The One That Got Away (8 page)

Nicole told me I was a weirdo when she discovered that I'd never given any particular thought to picturing the features and personalities of my unborn children. Noah is the one who likes to do that. For me, I fail to see the point in fantasizing about who our kids will be, because I know perfectly well that they will turn out completely different than I expect. When I do think about them, all I see are images of Noah and me from childhood photos: a sweet boy with freckles, a spiky brown mop-top, and blue-green eyes sparking with sunlight; a skinny-limbed imp with messy toffee-colored braids and a devilish, gap-toothed grin.

I do have my daughter's name picked out, though. Have known it for years. She'll be named for my mother, and the hills that nurtured her: sweet little Virginia Leigh.

“I wish you would spend more time at home, kid,” John says, reaching over to tug gently on my ponytail. “Except for the Christmas concerts, you haven't been home in so long. You've never even brought Mr. Harlow. You know, Dave and Ellie and everybody, they always ask about you.”

“That's so kind of them.”

“They'd like to see you.
I'd
like to see you more. I miss my girl.”

I lean against him, and he wraps an arm around my shoulders. He smells cinnamony, like original-flavor Old Spice, the way he always has. “I miss you too.”

“Why don't you come in the fall? You used to love the leaves so much.”

At his words, I remember an amber-gold November morning when I was about eight. My mom had recruited me to help her clear up the confetti of leaves that spangled our lawn, so we spent a good two hours raking them into droopy mounds that straggled
across the yard like a regiment of drunks. She approached the first mound with a garbage bag at the ready, but then she paused. And then, with a whoop, she threw herself down into the soft, yielding pile, seized two handfuls of leaves, and flung them into the air. I shrieked and did the same. We repeated the performance in one pile after another, wiggling in the leaves and tossing them all around us. I remember the rich, dusty smell of the leaves, the way they crunched in my fists. And I remember her face, glazed with sunlight, laughing up into the sky.

“I can't,” I whisper to John. “I'm sorry.”

A few days later, I am watering my petunias in the slightly less scorching air that settles in after sundown—and feeling guilty for not gardening with a more drought-friendly plant—when I get a call from my client Jamie, the owner of Balm spa.

“Sarina Sarina guess what?!?” she gasps when I pick up the phone.

“Jamie Jamie WHAT?!?” I gasp back. I have always thought she is a little excitable for someone who makes her living relaxing other people.

“It's done—it's final—I have investors!”

“Holy crap, that's fantastic news! Congratulations!” I turn off the hose and sit down on the dry, prickly grass so I can concentrate on what she's telling me.

She goes on to explain that they are close to signing leases on two new locations, in Dallas and Houston. “I want you to go up there, check out the spaces, take photos. Do whatever it is that you do. The investors want to get proposals from a couple other architects as well, but whatever. You'll rock their worlds. Just go do your thing.”

“Jamie! That's amazing! Are you trying to take this thing national?”

“That's the plan, chica! First we conquer Texas, then New Orleans, then Atlanta…then we break out of the region and start opening in all the big daddy cities. And believe me, I won't forget that you knew me when.”

I am flabbergasted. For once, she's got every right to be as breathless as she sounds. I'd figured she was doing well after she bought the space next door to her current location in order to expand, but investors, two new locations, a nationwide business plan—this is big news. For me as well as her. This is a whopper of a commission: getting hired as project architect for a fast-growing spa chain is going to be the job that finally turns me from a one-woman operation into a bona fide company. I'm going to need
staff
. I picture a serious-faced young woman, at an overloaded desk in an actual office space, pleading into her phone: “I need these drawings plotted on twenty-four by thirty-six, ASAP. My boss has a meeting with the client in two hours.”

My boss
.

I
really
like the sound of that.

Being naked under a hotel robe is one of life's finer pleasures. The unaccustomed weight of the dense, fluffy cotton on your body, the subtle naughtiness of having nothing on underneath a garment that can be removed with a single strong tug.

Not that there's anyone around to tug my robe off right now. I'm lolling on my bed at Jamie's investor's Dallas hotel, in the middle of a two-day trip to photograph and measure her new spa spaces here and in Houston. Noah was supposed to Skype me at 10:30, but he's late. I've been dying all day to fill him in on the new Balm site, which is even better than I'd hoped when Jamie told me about it a few weeks back, but so far all I've done since dinner is give John a webcam tour of my swanky hotel room and paint my toes—bright grass green, the signature color of Balm's logo.

Finally, at 11:12, I hear the familiar
beep-boop
noise of the Skype call coming through on my computer. Noah is propped against the leather headboard of his bed in Buenos Aires, eyes blurry with fatigue. I hate seeing him so tired all the time. “Ree, where
are
you?” He squints over my shoulder at the unfamiliar surroundings.

“I'm in Dallas. For the site visit? For Balm?”

“Oh, right. I guess I thought you would just come home afterward,” he says vaguely.

“No, 'cause I'm going to Houston tomorrow to look at
that
site,” I say. “Remember?”

Plainly, he doesn't. I smother my irritation and continue. “Well, anyway, the Dallas site is going to be amazing.”

“Yeah?” He raises his eyebrows encouragingly, which I think of as his “architecture face”—the unconvincing expression of interest that he gets whenever I try to talk to him about the technical aspects of my job. He genuinely wants to be interested, I know he does. But my descriptions of spaces, floor plans, even sketches are meaningless to him, because he can't visualize what the finished result will look like. Once something is built, he is proud and impressed; he has an endearing habit of bringing his friends and co-workers to Albion and Clementine to show off what I do for a living (apparently having an architect for a girlfriend is considered cool and artsy in his circle). But anything less than a finished product just bores him.

With that in mind, I keep my narration brief, concentrating on the aspects I know he will relate to, like the location.

“Wow. She can afford McKinney Avenue?” he says.

“Yeah, they want hip, but visible. The Houston location is in the same kind of neighborhood. These new sites need to be nice, but keep the feel of the original, and they've got to reflect the brand she's developing. High-end but natural, herbal, all that stuff.”

“Right. You always smell like mint from that shampoo that she comps you. I miss that smell,” he says.

“I'll send you a bottle,” I promise. “Actually,” I add, my smile slipping sideways, “maybe I should send you a bottle of the lotion, too.”

It takes him a second to get it. Then he slides me a slow, dirty grin. “Damn straight you should.”

“Thank god I finally get to see you in a few weeks,” I say. “I don't think you should make any plans for while you're here; I'm not letting you out of my bedroom.”

He scratches his head. “Actually, I was thinking we could head up to Mom and Dad's place at Horseshoe Bay for the weekend. We can have the place to ourselves for a couple days, then they'll come up on the Friday evening. How does that sound?”

It sounds…like not quite the way I wanted to spend the few short days of his visit. Noah's parents are lovely and sweet and have never been less than welcoming. His mother in particular has always made an effort toward me: it's an instinct shared by several ladies of a motherish age whom I've known over the years. But her kindness has never altered the basic fact that she and I have little in common besides her son. She is as demure and decorous as her Wedgwood china service.

At our first meeting, she nervously inquired whether my tiny diamond nose piercing had some particular significance. I explained that its only “particular significance” came from having been eighteen years old, visiting New York's Lower East Side for the first time, and trying to impress my poser artist boyfriend with my willingness to do adventurous things to my body. I didn't say it to shock her, I was just answering the question honestly; but after that it became apparent that I would need to Stepfordize myself a little in Noah's parents' company. It drains me of energy along with color. But Noah hasn't seen his parents since last Christmas, so it wouldn't be fair of me to deny him their company on this visit. No matter how much I might want to.

By the end of August, Austin hasn't had a respite from the blistering heat in weeks, leaving me and everyone else cranky and short-tempered. Nicole, housebound with an insomniac infant, has
been too hassled and stressed to hang out, and Danny just passed the nine-month anniversary of his celibacy initiative. When I asked him if he'd start to take on the smooth contours of a Ken doll below the waist if he managed to make it a full year, his only response was to ostentatiously rub one eye with his middle finger. And Eamon, who's been traveling constantly for the last month and a half, has been torturing me with requests for near-daily updates on the construction progress, complete with site photos and Skype conferences.

However, I've been taking grim satisfaction in the knowledge that I was right about visiting Noah. When I'm not working on Eamon's project, I'm up to my eyeballs in work for Balm—both the new construction at the Austin location and developing my ideas for Dallas and Houston. According to Jamie, the investors want to see presentations at the end of September. I have to give them enough of a taste to sell my designs, but not so much that I hand them a completed project. And although, as the architect for the original Balm space, I know it's my job to lose, I still want to knock the presentation out of the park. That means not just hitting them with shock and awe and a bunch of pretty drawings, but knowing the answer to every question they're going to ask, before they ask it. Which means lots of late nights fueled by coffee.

But today, in one more hour, I am on vacation. Noah is coming home tomorrow for the long Labor Day weekend, and I'm so excited to see him that I haven't been able to concentrate for days. I have cleared most of today so I can devote it to cleaning, grooming, sprucing. Both my house and my person. The last thing I have to do before I'm in the clear is meet Eamon to walk through his house. He just got back from Dubai last night, but he's been so anxious to see the progress that I'm surprised he didn't have me there at six o'clock in the morning. I've been both dreading and looking forward to his return; dreading it, I suppose, because I
am
looking forward to it.

When I arrive, he's leaning against one of the columns on the front porch, his long legs crossed at the ankle. He breaks into a grin as soon as he spots me, and, helplessly, I feel an answering spark of happiness flare inside me. He is offensively tan, and he looks so damn good I want to bite him. Meanwhile, I'm sweating like a whore in church, as John would say. Back home, this time of year is when we'd start getting those first crisp days that promised cooler air to follow, but that won't happen in Austin for weeks. I brush my bangs off my damp forehead and surreptitiously flutter my T-shirt in a vain attempt to dry off my skin.

“Where you been, Roy?” I say when I reach the porch. Casually. Like I haven't missed him at all.

Two seconds later, I'm engulfed in a hug. For a second I freeze, afraid to put my hands on any part of him, as if he will somehow sense how attracted to him I am. I settle for the backs of his arms. Even those feel good, though; there's no doubt he's filled out in the last few years. In the good way, not the donut way. Fuck.

“Hi,” he says happily, obliviously, when he releases me.

“Um, hi,” I say, struggling. “How the hell are you so tan? You're Irish, for god's sake. It's indecent. Show some respect for your heritage.”

He grins. “My mom's Lebanese. A few days in the sun and I get unpopular at airport security.”

That explains it; I've never met anybody Irish who came in a shade darker than moonglow. Suddenly, I remember the tan line at his hips, years ago. Remember skimming my thumbs over it. Fuuuuck.

“Must be nice,” I mutter.

“I like your skin,” he says.

“Oh. Uh, thanks.”
Stop complimenting me. Stop being happy to see me. Stop making me wonder if you still think I'm pretty
. “By the way, why are you standing out here waiting for me? I
would have thought you'd be inside already. Actually, I would have thought you'd have been here at six in the morning.”

He scratches his chin with studied nonchalance. “I stopped by last night before I went home.”

I shake my head and open the door.

It actually turns out to be a good thing that he couldn't restrain himself from stopping by yesterday; he's had time to process the initial surprise and excitement. But there's no doubt he's pleased—the crew has made a lot of progress since he left town, thanks to my relentless whip cracking. Construction is, so far, right on schedule.

“So what're you up to this weekend?” he asks as we walk back to our cars. “Anything good?”

“Noah's coming tomorrow!” I tell him, beaming. Less than twenty-four hours now.

“That's right.” He leans one elbow on the side of his Jeep (a newer, cleaner version of the one he had in college). “Do you have anything special planned?”

I explain to him about Noah's parents' place.

“That sounds like fun. You'll be back for the Labor Day barbecue, though, right?”

I shake my head. Danny has been planning the party for weeks, and it kills me to miss it. “Wish we could, but we're planning on spending that day up there. Maybe we'll catch the tail end if we're lucky.”

“Damn. You're missing a hell of a party,” he says.

“Ugh, don't rub it in,” I groan, and immediately feel disloyal to Noah for even alluding to the fact that Horseshoe Bay isn't my first choice.

“Do you not get along with his family?”

“No, no, I do. They're wonderful people. Just…different. You know what I mean?”

“I do know,” he says. “My ex's dad is the offensive coordinator for the New York Giants.” I must be giving him an “…and?” face, because he continues. “Mine is an insurance salesman. And my mom's an Arabic translator for the State Department. Oh, and then there was the fact that tan or no tan, I was still never going to be black, so…yeah.”

I offer him a solemn fist bump.

“Well, have fun. We'll miss you,” he says, and climbs into the Jeep.

I'm still musing over his story as I drive home. The thought of anyone's parents not enthusiastically welcoming Eamon into their family is frankly a little ludicrous. And the fact that it so plainly still bothers him is, well…it's almost enough to make me jealous, if I were a jealous kind of girl.

That night, I lie awake, imagining my reunion with Noah. I am so sex-starved that I'm going to have a hard time keeping my hands off him until we're home from the airport. I picture us, stumbling into the house like people do in romantic comedies, bumping into furniture, shedding clothes without stopping to look at what we've uncovered. He hustles me up the stairs and we collapse, laughing and breathless, on the bed. My imagination runs through round one and—what the hell, it is a fantasy—round two, but for once, I don't reach for my vibrator; I'm saving myself for the touch of an actual human being.
Finally
. He has historically been squeamish about having sex in his parents' house, but under the circumstances he is just going to have to learn to cope.

As I slip toward sleep, I embark upon round number three. It's late at night, and I'm combing the sex tangles out of my hair in front of the bathroom mirror when he comes up behind me. He slips his arms around my waist and pulls me back against him;
then he brushes my hair away from my shoulder so he can kiss me there. I remember the way his lips clung to my skin, the warmth of his chest against my naked back, the way—

Fuck! I snap upright in bed, heart pumping. That wasn't a fantasy, it was a memory. Of
Eamon
. Burning with shame, I cover my face with my hands, even though I'm alone in my room in the dark. I remember reading in
Cosmo
once that lots of guys think about other women when they're having sex with their girlfriends; apparently it's like a highlight reel of all their favorite encounters that plays in front of their eyes whenever they get busy with someone. I have never done this—and I promise myself now that I never will—but pulling up a memory of Eamon when I am trying to think about Noah feels almost as bad. There's no way around the fact that I had an intense physical chemistry with Eamon that Noah and I have never quite matched. But if you gave me the choice between vanilla sex with Noah and head-spinning sex with Eamon, I would choose Noah every single time, because he would have love in his face and in his hands. And he'd be there, giving me the one unburned bacon strip, the next morning.