come now. Surely you’re more original than that. Everyone asks that question.”
“Okay. What’s it like to have a priest as a brother?” she amends. “Does he judge everything you do?”
“Nah. Michel doesn’t judge. He doesn’t even seem like a priest, to be honest.”
“Does he take your confession?”
I snort into my glass, and the ice cubes tumble against each other. “Uh, no. Not for real. Every once in a while, I’ll do it for a joke. But my real confession might scare him.”
It’s her turn to snort. “Whatever. I can see in your eyes...you’re not scare-worthy.”
I can’t help but laugh at that. This girl doesn’t know me at all.
“Whatever makes you think that?”
“I’m a good judge of people,” she says.
I laugh at that. “You’re too young to have acquired that particular trait,” I tell her. “You’re still wet behind the ears.”
She rolls her eyes. “Seriously. I’ve learned from the school of hard knocks. I know people, trust me.” She pauses and looks at me. “For instance, you. You’re unhappy in your marriage right now, and you don’t know how to fix it, but you still love your wife. On the other hand, you’re still here with me because you’re curious. Yet you’re torn about it because the guilt is eating you up.” She pauses again. “Am I close?”
I look away. “Maybe.”
She snorts. “Okay, Mr. Therapist. If you’re so experienced, read me.”
I gulp at my drink until it’s half gone, and I signal for another from the waiter.
“You’re a girl who requires a lot of male attention, probably the result of daddy issues from your youth. You like to appear confident, but on the inside, you’re insecure. You put a lot of stock in your looks and your ability to get male attention. Without that, you’d be bereft.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Maybe. Maybe not. I do have issues. You’d have a field day with me, I’m afraid.”
I laugh, and it’s a jaded sound. “Nothing surprises me anymore.”
“Can I try?”
“Sure. Go for it.”
“You’re not going to judge me, right?”
“I would never,” I assure her. “There’s no judgment here, remember?”
My wedding ring gleams in the soft light, and I wonder if the waiter noticed it? Zoe isn’t wearing one.
“I lost my virginity to my foster father when I was fourteen.” She states it casually, like she’s talking about the weather. “My foster mom worked second shift, and I always went to bed early because I had to get up early for school. Every night, he would stand in the doorway and watch me sleep. I would wake up sometimes and see him, but I always pretended that I was sleeping because I didn’t know what else to do.”
She pauses and waits for my reaction.
“Did you tell your mom?”
I shake my head. “No. Because I liked it.”
That does shock me, although I make a point not to show it. Instead, I ask a simple question, something that I would ask in my office if I were talking to a patient.
“What did you like about it?”
“I don’t know. It gave me sort of a sense of power, I guess. He was a grown man, and apparently my mom wasn’t enough for him, because he was coming to me for his kicks.”
“Didn’t that make you feel trivial?” I ask her curiously.
“No.” Her answer is simple and immediate. “I felt powerful.”
“How long had you lived with them?”
“Since I was nine. They were like my parents. If they had the money, they would’ve adopted me. As it was, they wanted to keep the government payments they got from taking care of me.”