My mind flashes to Glenn straightening the tag on his suitcase, saying, I’m not cut out for this. Having him was a mistake.
Like he had buyer’s remorse, and our child was something he could return to the store.
My hands ball into fists.
“You wanted to stay married to him?” she asks in disgust.
“Of course not,” I snap, “but I wanted Aidan to have a dad. We lost our father when Molly was still in high school, and I saw how hard it was for her.”
“My dad left me when I was a kid,” Nicole says with a snort. “But he was a cheater and an idiot. Losing a dad doesn’t hurt as much as having a shit one.”
Maybe she’s trying to be comforting, in as much as she’s capable of it, but the thing is, I’m not so sure I want Aidan to end up like Nicole, all sharp edges. He’s so innocent, so sweet-natured, and I worry what will happen when the world turns on him and shows its claws.
Oh, so you’d rather he ended up like you and Maisie and Molly? Shocked to discover his father isn’t the person he thought?
But I have enough issues without being attacked by my own thoughts, thank you very much, so I just give a little shake of my head. “I send him updates about Aidan every so often, but he rarely responds to them. He’s made it very clear he’s not interested in sharing custody. In fact, once it became clear to me how unlikely he was to change his mind, I asked him to sign over all parental rights. He didn’t hesitate, meaning any contact they have is on my terms now. His parents still want Aidan in their lives, though, and they’ve been taking him every other weekend.”
Nicole scoffs. “Do they know their son is a spineless piece of shit?”
“Yes,” I say. Because they do. Tom and Ruth are great, actually, legitimately great. “They’re still trying to get him to come around, to at least call Aidan on Christmas or send him a present. They’re beside themselves.”
Nicole waves dismissively. “We won’t worry about him right now. If he has half a brain, he’ll leave you alone.” A laugh escapes her. “I kind of hope he doesn’t. He has no idea who you have in your corner now.”
I’m still a bit afraid of her—she’s fierce and wild—but she knows herself in a way that I envy, and I find her words strangely reassuring. Because, for whatever reason, she’s chosen to be in my corner. Maybe it’s time to let someone else help me.
“You and I are supposed to tell each other our life stories before we begin this process,” she says, waving a hand flippantly. “Or at least that’s what they did in the original Bad Luck Club. But Damien and I are role-playing tonight, so I have to cut this short.” Before I can wrap my mind around what that might mean—and what it would be like to be so free with a man—my reaction vacillating between horror and intrigue, she continues, “Besides, I think we should do things a little differently. We’re interested in getting you to break some rules, not follow them. The original club only meets every other week, but you need way more help than that. I’m going to issue challenges to you at least once a week. Maybe twice.”
Nicole toys with her nose ring, making me cringe. Surely she won’t ask me to get a nose ring or a tattoo…
My mind flashes to Jace. I noticed a swirl of ink disappearing under the sleeve of his work jacket. What would it be like to see the whole tattoo on its muscled canvas? Does he have more than one?
The thought makes me squirm uncomfortably in my seat, because even thinking of Jace like that—naked—is enough to make my body spark to attention. To send tingles of pleasure to the forgotten parts of me.
“What are you thinking of right now?” Nicole asks, a smug look on her face.
“No one,” I start, then realize I’ve given myself away. “Nothing.”
“Too late,” she says triumphantly. “You were thinking about a man, and based on the way you’re blushing, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t your pencil-dick ex.”
“It’s someone inappropriate,” I mutter. “Wildly inappropriate.”
“Great,” she says, leaning forward and giving me her rapt attention. “This is getting better and better.”
“No. I mean, he’s someone I’d never go for. And he wouldn’t ever think of me that way. He’s the kind of guy who would go for someone like—”
You. Because Nicole is…well, she’s cool and sexy and she wouldn’t get tongue-tied at the sight of Jace leaning out his truck window toward her, his aqua eyes fixed on hers, his arms flexing a little beneath his shirt, his whole presence so bulky and powerful and manly…
“You don’t have the first idea what a man wants,” she says, “so let’s not waste our time guessing. But you want him badly. This is good. We can work with this.”
“No,” I bark out, making it pretty darn obvious I mean yes. “I mean, this guy is my son’s friend. His buddy.” Then, seeing the look on her face, I clarify, “His adult buddy.”
“Your son has an adult friend?” she asks flatly, looking at me like I’m the weird one.
I explain about the Butterfly Buddies program, and she quickly loses interest.
“OK, fine, you’ve convinced me your dude’s not a pervert.”
“Goodness,” I say, scandalized. “I hope not.”
Another hand wave. “Oh, quit it with the pearl-clutching. You’re better than that, Mary.”
Am I? I’m not so sure, and I don’t have the slightest idea why she’d think so. In fact…
“Why me?” I blurt out. “Why do you want to help me?”
“Because I see myself in you,” she says with a smirk.
“Really?” I ask, shocked.
She runs a hand through her pink hair, making it stand up straight in a way that somehow makes her look sensuous and not insane, and bursts out laughing. “No. Absolutely not. Call it my way of giving back. So, let’s get back to this guy. You’re interested.”
If I’d thought my cheeks were burning before, now they feel like they’re being pressed to a hibachi grill. “I mean, I’m not blind. He’s very handsome.”
That word feels too small, though. It’s the kind of thing you’d call some guy in a well-fitting tux to applaud him for making an effort. Jace isn’t handsome, he’s glorious. He’s like the wild ocean, and I’ve only ever dipped my toes into a man-made lake. But lusting after him is like lusting after Damon Salvatore on The Vampire Diaries rather than one of the boring human characters. (I watched an episode with Molly once, and although I rolled my eyes through the whole viewing, I found myself tuning in for more episodes late at night on my iPad when I couldn’t sleep.)
“I can appreciate a man’s looks without wanting…” I wave. “You know.”
“You can’t say the word ‘sex,’ can you?” she asks.
I want to be pissed at her, and I sort of am. She doesn’t know me, yet here she is ordering me around and making all kinds of pronouncements about my life. And I’m letting her. Why am I letting her?
Because she’s not entirely wrong.
I’m not comfortable saying sex out loud. And isn’t that ridiculous? I’m a thirty-four-year-old woman. “S—ex,” I whisper.