Say Never Read online

  I smile to myself. Matt catches my look.

  “See? You thought so too. Which one? Gay or deeply disturbed?”

  I bite my lower lip and slow my pace even more. I can’t talk when I jog and our conversation is making my pulse rate skyrocket. I really don’t want to have a seizure in front of this man. I may never see him again after Wednesday, but I don’t want his lasting image to be me writhing around on the asphalt foaming at the mouth.

  “I didn’t think either one,” I lie.

  “You’re full of shit,” he says with a grin. “It’s okay. I mean, I’m okay with it. You know, I always imagined myself married with a couple of kids. But it didn’t work out. At least not so far.”

  We reach the end of the street. Beyond is a long green belt surrounded by a footpath. I jog in place and put two fingers against my neck. Matt stops and bends at the waist, touching his toes and giving me a delicious view of his ass. Adam has a great backside, too, but in an ass contest, Matt would win, hands down. Or pants down.

  Stop, Meg.

  “You want to walk for a while?” he asks, still stretching. I’m so overcome by his hind parts that I don’t respond. He straightens up and I peel my eyes from him before he can catch me. I nod and gesture to the footpath. We walk along in silence for a few minutes.

  “So, I know you were married…for five minutes.” He grins. “What about now? Boyfriend? Girlfriend?”

  I paint on a wide-eyed, shocked expression. “Girlfriend?”

  “Hey, this is the new millennium. I’d be remiss if I didn’t ask. Un-PC, even.”

  “No, I don’t have a girlfriend,” I tell him. “Or a boyfriend.” Or anything else, for that matter.

  “That surprises me,” he says, gazing at me appreciatively. I turn away, pretending not to notice. Two can play at that game.

  The night air is cool against my skin. I smell honeysuckle and jasmine in the breeze, and I have to admit that I far prefer this scent to the exhaust fumes and urine and rotting trash-aroma of Manhattan. Still, the fact that it’s not even six o’clock in the evening and there is not another soul in sight is somewhat disconcerting for a gal who lives in the city that never sleeps.

  “What about you?” I ask. “You seem like the type of man to have a bunch of chickies waiting for your call.”

  He gives me a doubtful look. “Really?”

  I laugh. “You’re a fairly good-looking guy, Matt. In case you didn’t know it.”

  “Thanks.” He seems embarrassed, but shakes it off. “I date. Nothing serious so far.” He stretches his shoulder again as we walk. “After my fiancée and I broke up, I wasn’t in good shape. I couldn’t imagine seeing other women.”

  “I can understand that.” I felt the same way after Brian.

  “Yeah, you know, it’s funny. When we looked at the house, Maddy and I met your brother and sister-in-law. Then, after I moved in, I guess they figured out what happened. Caroline was great.”

  I roll my eyes but Matt doesn’t see it. “Of course she was,” I say. “Little miss perfect.”

  “No, really. I mean, I’m sure you have a different perspective about her…”

  “You could say that.”

  “But she really was cool,” he continues. “She brought me casseroles and cookies. Left them at my door. Sent McKenna over with handmade cards saying ‘Welcome to the Neighborhood.’ Your brother would invite me over any time he saw me out front. If it wasn’t for them, I probably would have self-destructed.”

  I try not to think about my own self-destruction last month, which had nothing to do with a broken heart. But then, since Brian, I’ve never allowed myself to get close enough to anyone to be broken-hearted. I’m glad my brother and Caroline saved Matt from a breakdown. He’d make a horrible drag queen.

  “You were, what, thirty-eight, thirty-nine? Kind of late to get married.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “I was focused on my career for a very long time. I never imagined going into business with my dad. In fact, I swore I never would. I wanted to be the next Frank Lloyd Wright.” He lets out a self-deprecating guffaw. “That wasn’t going to happen. But it took me a long time to realize it.”

  Out of nowhere, a huge German Shepherd bounds across the grass toward us, his muscles straining, a long pink tongue hanging from his mouth, his teeth bared. I freeze, my whole body going tense. Instantly Matt steps in front of me and places his arm protectively against my torso and I almost forget about the killer canine heading our way.

  When the dog reaches us, he stops in his tracks, lays down at our feet and shows us his belly and I let out a relieved breath. Matt’s arm stays attached to my side, and I make no move to push it away.

  “Blitzkrieg!” a man hollers from the other side of the green belt. At the sound of his master’s voice, the shepherd immediately gains his feet and lopes away from us.

  I start to laugh nervously, and I’m acutely aware of the fact that Matt’s arm is still touching my midsection. Slowly, he turns to face me, but instead of lowering his arm, he slides his hand across my torso to my side. In the low light of the street lamp, his blue eyes flash. He tightens his grip and draws me to him, and before I can pull away, he leans in and crushes his lips against mine.

  At first, I’m so taken aback that I don’t respond at all. But his lips are so soft, so warm, and his kiss so lusciously moist that I can’t help but kiss him back. He flicks his tongue into my mouth, finding the tip of my own, and a gooey, delicious sensation flutters through my entire body. He places his other hand at the back of my neck, firmly, possessively, and my arms simultaneously encircle his waist, and suddenly we are making out like teenagers, with reckless, passionate abandon.

  After a moment, a blindingly delirious moment, I regain control of my rational brain and quickly step out of his embrace. I can’t find words to express myself, so I merely shake my head.

  Matt’s arms are suspended as though we are still intertwined. In all candor, I wish we were. But I realize it’s too late to go back, because I am starting to freak out in a big bad way. He lowers his arms, watching me closely.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  “Just get me back to Danny’s house.” I avoid his eyes by turning on my heel and dashing off in the direction from which we came. He doesn’t follow immediately. But a few seconds later, I hear the rhythmic thwack thwack of his sneakers slapping the pavement. And a moment after that, he is beside me, jogging at my pace.

  With my head full of screeching, conflicting thoughts, we move in silence the rest of the way home.

  * * *

  “He’s not coming,” I announce as I take my seat next to Cera at the dining room table.

  I showered and changed, and for the past fifteen minutes, I’ve been trying to banish Matt Ryan from my thoughts. With little success.

  Patsy insisted we eat in the dining room. Apparently, her garlic chicken and mashed sweet potatoes with sautéed collard greens is far too elevated a meal to be consumed in the casual environment of the kitchen. Cera leans back in her seat, arms crossed at her chest, and by the tortured expression on her face, I can tell she wishes she were anywhere but here.

  Looking at her, I have a sudden flashback to my youth. If Danny and Buddy and I were all home for dinner, Buddy insisted we eat together, without exception. No TV dinners, no skipping the meal because we’d had a late lunch. The three of us would eat as a family. I hated the tradition, especially as I grew older, and I’d stewed and brooded and, on occasion, refused to eat, making my displeasure apparent without having to say a word.

  Remorse washes over me as I realize that Buddy was only trying to salvage some normalcy for two kids who had a completely abnormal childhood.

  “What did you do to him?” Danny asks from the head of the table. Patsy stands beside him, forking greens onto his plate. She gazes at the top of his head with a kind of reverence, and I assume her husband Dennis must be going bald. Danny’s thick mane of golden brown hair would definitely be a source of envy for o
ther dads in his social group.

  “Nothing,” I say, staring at my plate. “He said thanks anyway, but he already had dinner plans.”

  “What, like a date?”

  “How the f—heck should I know?” I cry. “He didn’t give me his itinerary.”

  The truth is, Matt hadn’t said a word to me, just retreated to his house in stony silence. I would have liked him to say something—anything—but I’m not sure how I would have responded if he had.

  “He’s a good guy,” Danny says, apropos to nothing.

  McKenna sits with Daisy and Sam flanking her. Sam is to my left and I have to keep swatting his hand away from the roll on my bread plate. He thinks this is a game and chuckles merrily. Tebow watches from his high chair next to Cera. My nephew looks puzzled, as if he can’t figure out whether or not this exchange is funny. He makes a show of grabbing for Cera’s roll, but her plate is way beyond his reach.

  After Patsy finishes serving all of us, she takes the seat next to my brother. I notice that she keeps glancing at Danny with a hopeful expression on her face. She passes the salt to him before he asks for it and pours sauce over his chicken with a beatific smile. When he takes a bite and groans with gastronomic pleasure, Patsy nearly faints with ecstasy.

  Cera watches Patsy for a moment, then turns to me and rolls her eyes. I bite my lip and give my step-niece a curt, surreptitious nod. Patsy Gates has a thing for my brother. And Cera and I know it.

  I slice into my chicken breast and, since Patsy didn’t bother to sauce me, I mash some sweet potato on top of the meat. “So, Patsy. How’s Dennis doing?”

  She barely glances in my direction. “He’s fine.” Danny enthusiastically piles food onto his fork and Patsy giggles. “Oh, Danny, not such a big bite!”

  “I’m a guy. It’s just how we eat.”

  Patsy roars with laughter even though Danny wasn’t making a joke. He smiles at her good-naturedly as he chews on his gargantuan mouthful.

  “Seriously, Danny. I don’t want you to choke.” When she lays her hand on his forearm, I nearly choke.

  “Is Dennis still doing the high finance thing?” I ask. Dennis is an accountant, and he’s true to the cliché, right down to his horn-rimmed glasses and bow-tie.

  “Mmm hmm,” she replies. She pushes her fork around her plate, but doesn’t seem to be eating anything, which is a shame for her because the food is delicious.

  “Still with Kander and Ebb?”

  “Carter and Epstein,” she corrects. Clearly she has no idea that Kander and Ebb are the famous composers responsible for Liza Minnelli’s career.

  “You guys have been married, for, what? Twenty years?”

  “Twenty-two,” she snaps, her annoyance rising to the surface. She probably doesn’t want to discuss her husband in front of Danny. And because I am me, I find this supremely amusing.

  “Wow. That’s a long time to be married. You guys must have a great relationship. What’s your secret?”

  Patsy lays down her fork and turns to me, exasperated. “It’s not a secret, Meg. You’re single so you don’t understand.”

  “But, seriously,” I say. “I’ve always wondered how people can sustain a happy marriage. How they can stay together and only have se—uh, only be with each other in that way and not be with anyone else. It must be hard.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Patsy says.

  “She means sex,” Cera pipes up, and I almost spew collard greens onto the table.

  “What’s sex?” McKenna asks.

  “It’s when the daddy puts his penis inside the mommy’s vagina,” Sammy announces.

  “Wow, Sammy, I’m impressed,” I say. “What are you, four? Here, have my roll.”

  Patsy clutches her napkin to her chest. “I don’t think this is an appropriate dinner conversation.”

  “What’s a penis?” asks Daisy through a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

  “What’s a angina?” McKenna jumps in.

  “That’s what your dad is experiencing right now,” I tell her, struggling to keep a straight face as I watch my brother’s cheeks turn a dangerous shade of red.

  “I just don’t believe this!” Patsy cries, throwing her napkin on the table. “I try to provide a nice dinner for you, and this is what happens! You really are a terrible person, Meg Monroe.”

  “I’m a terrible person?” I toss my fork down and it clatters against my plate. “What about you, Patsy. You stole my boyfriend in high school.” (My first and last boyfriend before Brian, whose name I cannot remember, but still.) “Because you thought I wasn’t good enough for him.”

  “You weren’t!” Patsy spits out before she can stop herself.

  “Right. And now you’re here making googly eyes at my brother, for God’s sake. In front of your kids!”

  “What?” Danny’s confused expression reveals that he has no idea what I’m talking about.

  “What kind of a person does that?”

  “I am not…I…I don’t know what you’re…This is unbelievable!” She stands suddenly, nearly knocking over her chair. “I don’t have to put up with this! Daisy, Sam, we’re leaving!”

  “But we haven’t had dessert yet!” Daisy protests.

  Patsy storms into the kitchen and returns with her purse, then grabs Daisy’s wrist and pulls her from her seat. “Get up, Sam. Now.” The cords in her neck are strained with tension as she turns to face my brother. “I’m sorry, Danny. I cannot put up with your sister for a moment longer. If you need me, you can call me any time.”

  “I’ll bet,” I snipe.

  Danny jumps to his feet and trails her and her kids to the front door, entreating them to stay. He follows them outside and the door swings closed behind him. Cera turns to me and smiles. “That was awesome,” she says.

  I couldn’t agree with her more.

  “Nice job, sis,” Danny says wearily as he walks back into the dining room. “I don’t know what all that hooey was about, but you owe Patsy an apology.”

  Apology, my ass.

  Danny takes his seat at the table and we eat the rest of our meal in silence.

  * * *

  I can’t sleep. Too many thoughts are plaguing me. Gordon hasn’t returned my call, and I worry what that might mean for my job. If he honestly thinks I’m jumping ship, I’m screwed. He’ll give Barry Humphries the whole show and I’ll have to fight tooth and nail to get back on it. I have to talk to him and set things straight.

  When I’m not worrying about my job, my mind circles back to Matt Ryan and our green-belt kiss. What the hell was he thinking? I mean, seriously, I know I am an attractive woman, but come on! I am not irresistible, especially while wearing workout clothes and sweating my ass off. And what was I doing kissing him back? It’s not like I’m in desperate need of sex. In a week, I’ll be gone. He knows that! Maybe that’s what he was banking on. Maybe he thought the two of us could have some fun, no strings, just a bump and grind kind of thing before I fly off into the night. And that would be great. But his kiss—our kiss—didn’t feel like a no-strings kind of thing. It felt totally real and totally right with the promise of something deeper behind it.

  And I absolutely don’t want that! I’ve been avoiding that for fifteen years, for crap’s sake.

  At eleven-thirty, after tossing and turning for an hour, I throw back the covers and emerge from my room. The hallway is dark, but I see the sleeping forms of McKenna and Cera in my niece’s room, their silhouettes softly lit by McKenna’s princess night light.

  I continue toward the living room and before I reach the landing, I hear Danny’s resonating snore. I bite my lip to keep from laughing. Tebow sits on the floor, contentedly playing with his blocks while my brother sits beside him, his head lolling to the side, his mouth hanging open, a single building block in his hand. He is fast asleep.

  Damn it if Patsy wasn’t right about Tebow. I really hate her.

  “Hey pal,” I whisper as I make my way to my nephew. He looks up at me, then hands me a block
.

  “Mmphler,” he announces, and I crouch down beside him and take the block from his hands.

  “Mmphler to you too. What’s this you made?”

  Tebow has unwittingly created a little Stonehenge, and I carefully place the block he gave me next to the last one in the semi-circle. My nephew smiles behind Thomas the Train.

  “Glundimak!”

  “Absolutely,” I agree.

  He cocks his head to the side, then reaches up and pulls out his pacifier. Pointing at me with the plastic nipple, he says, “Mae.”

  I smile and nod. “That’s right. Meg.”

  “Mae,” he repeats, as if cementing it in his brain. “Fuck me, Mae!”

  “Ssh! You’ll wake up your dad!” I make a silly face, and he giggles.

  An enormous yawn escapes him. He sticks his pacifier back in his mouth and gains his feet by first raising his diapered ass in the air and then slowly lifting his torso. He stomps over to me and plops himself down into my lap. Reflexively, I encircle him with my arms and feel him relax against me. I begin to rock him back and forth. I’ve never held a child in my arms like this, but it feels like the right thing to do.

  “What are you doing up so late, little mister—uh, little man? You should be sleeping and dreaming dreams of purple elephants and rainbow waterfalls and candy flowers and whipped cream clouds.” (Don’t ask me where I came up with that, and no, I never dropped acid.)

  He leans his head against my chest and I breathe in his baby scent, which is a combination of dried milk and talcum powder, and not altogether unpleasant. I rest my chin against his blond hair and start to hum the melody of an old nursery rhyme.

  “Hushabye, don’t you cry, go to sleep my little baby/ When you wake you shall have your cake, and all the pretty little horses.”

  His breathing turns deep and rhythmic, and a moment later, his pacifier slips from his mouth and brushes against my arm on its way to the floor.

  Something stirs within me as I continue to rock Tebow. I’m not suddenly overcome with the desire to have a child. But for the first time in my life, I have the barest inkling of how a mom must feel about her child, on a bone-deep level. To my great surprise, this feeling doesn’t fill me with dread.