And when I say it, I’m not thinking about my sex life with Glenn, where what passed for excitement was the one time he actually scheduled “sex” on our shared Google calendar. No, I’m thinking about a man who takes up space so effortlessly and without thought. I’m thinking about a man with blue eyes and a short beard—I’ve never kissed a man with a beard—and work boots. I’m thinking about a man who would never in a billion years look at me as a woman.
“See,” Nicole says, giving me a thump on the shoulder. It’s probably meant to be supportive, but it’s a little too hard.
Then she’s rising to her feet.
“Are you leaving?” I sputter, flummoxed.
“I told you about my thing with my boyfriend,” she says. “Damien’s going to be a vampire this time.”
Shock jolts through me. Can she actually read my mind? Does she know about my secret TV addiction? But no, that’s ridiculous.
Either not noticing my reaction or not caring, Nicole continues. “He’s going to wear fake fangs. It’s a whole thing. But first I have to give you a challenge.” She pauses for a moment, then smiles in a way that tells me I won’t much like what she says next. “The theme for this week is your sexual awakening.”
“What?” I say, my mouth hanging open after the word escapes. “You don’t expect…?”
Again, my mind pings to Jace, to that tattoo peeking out from beneath his sleeve. I’d like to follow it to its source like a loose thread.
She laughs again. “No, nothing like that. You can’t join the Olympics before you run some laps. Buy yourself an early Christmas present. A vibrator.”
I reach up to my collarbone as if to clutch pearls that aren’t there. “I can’t do that.”
“Your first challenge,” she says, turning her back to me and walking off.
“But how will I get in touch with you?” I call after her. An odd feeling of panic wells up at the prospect of never seeing her again. Not because I plan on actually going through with her challenge—I don’t, do I?—but because it’s kind of nice talking to someone like this. Opening up in a way I can’t bring myself to do with my sisters. Maybe because I don’t care what Nicole thinks of me, and I desperately care what they think.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Nicole says, throwing a wink over her shoulder. “I have your number.”
After she disappears, I text Molly: If you were worried about me, you could have just said so. I guess I’m joining Nicole’s club. Actually, I don’t know that I can call it a club. It’s just the two of us.
Her reply is instant: Oh, I’m super worried. I’ve tried like a bajillion things to get you to loosen up and break out of your Stepford Wife shell. Nicole is basically a last resort. Don’t worry, though, she has enough personality for a dozen people, so you won’t be lonely in your club of two.
Me: I basically couldn’t say no to her.
Molly: She does have miraculous powers of persuasion.
I tap the side of the phone for a second, thinking, then look at the time. Half an hour before I’m supposed to get Aidan. I could text Maisie to let her know that I’m coming early, but there’s this needy feeling inside of me, something Jace put there, and instead…
Well. I spend fifteen minutes researching the top ten vibrators available on Amazon.
When a local number rings on my cell phone the next day, I pick up without hesitation. It’s not my lunch break—the only time I usually let myself answer personal calls unrelated to Aidan—but I’m ninety-nine percent sure it’s Nicole.
Weirdly, I want her to be proud of me. When I actually pressed the order button for the vibrator, something I did at around one in the morning, after a glass and a half of wine, I felt an unexpected prickle of pleasure and pride in myself. Because I did something a little naughty, a little daring, and I liked it. Because I didn’t let myself get hung up on the thought of what other people might think or whether it was selfish of me to do something solely for my own gratification. I still can’t imagine myself actually using the vibrator, but maybe…
“Hello,” I say, just barely stopping myself from saying, I did it, Nicole. You asked me to, and I didn’t think I could, but I darn well did it. See? Who’s a good girl now?
Except it’s a good thing I didn’t, because a man’s voice responds to my greeting. “Hi, Mary.”
It’s his voice.
Jace’s, I mean.
I drop the phone, literally drop it, and it bounces off my desk and into the small potted Christmas tree that my boss, Hilde, dropped by yesterday morning. She was adamant that it was a pagan tree, not a Christmas tree, but in the next breath she encouraged me to decorate it, so I’m not sure what the difference is. Probably she doesn’t want to get sued—it is an office full of lawyers. It would look more festive with some flair, but so far, it remains as undecorated as the Charlie Brown tree at home.
That one will likely go undecorated forever, because when I asked Aidan last night, he told me that he wanted Jace to help decorate it. He was adamant about it, and it’s nearly impossible to convince him something like that would be inappropriate, so he’s unlikely to back down. Tom and Ruth are taking him for the weekend. Perhaps they’ll be able to persuade him.
Part of me doesn’t mind, though, because the Christmas tree ornaments come from two painful sources: (a) my childhood home and (b) the home I tried to build with Glenn. I could do without the memories. Last night, Maisie gave me another box I don’t want to open.
Maisie still lives in the house we grew up in, the one that belonged to our mom and dad. She only started going through their things a few years ago—for a while, living among all our old stuff was her way of dealing with grief, or not dealing with it—but I’d thought she was done. When I went to pick up Aidan, she surprised me by presenting me with a dusty old box.
“These things are yours,” she said. “From your old room. They were tucked away in a corner of the attic that I only just now made it to. I figured you’d want them.”
Except I know Maisie, and Maisie knows me. She knows I don’t want them—she thinks I need them. But I couldn’t bring myself to open the box.
Just like I don’t want to take this call.
“Shoot, shoot, shoot.” I pick up the phone and press it to my ear, my heart hammering in my chest.
Why is he calling me?
Has something happened to Aidan?
Except…if something happened to Aidan, wouldn’t it be the school trying to reach me? They would have had Ms. Liu call me, or maybe even the principal. Get a grip, Mary.
Still, I ask, “Aidan. Is he okay?”
“Yes,” he says quickly, sounding immediately remorseful. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you. I was just hoping to catch you before lunch. Could you get away for a quick meeting?”
My mind immediately jumps to my bedroom. No. My bedroom is a place I honestly can’t imagine sex happening. It’s almost clinical in its sexlessness, perhaps because all the decorations are the same as they were in my house in Charlotte, the one I shared with Glenn. He’d insisted on a beige color scheme, and although he’s right—neutrals are practical—I’ve come to hate it. But Jace’s bedroom is probably all satin sheets and smoke and…