Something New (9781101612262) Page 23

  “Six-six,” she says reverently. “Two fifty. Solid as a rock. My kind of man.”

  This also surprises me, coming from a woman who is married to a bean pole.

  “It just happened. We were working together on a particularly nasty case, some drugs, some abuse. We just got done removing the kids and placing them in protective custody, and we decided to go out and get ourselves blind drunk. One thing led to another, you know? I rationalized at the time that we were using each other to forget the horror we had to deal with on a daily basis, and that was the truth. But we also wanted each other. Bad.”

  Her eyes focus on me again and she shrugs. “Anyway, it only lasted a little while, and Sidney never found out.”

  “You ended it?”

  She nods, and when she speaks, her tone is bittersweet. “I’ll always regret what I did.”

  “Because of the guilt?” I ask knowingly.

  But she shakes her head and gives me a pointed look. “No, girl. Because until the first time Peter Stormcloud kissed me, I didn’t know what I was missing.”

  • Eighteen •

  I sit in the driver’s seat of Jonah’s Lexus, my hands gripping the steering wheel even though the car is in park, and stare out at the blue water of Sea Garden Marina. I know Mia’s story was a cautionary tale meant to dissuade me from following in her fuchsia-leather-encased footsteps, but it has had the opposite effect on me. Of course, I assured her that I had no intention of meeting Ben Campbell here today, or any day, for that matter. But by the time I closed the door behind her, I had already decided I would come. And not because of the wine, either—unfortunately, right now I’m as sober as a judge.

  I am still in that sketchy state of denial where I have myself convinced that I am not going to do anything I will regret. I have sworn to myself up one side and down the other that I am only here on a reconnaissance mission, to find out exactly what the hell is going on. I am not going to sleep with Ben Campbell. I just want to find out if he wants to sleep with me.

  And if he says yes? my inner voice asks me. What then? But I don’t have an answer.

  I can still leave and no one will be the wiser. Not Ben, whose Land Rover is parked a few spaces over from me. Not Jonah, who called just as I was raiding my newly organized closet for something appropriate to wear to the marina in the middle of March, to tell me that he and the kids had arrived in Arizona safely. Not Jill, who caught me on my cell as I was pulling out of my driveway to invite me over for dinner because she can’t imagine that anyone could enjoy being alone in an empty house. No one would know that I had almost stepped out of the car and into a situation that might dramatically alter the shape of my life. Except me. I would always know that I had come this far, only to turn around and hightail it back to the safety of my comfortable complacent existence.

  I could live with that. It would be far simpler to know that I am a coward than to live with the knowledge that I have done whatever it is I might do if I step outside this car.

  Just as I am turning the key in the ignition, there is a tap-tap on the passenger window. I glance over and behold Ben Campbell peering in at me, a smile of such radiance on his face that I almost have to squint in its glare.

  “You came.” His voice is muffled through the safety glass, but even so, the pleasure that infuses his words is loud and clear.

  I quickly roll down the window and he braces himself against the frame, gazing at me expectantly.

  “I’m not staying,” I tell him, and watch his delighted expression deflate.

  “Why?”

  There are about a thousand reasons why, but looking into Ben’s eyes, I can’t grasp a single one. I just sit there, helpless, white-knuckling the steering wheel. He sighs, then pulls open the car door and folds himself into the passenger seat. He is wearing his Levi’s and a faded hunter green T-shirt with the legend Death Row Iguanas silk-screened across the front. He closes the door and turns to me, and suddenly the interior of the Lexus shrinks to the size of a Smart car. We have been this close, at the sushi bar, but never enclosed, and I can almost feel the air being sucked out through the vents.

  “Why did you come?” he asks quietly.

  Because I currently hate my husband and the feeling is mutual? Because I am tired of my boring life? Because I am sick of always making the right choice and doing the right thing? Because I feel like I could float away in your eyes every time I look into them?

  Because I wanted to come.

  “I don’t know,” I say aloud.

  He nods slowly, thoughtfully. Then he reaches over, gently uncurls my fingers from the steering wheel, and encases my right hand in his left. There is no explosion of light at his touch, but rather a subtle, comforting warmth that slowly eases through my entire body.

  We sit there in silence for a long moment, mindless of the world outside the car. After a while, Ben pulls my hand up and rests it against his chest, and I can feel his heartbeat through his shirt, strong and steady. Then he lifts it to his lips and kisses it tenderly, turns it over and kisses each of my fingertips, then my palm. For a split second, I cannot draw breath, cannot see, cannot feel any other part of my body but the hand he is kissing. I try to recall how long it’s been since my husband engaged in such an intimate act with me, then I quickly banish the thought. Jonah does not belong here in this moment. Even if this is his car.

  When Ben relaxes his grip and releases my hand, an arctic cold sweeps through me. He grasps the door handle and pushes the door open, stretches his long, lean leg toward the pavement. I watch him get out of the Lexus, my heart suddenly pounding in my ears.

  Without saying good-bye, he closes the door and starts to walk away from me, toward the marina, toward his something new.

  Before I can think twice, I swing open the driver’s door with such force I am afraid it will snap off its hinges, and I jump out of the car.

  “I don’t have a wet suit,” I call to him.

  Ben stops in his tracks and slowly turns to me, a grin spreading across his face like the genesis of a brush fire. He places his hands on his hips and cocks his head to the side.

  “That’s okay. I brought a spare. Just in case.”

  I stand in the public bathroom of Pier Three, staring into the full-length faux mirror which looks suspiciously like aluminum foil. My fun house–like reflection is not a pretty sight, as I strongly resemble a giant deformed penguin, shiny black middle protruding over short stumpy legs.

  It was no easy feat squeezing myself into the wet suit, which clearly reads Women’s Size 8 but must have been mismarked because, fuck, it’s tight. I had thought, while squishing down my upper thigh with one hand and yanking up the suit with the other, then sucking in my stomach until I almost passed out in order to coax the stubborn zipper over my abdomen, that the wet suit might have some kind of magical slimming effect on me, that I might even want to invest in one of my own to wear as a kind of industrial Spanx. However, one look in the mirror, distorted as it may be, dispels me of such a ridiculous notion.

  I have a sudden urge to flee but know it would be impossible. Ben had said he’d meet me right outside the bathroom after he finished getting his own wet suit on, and I can hear him already, on the other side of the door, humming an old Eagles tune softly to himself.

  I glance behind me at the far end of the bathroom. Just past the last stall is a window, roughly five feet off the ground. Unfortunately, it is only twelve inches square. Perhaps if I slathered this goddamned wet suit with lard I could manage to squeeze through. But barring the whole grease-and-slide maneuver, I am pretty well stuck. Where the hell is a vat of Crisco when you need it?

  Ah well, I think, squaring my shoulders. Surely I don’t look as bad as the distorted image in front of me would suggest. And anyway, if Ben Campbell finds my body repulsive, it will probably be a blessing in disguise. If he finds me repulsive, he won’t want to touch me or sleep with me or be interested in me on any level. And then I won’t have to make a decision that could rui
n my marriage and force me to take a good hard look at my own character.

  God, I hope I don’t look that bad.

  I grab my shoulder bag from where it hangs on the paper towel crank and pull the bathroom door open. Stepping out, I turn to my right and see Ben leaning against the building, one knee bent, the sole of his foot planted firmly on the wall, beach towel in hand. His wet suit is unzipped and folded over at his waist so that his entire upper body is naked as a newborn. When I say that the sight of this man’s torso causes me to take a step backward, I am not exaggerating. And I am lucky it was only one step, otherwise, I would have ended up in the marina. His chest is golden brown and taut, with a smattering of curly hair that thins out as it makes its way down to those amazing six-pack abs, the ones his white T-shirt only hinted at the day we met.

  At this moment, I wish I were a superhero with the ability to freeze time so that I could reach out and brush my fingertips along the ridges of his stomach, the slight swell of his chest, the ropy curve of his biceps. He is not ripped like a weight lifter, but perfectly proportioned, sinewy and strong, a man who is in shape because he chases bad guys and jumps out of planes, not because he spends hours in a gym. This fact makes him even more appealing.

  Mia’s words ring in my ears. Oh, girl. You in a world of trouble.

  He turns to me, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, and smiles inscrutably. I am painfully self-conscious as he inspects my decidedly unsinewy body.

  “Nina Montrose would look a lot better in this,” I say, trying for humor to cover my insecurity.

  He frowns at me as he pushes himself away from the wall. “If you like that kind of thing, I guess.” He reaches out and touches me on the shoulder, and I can feel the heat of his fingertips through the eighth of an inch of black neoprene. “You look great,” he says. “Come on.”

  After pulling the wet suit over his arms and torso, he guides me back toward the parking lot, then down a sandy path to the kids’ beach, a small alcove of sheltered shore smack-dab in the middle of the marina, where children can play without worrying about waves. There are only about a dozen other people there: a young bronzed couple catching whatever rays the March sun has to offer; a Hispanic mom and dad holding a toddler by the hand between them, lowering her inch by inch until her toes hit the water and she squeals with delight; some teenagers trying their hands, or feet, at stand-up paddleboarding, though they appear to have consumed a few too many beers to really make a go of it. From where I stand I can see that their teeth are chattering despite their wet suits. Not a good sign.

  I follow Ben down the sand to the edge of the water that abuts the pier. There, a skinny, shaggy-haired youth stands waiting for us. He wears happy-face board shorts that ride low along his hips, revealing a striking tan line that makes me think of a black-and-white cookie. On the wooden planking next to him sit two oversized surfboards, one turquoise, the other white, each with a rectangular strip of rubber matting in the center. Leaning against an open crate filled with life preservers are a couple of long paddles.

  “Eric,” Ben calls out as we approach. “This is Ellen.”

  The kid, whom I expect to shrug and mumble Dude, stretches out his hand to me. “Nice to meet you, Ellen.”

  “You, too,” I reply, shaking his hand.

  “Have you ever paddle surfed before?” he asks.

  “Uh, no.”

  “You’re going to love it. It’s a good day for it, too.” He glances up at the sun, which is on its downward journey toward the horizon. “A little cool, but no wind at all.”

  As I watch, the two men haul the boards from the pier to the shallow water. I drop my bag next to Ben’s beach towel and take a step forward, submerging my feet into the freezing surf. Holy shit, it’s cold, I think as I retreat to the safety of the dry sand. No way. No way, no way.

  Eric holds the white board steady against the lazy tide while Ben pushes the turquoise board in my direction. I shake my head slightly as Eric begins to explain the basic concept of paddleboarding.

  “It’s easy peasy lemon-squeezy,” he says, and I can’t help but wonder how recently he graduated from kindergarten. “You just crouch down,” he continues, climbing onto the board to demonstrate, “get your bearings, then stand up.” He springs to his feet with minimal effort, maintaining a light grip on the long paddle as he does.

  “I might have left my bearings at home,” I say, and receive a toothy grin from Ben. Eric looks confused, but he shrugs good-naturedly, then gives us a lesson on how to use the paddle to maneuver.

  “Ladies first,” Ben says, gesturing to the turquoise board.

  This time, there can be no mistaking my head shake, as I probably resemble one of those fembots from The Six Million Dollar Man when they malfunctioned and started to smoke.

  “Maybe I’ll just watch you for a little while.” Which would be even more fun if you pulled your wet suit back down!

  “You don’t go, I don’t go,” he threatens, but I cross my arms over my chest, unconvinced.

  “This is your thing,” I say defiantly. “Not mine.”

  He regards me for a few seconds. “You really don’t want to try this.”

  “I’ve been trying to tell you that all along,” I retort, but I am smiling. “Oh, for God’s sake!” I take a deep breath and stomp toward the turquoise board that Ben holds, ignoring the fact that the water feels like a Slurpee and my innate sense of balance has not been tested for three decades, since I placed second in the balance beam competition at the Grady Junior High Gymnastics Meet. I was so excited to have won a silver medal that I did a spontaneous back handspring into the wooden bleachers that lined the gymnasium and tore my rotator cuff. I didn’t even know what a rotator cuff was, aside from the fact that it hurt like a son of a bitch, but I did know that it was the end of my dreams of becoming the next Nadia Comaneci, which was actually just fine with me because I was allowed to start eating dessert again.

  The water reaches my knees as I drag the board away from Ben and set myself gingerly upon it. It rocks to one side, then the other before I can steady it. Not for the first time in the past five minutes, I wonder what the hell I am doing here. I could be home watching a movie on the big screen, or playing the Wii (I love the tennis game), or drinking a dirty vodka martini with the bleu cheese–stuffed olives I keep hidden in the outside fridge. Instead, I am lying on a polyurethane-and-fiberglass harbinger of doom, about to make an ass of myself.

  Much to my relief, Ben is not watching me as I try to keep the board level enough to get into a crouch. He has waded over to his board and has begun the arduous process of getting to his own feet. And although he starts a few seconds after me, when I glance at him, he is already standing. I give myself a little pep talk, then manage to push myself to my feet. The board wobbles beneath me for a precarious moment, and I am certain I am about to plunge into the frigid sea, but I quickly compensate, and I realize that if I tighten my thighs, and glutes, and calves, and my feet and toes, I can keep the board static. (I won’t be able to walk tomorrow for all the stress I am putting on my legs, but at least I won’t freeze my ass off.) Carefully, I reach down and pick up the paddle, just as Ben makes his way over to me.

  “Not too hard, huh?” he asks. The gleeful smile that radiates from his handsome face instantly erases the lines of tension around his eyes and mouth and makes him look about twelve.

  “Not at all,” I reply. As long as I keep every muscle from my ass to my toenails clenched tighter than a drum.

  “Hey,” Eric calls to us. I turn my head and forget to stay taut, causing my board to dip to the right. I immediately squeeze my butt cheeks together and regain control. But I don’t make the mistake of turning back to Eric again. He’ll just have to talk to the back of my head. Which he does.

  “Don’t go past the buoys,” he instructs. “Not too many boats coming and going right now, but there’s a few. The wake’s not too good for beginners.”

  Since I am not facing him, I can’t be sure, bu
t it sounds like he is grinning when he says this. Once again, not a good sign.

  I spend a few minutes getting the feel of the board and the paddle in my hands, slicing the oar through the water, first on my left, then on my right, noting that now my upper body is getting in on the action, from my hands all the way up my arms and to my chest. I won’t be able to move at all tomorrow, which is fine, because my kids’ closets can wait one more day. As I start to pick up speed, I discover that Eric was right. It is, indeed, easy peasy lemon-squeezy. Ben is a few yards ahead of me, looking as though he has been doing this his whole life, making powerful cuts in the water that thrust his board forward at a hasty clip. He turns back to me, smiling.

  “This is good, right?” he says, and I laugh my response. Because it is good. I am doing something I have never dreamed of doing; I’m standing on a surfboard in the marina, my whole body straining, feeling wonderfully alive and in the moment. My thoughts have taken a breather, and the only work my brain is doing is sending messages to all of my muscle groups, telling them what they need to do to keep me upright and on the board. It is such a peaceful state, so Zen-like, and so unfamiliar to me that I want to bottle it and store it up for some future overthinking emergency.

  Ben gestures with his head toward the other side of the small cove, where the marina is lined with million-dollar houses built so close together that you can shake hands with your neighbor through your kitchen windows. I nod and follow him.

  The board glides over the water, the sun shimmers on the surface, an ever-changing pattern of light on the dark turquoise quilt. My heart pounds and my muscles strain with each stroke. I am exhilarated. A single image flashes briefly across the blank canvas of my mind, of me gazing at my reflection this morning. I liked the woman I saw. And although, at this moment, I have no mirror to look into, I like her even more now.