Only You Read online

  In short, I hadn’t felt like Slot B receiving Part A.

  Had he thrown himself at my feet to declare his undying love? No. But that was okay. When it was over, I’d felt closer to him than I had before, and that was enough. And I liked that he’d been up front about his insecurities and his fear of disappointing me. Actual feelings! That felt like a huge step in a different direction. A new direction.

  I’d move in a new direction, too. I certainly didn’t need to repeat my usual song and dance routine, the one where I hurled myself body, heart, and soul into a new relationship and expected the guy to do the same. It had backfired every time.

  This time, I vowed, would be different.

  I would be understanding. I would be patient. I would slow down and enjoy the ride, wherever it took us.

  But I really, really hoped it took us somewhere together.

  Monday morning, my alarm went off at 6:45 AM, and I smiled upon awakening, even though I’d only gotten about five hours of sleep. It was the happiest I’d felt in a long time.

  While I was in the shower, I thought about texting Nate to see if he wanted me to bring him some breakfast. Our building had a little coffee shop downstairs that I usually hit on my way to work, and it carried doughnuts and muffins and other things, too. I hurried through my routine, and dried off, then wrapped my head in a towel and sat on my bed.

  Me: Can I bring you anything from the shop downstairs?

  Nate: Yes. I’d like a case of Red Bull, 6 lines of cocaine, and a Pixie Stick.

  Me: Will you settle for a doughnut?

  Nate: I guess, if you don’t have any cocaine.

  Me: I’m fresh out. But I will bring you some coffee.

  Nate: Thanks.

  Smiling, I set my phone aside and got dressed, throwing on jeans and a long-sleeved gray shirt that drooped off one shoulder. Beneath it I wore a black lace bralette that would peek out. Sexy but not too sexy. Comfy but not sloppy. I wore my hair down because Nate seemed to like it that way, brushed my teeth, and put on only a little makeup.

  Down in the lobby shop, I grabbed the coffee and doughnuts, and on a whim also purchased a magazine whose cover advertised an article titled “Five Tips for Breaking Your Bad Relationship Patterns.” It might have been total nonsense, but I figured I had nothing to lose and everything to gain by doing things differently this time around.

  A few minutes later, I knocked on his door, a drinks carrier in one hand and a paper bag containing doughnuts and the magazine in the other. He opened it, and my breath caught. I don’t know why. I’d seen him in a suit and tie a thousand times. But it was different today. For once, I didn’t feel the least bit angry that he looked so damn good—I felt excited.

  “Hi. You look nice.”

  “Thanks.” He shut the door behind me and reached for one of the coffee cups. “Oh my God, I need this.”

  “It’s all yours.” I set the bag and carrier on the table, sort of disappointed he hadn’t kissed me hello. “How was the night?”

  He took a few gulps of coffee before answering. “Fair. She woke up after you left and then again at the asscrack of dawn, but I think there was a four-hour stretch of sleep somewhere during the night. That was kind of amazing.”

  “Ever think you’d be so happy to get a four-hour stretch of sleep?”

  “Never. She’s napping right now, upstairs in my room. The monitor is on.” He picked up a leather messenger bag by the door and slung it over his shoulder. “I should head out. Call me if you need to. I’ll be back by 11:30.”

  “Wait, don’t you want your doughnut?”

  He opened the door and glanced at his watch. “I don’t really have time. Save it for me?”

  “Okay.” I went to give him a hug, but it was kind of awkward because he didn’t hug me back. Granted, his hands were full—one held the coffee and the other was holding the door open—but he didn’t even lean into me or move at all. He just stood there. I gave his waist a quick squeeze and stepped back, but it was like hugging a tree trunk. “Bye.”

  “Bye.” Halfway into the hallway, he looked back at me. “Oh, thanks for doing this. I owe you.”

  “It’s no problem. See you later.”

  The door closed, and he was gone.

  I stood there for a moment in the silence, wondering why he seemed so cool and distant this morning—nothing like the guy who’d kissed me goodnight at the door last night, let alone the guy who’d ripped off my clothes and given me two orgasms on the couch, or even the guy who spoke softly and seriously about being worried he’d let me down because he wasn’t good at this. I’d felt special to him last night. This morning, I felt like a babysitter with a weird, inappropriate crush.

  Sighing, I opened the bag of doughnuts and took out an apple fritter. I ate it standing at the big window overlooking the city, and decided I was being silly. He was probably just tired and distracted. Of course he was—he was going on four hours of sleep. He’d probably be different when he got home and could relax.

  When Paisley woke up, I decided to take her for a walk after her bottle. I packed a little bag with some emergency supplies, bundled her up in the coat and leggings she’d arrived in, and strapped her into the stroller. Double checking to make sure I had Nate’s key with me, I locked the door when we left and texted Nate on the elevator ride down to the lobby.

  Taking Paisley for a walk. Don’t worry, I have a key!

  He didn’t text back.

  Outside, I pushed the stroller four blocks up one side of the street, crossed over, and came back down the other. I didn’t see anyone I knew, but occasionally a stranger would peek into the stroller and smile. She’s adorable, they’d say. She has your chin, one woman told me. Daddy must have dark hair, said another, looking back and forth from me to Paisley. Rather than tell them she wasn’t mine, I smiled and said, Thank you and Does she really? and Yes, he does. I told myself it was easier to simply accept the compliments than explain whose baby she was, but secretly some part of me liked that people thought she was mine and Nate’s. It was stupid, of course. They didn’t know who Nate was. But in my mind, I allowed the fantasy to entertain me for a little while, unhealthy as it may have been.

  Sometimes, a girl’s gotta have some dessert.

  After the walk, I fed her again and put her down for her nap. Ten minutes later, I was sitting on the couch reading the Five Tips article when Nate came in.

  “Hi,” I said, setting the magazine aside. “How did it go?”

  “Fine.” He set his bag down, took off his suit coat, and tossed it onto a chair.

  I waited for him to go on. When he didn’t, I asked, “Did you tell your boss?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Was she surprised?”

  He rubbed his face with two hands. “To say the least. But she was very understanding. Apparently there’s some sort of provision for paternity leave at our firm, which I had no clue about, of course. But it allows me time off and keeps my job safe.”

  “That’s good.” I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Will you take off the whole month?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “I think it’s a good idea. You need time to bond with her.”

  “I guess.” He took his phone out of his pocket and started checking his messages.

  Something was off. I could feel it.

  “Is everything okay?”

  “Fine.” He frowned at his screen.

  “You seem kind of upset.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Okaaaay.” I stood, hugging my magazine to my stomach. “Well, maybe I’ll see you later?”

  He yawned. “Maybe. Guess I’ll change out of this suit before she wakes up.”

  I waited for a moment, hoping he’d at least give me a hug or kiss on the cheek—something to acknowledge the change in our status. It had changed, hadn’t it? Or had last night been only a dream?

  But he didn’t touch me. In fact, he didn’t even look at me.

  �
��Thanks again for watching her,” he said, heading for the stairs. “I appreciate it.”

  “It’s okay.” The apple fritter balled up in my stomach. “I’ll…talk to you later.”

  He said nothing and disappeared into his bedroom, and I let myself out.

  It happened, I thought, my stomach churning. I’m one of those girls.

  Ten

  Nate

  Upstairs, I glanced at Paisley, who was still asleep, then fell back onto my bed, loosened my tie, and closed my eyes.

  I’d never been so fucking tired.

  Not as a kid, when I’d lain awake in bed, worrying all night about my brother, praying for a cure, a reprieve, a miracle. Not in college, when I’d pledged a fraternity and the active members kept us up twenty-four hours a day mopping floors, collecting beer cans, and doing their fucking laundry. Not in law school, when I’d study all night for days on end before an exam, then crash for twelve hours afterward.

  But it wasn’t only physical exhaustion. I was worn the fuck out mentally and emotionally too. Word of my situation had buzzed through the office fast. Everyone had been shocked, both that I had a daughter and that I was taking responsibility for her. That kind of pissed me off—did they think I would be so callous as to turn away my own child? A ton of people had burst out laughing. You? With a daughter? A few people offered congratulations and advice, but more common were things like, Oh man. Wouldn’t want to be you. Or, You know your life is over, right? A few (male) colleagues expressed sympathy, saying shit like, “Dude, bitch had no right to do that to you,” which only made me angrier. An older attorney at the firm told me, “Welcome to fatherhood, eighteen years of sleep deprivation, feeling like a failure, taking the blame, and going broke. Least you don’t have to worry about all the damage your divorce will do.”

  My God, by the time I left there, I was totally demoralized. My nerve endings were beyond frayed. I felt like my life was coming apart at the seams, and there was nothing I could do to keep it together, or even keep it recognizable.

  Paisley was one thing—how did fathers handle the constant pressure and doubt? Every second of the day, I was responsible for her. If anything happened, it was on me. As the days went by, I felt more confident with the routine, but Christ. When I thought ahead to eighteen years of this, I wanted to crawl in a hole and die. For fuck’s sake, I’d be over FIFTY when she graduated from high school. FIFTY, worried about my teenage daughter out drinking or getting into someone’s car who had. FIFTY, waiting for her to get home after she’d broken her curfew. FIFTY, panicking about her hanging out with guys like me who’d only been interested in one thing at sixteen. Was it too early to think about sending her to a convent as soon as she hit puberty?

  Fucking puberty. That was another thing. How was I supposed to handle that? What if Rachel was a total flake and never came back for her? For fuck’s sake, she hadn’t even called since Saturday morning! What kind of mother could she be? The more I thought about it, the angrier I got that she’d simply abandoned my child in some random hallway. She could have knocked. She could have asked me for help. She could have done any number of things that wouldn’t have put Paisley in danger. Even if she did come back, how would I know that my daughter would be safe with her?

  Then there were the practical matters. If I was going to support a child, I had to work. That meant I needed a regular babysitter, in addition to finding a new place to live.

  There were also legal matters. I’d filled out the Affidavit of Parentage the state of Michigan required in order to claim paternity, but I needed Rachel’s information and signature. Then we’d have to work out a custody agreement.

  There would be financial matters to deal with, too—child support. Health insurance. College fund. My will and trust. And I still had to face bringing Paisley home to meet my mother next weekend.

  And Emme. I’d meant everything I’d said to her last night, but I was so damn terrified. Throughout the night, whether it was Paisley keeping me up or my anxiety, I just kept thinking of all the ways I could blow it with Emme.

  Like today, I could tell she’d been looking for some display of affection from me, some sign that she was more to me than just the nanny—and she was, my God, she was—but I hadn’t been able to give it to her. Even after what we’d done last night, something in me wouldn’t allow it. I’d stood there like a fucking telephone pole when she’d tried to hug me. Why was I such a dick? Was I afraid of giving her too much hope? Was I trying to lower her expectations even further? Was I too entrenched in my emotional foxhole, the one I’d dug so many years ago and refused to climb out of?

  Because the crazy thing was, I’d wanted to kiss her. Hold her for a moment. Feel like myself again, the way I’d felt during sex last night. I’d wanted to pull her in close, smell her hair and her skin, so I’d have the memory of it throughout the day. I’d wanted to tell her what was wrong when she asked, wanted to admit how upset I’d been by the reactions of people at work. I’d wanted to say Yes, come back later, have dinner with me again, lie with me again, and this time, don’t leave. Let me hold you in my arms as we fall asleep. Let me breathe you in all night. And whatever you do, don’t let me push you away, because I’m going to try.

  What the actual fuck was wrong with me?

  I couldn’t even think. I fell asleep right there on my back, fully clothed, shoes on, feet on the floor arms outstretched, and dreamt I was being buried alive.

  Eleven

  Emme

  Back in my apartment, I changed out of my jeans and shirt and put on black pants, a blush-colored blouse that tied around the neck, and low heels. We were actually just going to have lunch at her house, but I still wanted to appear professional. I’d learned a lot from both Mia and Coco, including that personal appearances matter, especially in our business.

  Not that Nate had noticed much about my appearance this morning.

  Annoyed, I frowned at my reflection as I wound my hair into a bun. Was I being unreasonable? Needy? Impatient? Had I been wrong about myself last night?

  Maybe. But I didn’t think so. And I couldn’t shake the sense of resentment brewing as I drove over to Coco’s. My expectations were pretty low, but they weren’t nonexistent. I didn’t need to be the center of his universe, but I’d at least like to feel like a part of the sky.

  Coco and her husband, Nick, lived in a big, beautiful old home in Indian Village, one of Detroit’s historic neighborhoods. They claimed it had been a giant mess when they bought it, and that something was always going wrong with it, but to my eye it looked perfect. Big flowerbeds waiting to be planted out front, huge rooms with high ceilings and crown moldings, gorgeous original wood floors that creaked when you walked on them, reminding you this house had a history. They had bumped out the back of the house in order to put on an addition with a big modern kitchen and family room, and since the house had been built on a double lot they’d still had enough room to put in a pool and patio with a built-in grill. Nick was a chef and owned several restaurants in the city, as well as the apartment building Nate and I lived in, which was how I managed to afford such a beautiful loft. They gave me a great deal on the rent.

  I knocked on the big wooden front door about 12:15, and Nick answered it. Like Nate, Nick was tall, dark, and handsome, although in an entirely different way. Nick was clean-shaven, with olive skin and deep brown eyes, and his arms were sleeved with tattoos. I’d attended several pool parties here at their house and knew that he had them on his back and chest too. Once I asked him if he had a favorite, and he pointed to the one on his left pec, which was a heart with an arrow through it and said Coco at the top. “It was my first one,” he’d told me, “and will always be my favorite.” Coco had rolled her eyes, but she’d kissed his cheek, and I could tell she was happy about it. I was sort of in love with them as a couple. Not in a creepy way—but for me, they were the gold standard of a relationship, and Nick was the ultimate husband. All man, but not afraid to let his feelings show.

&n
bsp; “Hey, Emme. Come on in.” He stepped back so I could enter, and immediately two small, dark-haired boys rushed into the front hall, circling his feet and mine like excited puppies. “Knock it off, you two,” he scolded. “Mommy already told you to go play upstairs.”

  The two boys dutifully headed up the stairs, the littler one grabbing the back of the bigger one’s shirt so he could scoot past him and beat him to the top. I smiled and slipped off my coat. “No school today?”

  Nick took my coat and hung it up in the front hall closet. “Gianni’s still at school. Those two monkeys had preschool this morning. I picked them up at eleven and fed them quickly so they’d stay out of your way. Come on back, girls are in the kitchen.” He lowered his voice. “I’ll warn you—Coco’s a little grumpy.”

  I nodded, figuring at nine months pregnant, that was her right. “Got it.”

  I followed him down the hall into the kitchen, a beautiful open space with white cupboards, marble countertops, tons of copper cookware hanging over the island cooktop, and a big farmhouse sink. It smelled absolutely divine, like lemon and garlic and sautéed chicken. My mouth began to water.

  Coco was sitting at the kitchen table, her bare feet propped on an adjacent chair. Her long dark hair was heaped in a nest at the top of her head, and she wore what looked like one of Nick’s black Burger bar T-shirts, her pregnant stomach bulging at the front, distorting the logo, and a pair of gray sweatpants. That’s how I knew for sure she must be really uncomfortable, because she never wore sweatpants. Ever.

  Mia jumped out of the chair across from Coco’s. “Hi!” she squealed, running at me with her arms open. She was on the short side, like me, but dark-haired, and dressed much more casually in jeans and a V-neck T-shirt that said Abelard Vineyards on the front.