Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Except stay married.
“Fine,” I say through a mouthful. “But shockingly I have some plans, so I’ll have to cancel tennis with Brett. Someday, if I manage to get a more exciting life, I won’t be so easily bought off with guacamole.”
I expect her to smile, but she doesn’t. “You should have a life, Mark. You should date . . . whoever you want.”
Thanks, Bridget.
A flame of anger slices through me, since I don’t need her permission. But I cool it down with a sip of the iced tea she made just the way I like—with a splash of lemonade. I should have a social life. It’s just that I don’t have any idea how to get one. Last month I downloaded Grindr, spent an hour perfecting a profile I’d started last spring, then spent another hour interacting with strangers . . . before deleting it again.
I hate dating apps. Hate. And I don’t have any single guy friends anymore, either. No wingmen in sight. When I see the odd college friend, I’m usually the third wheel.
It’s a problem I don’t know how to solve. I might actually let Valencia set me up with her dentist one of these days.
Maybe.
“Is there anything else?” I ask Bridget. “Flip’s party starts in half an hour.”
“That sounds fun,” Bridget says with a cheerful smile. “I like Flip.”
“Everybody likes Flip,” I point out. I’m not in the mood for his birthday bash, though. Seeing his whole preppy crew will only remind me of Asher.
“Where’s the party?” Bridget asks. “Where do multi-millionaires celebrate their thirtieth birthdays?”
I snort. “I swear, this place had a preppy name too. Hang on. It’s somewhere on the Upper East Side . . .” I pull my phone out and navigate to my email. I need the address before I hit the number 4 train uptown.
I tap the link to bring me to the party’s page. “It’s called Downton Club—on Madison and Seventy-Ninth.” I roll my eyes. “Join us at an historic private supper club for finger sandwiches and Pimm’s cup cocktails with old man Flip. Jesus—these people have a kink for mansions.”
Bridget’s eyes twinkle. “Come on. It sounds like they’re being ironic.”
“Maybe,” I admit. Although I still don’t really want to go. I have to, though. It will be nice to see Hannah and her big baby bump, of course.
The wedding was only three months ago. It feels like three years.
“More guacamole?” Bridget asks. At least she feels bad about shanking me with another early T-ball practice.
“No thanks,” I sigh. Idly, I scroll down the list of RSVPs, wondering if Asher will be there, though I’m sure he won’t.
But then . . .
His name appears on the RSVP list.
And all my blood stops circulating. Wait. Really? I scroll up to make sure that I’m reading the yeses and not the maybes or the nos.
But it’s true. His name is there. He RSVPed yes.
Holy shit.
I spring out of my chair and pace across Bridget’s kitchen, staring at my phone.
“Mark?” my ex-wife asks. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” I bark. Although, I’m not sure that’s true. Asher’s in New York? And he didn’t even tell me?
I feel sick.
On the thirty-minute subway trip uptown, I don’t feel any better. I knew that someday I’d encounter him again. But I thought I’d have more time to put on my poker face.
Or at least a nicer shirt. As I exit the 4 train on Seventy-Seventh, I actually contemplate looking around for a men’s shop and buying something better than the polo shirt I’m wearing.
But I don’t do it. A grown man does not have a fashion crisis before confronting the hookup he isn’t truly over.
It was never about my wardrobe, either. Asher and I are in different places in life. We need different things and we both knew that. The end of our brief fling was very civilized.
Okay, that may be the right word for the last second I saw him, but it’s the wrong word to describe Asher at all. The fizz of excitement and dread that I feel as I trudge down the street is anything but civilized. And the way I felt when he stripped me down and fucked me hard was anything but civilized.
I can fake it, though. I’m going to have to.
My phone chimes with a text, and suddenly my heart is in my mouth. I pull it out of my pocket, hoping to see Asher’s name.
But it’s only Hannah. The preview on the lock screen reads: Mark, before you get here, you should know that Asher . . .
I shove the phone back in my pocket as my stomach bottoms out. I don’t even want to know how that sentence ends. Asher and his new boyfriend are here. That’s probably it.
Whatever happens, I’m going to be cool-headed tonight. I’ll greet him in a friendly way. But not flirty. I’ll shake his hand. Good to see you again, I’ll say, as if it isn’t tearing me apart to be in the same room again. What brings you to New York?