“I like it too,” I said softly, then gave her a grin. “Girl power.”
“Yeah,” Priscilla said with a small smile.
With that, we continued to work quietly until we settled in the car and I dropped her at school, her overnight bag tucked slung over her shoulder, and my heart in my throat.
Back at home, I reveled in the quiet, making myself a second coffee and settling in to finish a piece on the best ads on Instagram. I lost myself in the tap-tapping of my keyboard, and before long, it was two o’clock. I submitted a fully edited piece to Jane and slapped my laptop closed to the rumble of my stomach and the ringing of my phone.
It wasn’t a number I recognized, and I immediately panicked it might be the school calling about Priscilla. “Hello?”
“Margo!”
The sound of my name spoken in Mick’s low, gravelly voice sent a zing down south, a feeling I hadn’t had in a long, long time.
“I’m sorry, who is this?” I said, not sure why I was playing dumb.
“Is it okay that I’m calling?” He lowered his voice, probably because it dawned on him that he was calling a married woman.
“Yes,” I said, ignoring my original plan to play coy.
“Forgive me for calling, but I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
Sitting back in the kitchen chair where I’d been working, I looked out the window and saw the sun shining and thought about going for a walk.
“I’m fine, definitely,” I said. “I wasn’t even hungover. Wait, that came out wrong. I was heading off to pick up my daughter, so I didn’t even drink enough to have to worry about a hangover.”
Nervous, I ran my hand under my hair, over my nape where goose bumps were popping up.
“No judgment from me. By the way, it’s Mick, in case you still wondered who was calling.”
This made me laugh.
“I’d recognize your morning-after voice anywhere,” I said, noting it had a hint of flirtation to it.
“So, that’s what they’re calling it these days?”
“Honestly, I wouldn’t know.” I felt myself smiling and wondered what the heck I was doing.
“I wasn’t asking about your hangover, though,” Mick said abruptly. “I meant your wrist. Seemed like you were in a lot of pain, and I wanted to check in. I am a fixer, after all.”
“Oh, that. It’s fine.” I pulled up my sleeve, still able to make out Tommy’s fingerprints. Moving it around, I was relieved that it did feel a bit better.
“Good. You know if you need a fixer, I’m your man, right?” he said, and this made me laugh even harder. “Okay, okay, I realize that was cheesy. I was concerned, that’s all, and I liked our time together. I’d like to do it again.”
“Day drink?” I said, trying to make light of it.
“Day, night, whenever you’d like.”
“Oh.” I pulled in a breath, unable to say more. Even wordsmiths got tongue-tied at times.
“What are you doing now?” Mick asked.
“Um, I just sent off a piece and was going to think about some lunch.”
“Forgive me if this seems too forward, but want to meet up?”
“Uh, are you free?” My mind was such a jumbled mess, I could barely get my tongue to move.
“Actually, I am.”
“Okay,” I said slowly.
“Okay, you want to meet? Or okay, you’re saying good-bye?”
“The first,” I said before I changed my mind.
“I’m on the Back Bay. Where are you?”
“Brookline.”
“Great. How about the Paula in about forty-five minutes?”
“Okay,” I said again. I was so flustered at Mick’s call, it seemed to be the only word I could make out.
“See you soon,” Mick said, hanging up before I could change my mind.
Taking a sip of my lukewarm coffee, I wondered what I’d just done. Then I was reminded of Tommy and his half-and-half, and decided I was doing what was good for me.
Outside my parked car, I paced left and then right, my ankle boots clomping on the pavement. I should get back in my car and drive away. Walking to the left again, I thought, Why should I leave?
I liked the Paula. The last time I’d been at that restaurant was for a girls-only lunch with some of the other moms. I’d been so happy to be out and included that I’d gone home smiling and nearly floated through the remainder of the day. If I remembered correctly, I even sloughed off Tommy not eating the pasta primavera I’d made him that evening. Instead, he demanded a tuna steak, and I made it without a protest.
I was going to the Paula for a late lunch. How wrong could that be?
It was a bad idea, but like a bowling ball heading down the lane, there was no stopping now.
Beeping the locks on my car, I walked toward the Paula, its bricked-in door frame and shiny glass front beckoning me. The wind swept under my hair, chilling the beads of sweat forming there, and cooling jumbles of hormones I didn’t know I had.
“Hi!” For the second time in two days, a perky hostess greeted me.
“Hi,” I heard myself saying warmly.
Usually when Tommy and I ate out, he gruffly demanded a quiet table for two or three, his perma-scowl frightening the hostess and eventually the server. It was a delicious freedom to be myself, happy, light, cheery . . . whatever you wanted to label it.
“I’m meeting someone,” I told the curvy blonde wearing all black.
“No problem. Did you want to wait at a table or out here?”
As I soaked in the welcoming ambience with Ed Sheeran crooning in the background, I ran my palm over my neck, feeling my pulse throbbing. I tried to speak, but a tremor made its way up my throat, tightening my vocal cords. Swallowing hard, I tried to push aside my anxiety and excitement in equal measure.
“Margo.”
Mick’s rough voice tickled all my senses before I could answer the hostess. Turning almost too quickly, I was overcome with a bout of lightheadedness.
“Whoa,” I whispered, but of course he heard me, taking hold of my elbow.
“You okay?” Mick asked, not releasing me.
When the pads of his fingers singed my skin in a way Tommy’s didn’t, I instantly realized the difference between pain and burning need.
Closing my eyes for a beat, I reopened them and whispered, “Mick.”
He raised an eyebrow and leaned in to speak softly. “Margo, you good?”
Never mind that this whole scene was playing out in the entrance to the Paula. A man who wasn’t my husband had his hand on me, which felt absolutely decadent, and I was a second away from fainting in his arms.
“Yes,” I said softly, gathering myself, trying to clear the fog in my head and the frog who’d set up residence in my throat. “Sorry about that. I just, I guess I didn’t think this through. We’re close to my home, and we could see someone I know.” With each new word, my voice tightened with increased panic, my initial excitement overtaken by nerves.
Mick nodded. “If anyone asks, I’m a person you’re interviewing for . . . what are you writing now?” He slowly released me, making sure I was steady on my feet before backing away a step.
“Fashion Week.”