Reckless (8 page)

M
aren

“
W
hat’s your last name
, anyway?” I’m lying in bed Tuesday night, covers pulled up to my chin and phone pressed against my ear. It’s a struggle to stay awake. I’ve clicked off the bedside lamp, and the TV flickers against the wall.

“Amato,” Dante answers. “And yours is Greene, correct? With an ‘e’ on the end?”

“How’d you know?”

“At the ER last weekend, you wrote down your son’s name,” he reminds me.

“Oh. Right.”

“Are you from Seattle?” he asks.

We’ve been on the phone maybe five minutes so far, and he has yet to make any kind of sexual reference. Instead he’s been hurling question after question at me, like he’s interviewing me for a magazine article.

“Miami born and raised,” I say. “My father was a Cuban immigrant, and my mother’s Norwegian. You?”

“I’m from New Jersey. Born in Ohio though. We moved after my father died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Your father.”

“It’s all right. I barely remember him. Think I was nine or so when he passed. He liked to drink and beat up on my mom, so we don’t really try to memorialize him more than we have to.”

“You have siblings?” I ask. It hits me that Dante’s more than a handsome face attached to an Adonis body. He has a heart and a past and a history and family and likes and dislikes. He’s humanizing right before my very eyes.

“Four brothers,” he says.

“Your poor mother.”

Dante laughs. This feels like a date. A
good
date.

“I know, right?” he asks. “You have any brothers or sisters?”

“Only child,” I say.

“What brought you here? Seattle’s a long way from Miami.”

“Marriage. My ex’s family is from here, so this is where we settled after college. It’s not so bad. I don’t miss the heat from back home, and I actually really love the rain. It’s peaceful here. And evergreen. And the Pacific is beautiful, even with the fog and mist.” I sigh, wondering if he can hear the smile in my voice. “What about you? What brought you here?”

“I went to Oregon State on a full ride academic scholarship,” he says. “Graduated with a degree in computer science. Had my sights set on Silicon Valley until I was offered a job in Seattle with some start up company. Developed some apps on my own, working on the side, and then started my own tech outfit.”

“So that’s what you do? You make apps?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Basically.”

“Huh.” I roll to my side, phone still pressed against my cheek. The Adonis has a brain. That’s . . . really sexy.

“Huh, what?” he asks. “What does that mean.”

“You’re smart,” I say. “I like that.”

I hear him laugh slightly, blowing air into the phone like he’s laughing through his nose.

“Does that surprise you?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say. “If I’m being honest, I thought you were just some silver-spooned, jet-setting playboy, spoiled by wealth and living in the lap of luxury.”

“In Kansas City,” he adds. “With a fiancée.”

“Right, right.”

“Do you give everyone you meet your own version of their backstory?”

“Pretty much,” I say. “I’ve done it as long as I can remember.”

“Ever heard of getting to know someone?” he teases.

“Clearly. Isn’t that what we’re doing here?” I ask. “You’re sly by the way. This is sneaky, this phone date thing you’re doing.”

“This isn’t a date,” he says. “A real date would be if I picked you up on a Friday night. I’d be wearing a suit and you’d be wearing a little black dress that hugs you in all the right places. I’d open the car door for you, drive you to a cozy little restaurant, one with fresh flowers and candles on the table, and I wouldn’t be able to take my eyes off you all night. We’d laugh and talk, and afterwards, when we’re leaving the restaurant, I’d pull you against me, press you against the outside of the building, cup your face, and kiss you under the midnight sky.”

There’s a tightness in my chest that creeps up my neck.

No one’s ever taken me on a date like that.

Not even Nathan.

He was never romantic or sweet. His idea of a Friday night with me was jeans and a polo and a couple of beers at a sports bar just before whisking me away to the latest CGI blockbuster at the local movie theater.

Despite being a successful attorney and coming from money, Nathan was notoriously low-key, unimaginative, and exceptionally unromantic.

“Would you get me flowers?” I ask, eyes watering. I had no idea his little story would turn me into a near weeping mess, but thank God he can’t see me. I had no idea it was this easy to miss something I’ve never experienced.

“Yes,” he says. “But not roses. Roses are too common. I’d get you blue hydrangeas. They’re classy and different. Like you.”

I bite my trembling lip and then laugh quietly at myself. I’m not an emotional person. I’m not easily worked up. This is ridiculous.

Hormones.

I must be PMSing.

That’s the only logical explanation here.

“Can I take you on a date, Maren?” he asks. “A real date. You and me. Flowers. Dinner. Anything you want to do?”

My response gets caught in the back of my throat. I wasn’t expecting that.

Exhaling into the phone, I say, “Fine.”

I guess one date couldn’t hurt. And it’s not like I have to sleep with him.

“This Friday?” he asks. “I can pick you up at eight.”

“I have my boys.”

“Saturday?”

“Yeah.” I nod even though he can’t see me. “Saturday works.”

“Goodnight, Maren,” he says.

“Goodnight.”

Sitting up, I place my phone to the side and yank my top dresser drawer open, reaching for a notebook and a pen to make a To-Do list.

H
air cut
. . . trim?

Buy a little black dress!

New lipstick. Bright pink. Chanel. Might keep him from kissing me. Or me from kissing him.

Clean the house in case he comes to the door!

I
read
over my list once more, turn out the light, and climb under the covers again.

It doesn’t feel real, and I can’t believe I agreed to a date, but it’s happening.

And it’s kind of terrifying in the most wonderful of ways.

ARE YOU EXCITED FOR SATURDAY? BECAUSE YOU SHOULD BE EXCITED FOR SATURDAY, Dante texts me Wednesday afternoon.

Smirking, I hit him back almost instantaneously, I’M AT WORK. YOU’RE GOING TO GET ME IN TROUBLE. And then I follow up with another, BUT YES. I’M SLIGHTLY EXCITED.

He sends one back. WHAT TIME DO YOU TAKE LUNCH?

I ALREADY HAD LUNCH TODAY. IF YOU’RE TRYING TO SQUEEZE A PRE-DATE DATE OUT OF ME, IT’S NOT GOING TO HAPPEN. I’M GIVING YOU SATURDAY. DON’T PUSH IT.

YOU KNOW IT’S ONLY A MATTER OF TIME BEFORE WE RUN INTO EACH OTHER. DOWNTOWN SEATTLE’S BIG, BUT IT’S NOT THAT BIG.

Keegan struts past my desk, her eyes landing on the stack of files on my desk.

“Busy, busy,” she says. I’m not sure whether she’s being sarcastic or speaking for the sake of speaking. Her phone is plastered against the side of her face. She’s not really paying much attention to me anyway, so I think I’m relatively safe here.

My hand steadies on my phone, holding it beneath my desk where I can’t see it. I’m just weeks into this job. I can’t come off as a slacker despite the fact that my boss is, indeed, the very definition of one.

Buzz, buzz.

I glance down. He’s sent me another text that simply says, MAREN.

I can’t keep responding. I told him I was working. He’ll have to wait.

Buzz, buzz.

He sends another, and I laugh quietly through my nose. I bet he thinks I’m playing hard to get, and I bet it drives him wild.

Good.

Serves him right.

IF YOU DON’T RESPOND IN FIVE SECONDS, I’M SENDING YOU A DICK PIC. NOT EVEN JOKING.

Oh, god.

“I’m taking a late lunch,” Keegan announces, passing by my desk once more, this time with her bag slung over her right shoulder. It’s two o’clock. And I could’ve sworn she’s already taken lunch. But I won’t question her.

“Have a good one,” I say, giving her a cat-who-ate-the-canary smile that goes straight over her head.

Buzz, buzz.

Here it is.

I’m afraid to look.

But I kind of want to look . . .

I think I
need
to look.

For science.

Pulling in a deep breath, I yank my phone from under my desktop and hold it up . . .

. . . and I’m presented with what appears to be a screenshot of Richard Nixon that’s captioned with the words “
Tricky Dick
.”

That’s
his “dick pic.”

As cheesy as it is, I can’t help but laugh.

Handsome, intelligent,
and
a sense of humor.

There’s got to be something wrong with him. There’s no way someone like this exists without a few major flaws beneath the surface.

Sinking back in my chair, I struggle to find the perfect response.

And then it dawns on me.

I do a quick Google Images search for a picture of a cat, screenshot it, and send it back.

If he can send me a “Dick pic,” then I can send him a picture of my “pussy.”

My phone rings a moment later. I close the office door just before answering.

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” I ask, grinning ear to ear.

“Not clever,” he says. “Smart. Sending actual dick pics is a felony in most states, and I’m too pretty for jail. Besides, it worked. It got your attention. I don’t like to be ignored, Maren.”

“I wasn’t ignoring you. My boss was in the room. I’m trying to not get in trouble.”

“Ah. Your boss sounds like a total asshole. What does he pay you? You should come work for me.”

“My boss is a
lovely
twenty-four-year-old young lady,” I say. “Her hobbies include dating and dating. She really, really,
really
wants to be a mom. Like as soon as humanly possible.”

He chuckles.

“She also wants to hook me up with her dad, because she thinks I’d be a kickass stepmom.”

Dante makes a gurgling, spitting sound, as if he’s choking on a drink. “Oh, god. We have to get you out of there.”

I chuckle, swiveling in my chair and enjoying the break from scanning and filing.

“Don’t do it though,” he says. “Don’t hook up with your boss’ dad.”

“And why not?”

“Because you’re dating me.”

“I’m not
dating
you. I’m going on
a
date with you. There’s a difference.”

“So you’re saying you want to play the field?” He exhales into the phone. “See, that’s going to be a problem for me because I’ve never been good at sharing.”

“I wasn’t aware that when I agreed to let you take me out, that I was taking myself off the market.”

“You’re not off the market yet,” he says. “But you will be. Soon.”

“Has anyone ever told you you’re crazy? Like certifiably insane.”

“I’m not crazy,” he says. “Just confident.”

M
aren

“
M
om
, why are you smiling so much?” Beck asks, glancing up from his homework Wednesday night.

“Yeah,” Dash adds. “You’ve been walking around with a big grin on your face ever since you got home. What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.” I make myself a mug of chamomile tea and take a seat between the two of them. Cupping my hands around the warm ceramic mug, I bring it to my lips to hide my smile.

I can’t remember the last time I smiled this much in one day. It’s almost like I have a medical problem or something.

This can’t be normal.

This can’t be healthy.

Am I going insane?

Am I going to have to be committed?

Oh, god. I can’t stop.

I look like a crazy person, and even my kids are picking up on it.

“Whatever it is, I’m glad you’re happy, Mom,” Dash says, sounding much older than his twelve years. “Dad’s really happy, and you should be too.”

I neglect to tell them that the reason their dad is so happy probably has more to do with the fact that he’s getting regular sex from a girl half his age, and that makes him feel more like a man and less like a balding, pot-bellied, middle-aged attorney with a five-inch penis.

Something about that just wouldn’t make for appropriate, child-friendly conversation, and I’m not willing to scar them for life.

“How is your father these days?” I ask, genuinely curious since I really only see him in passing, when the kids are being dropped off or picked up. “What’s he up to? Still golfing a lot? Has he gone to see Nana and Papa recently? I do miss your grandparents. How are they?”

“Why do grownups ask so many questions?” Beck answers my question with one of his own.

“What do you mean, baby?” I turn myself toward him.

“Dad’s always asking about you when Lauren’s not around,” Dash says. “And when Dad’s not around, Lauren’s always asking about you.”

Sitting up straight, I splay my fingers across my chest in shock. “Wait, what? What kinds of questions do they ask?”

I see Beck shoot Dash a look, and they both roll their eyes like I’m just another grownup asking a grownup question.

“Lauren always asks what kind of food you cook us at home. Where you like to shop. How you do certain things, like what way you fold clothes and stuff,” Dash says.

“That’s really strange,” I say, oddly flattered and simultaneously creeped out. “Why would she want to know those things?”

“Because she wants to do them better than you,” Dash says.

Laughing, I shake my head. “That makes no sense. There’s no reason for her to need to compete with me for anything.”

“Dad always tells her she’s doing stuff wrong,” Beck says. “He always says, ‘Maren did it this way,’ or ‘That’s not how Maren used to do it.’”

“Well, that’s not very nice of him.” I take a sip of tea, hiding my smug smile. This makes me ridiculously happy, and I’m so going to hell for it, but I don’t care.

Karma.

“I don’t understand why she cares so much,” I say. “If she’s really that curious about me, she should just meet me instead of avoiding me every chance she gets. I mean, she’s living with your father. We’re bound to run into each other at some point.”

“Dad doesn’t want you to be around Lauren,” Beck says. “I overheard them talking about it last week. He thinks it would be too weird.”

I roll my eyes and scoff. Of course he thinks it would be too weird. He was fucking the two of us at the same time for God knows how long. Seeing us together, in the same room, would make
him
feel uncomfortable, and everybody knows the world revolves around Nathan Greene.

“Anyway,” I say, waving my hand in the air. I don’t want to drag these kids through anymore of this adult nonsense. “How were your days? What’d you learn about at school today? Beck, what kind of homework are you working on?”

The boys gladly accept my conversation redirection, Beck rambling on about dinosaurs and Dash interrupting to tell me his ankle is feeling better and he didn’t even need crutches after fifth period today.

I’m glued to their sides the rest of the night, giving them my undivided attention until it’s time for them to wash up for bed. Dash won’t let me tuck him in anymore, but Beck will. I wait until he’s changed and under the covers before sneaking in and perching on the edge of his bed.

I run my fingers through his feathery, coffee-brown hair and press my lips against his smooth forehead.

My baby.

“How are you doing, Beck?” I ask, head tilted.

He gives me a crazy look, eyes darting from side to side.

“I’m o . . . okay, Mom. Why?”

“Just making sure you’re hanging in there. You two have been through a lot of changes this year,” I say. “I just want you to know you can always tell me anything you need. If anything bothers you or if you’re sad or unhappy, I want you to tell me right away, okay?”

Beck nods.

“I’m fine, Mom.”

“Promise?”

He nods again, smiling his gap-toothed grin.

“You and your brother will always come first,” I say. “I want you to know that. You’ll always be my number ones. Equally. Forever. Nothing will ever change that.”

“Love you, Mom.”

“Love you too.”

I rise from his bed and reach for his lamp.

“Mom?” he asks.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Do you think you’ll ever get married again?” Beck’s dark brows are lifted. I can’t get a read on him, and I don’t know where he’s going with this.

“Why do you ask?”

“I think you should,” he says. “Dad said he’s going to ask Lauren to marry him soon. I just don’t want you to be lonely.”

“I’m not lonely, sweetheart,” I say with tenderness. “I have you. And Dash.”

“But we’re going to grow up, right? And we’re going to move out and get married, right?”

“Right.”

“And you’re going to be all alone,” he says.

“I’ll be okay,” I assure him.

“I guess I could stay with you. I don’t have to go to college. I can just live here, that way you’re not alone.” His expression is serious, and I know he means every word of his proposal. For a flash of a second, I’m picturing a thirty-year-old Beck still living at home, his days filled with video games and takeout pizza.

“No,” I say. “No, no, no. That won’t be necessary.”

Beck pulls the covers to his chin and smirks, his little button nose wrinkling.

I blow him a kiss and close the door behind me, checking on Dash on my way back to my room. He’s lying in bed, reading, his book light illuminating his angled features. Every time I look at him, he looks older than the time before.

“Don’t stay up too late,” I whisper from my side of the door.

He’s so engrossed in his library book he doesn’t hear me, so I take advantage of that and watch him a few seconds longer.

By the time I’m in bed myself, I find a moment to check my phone. Saige messaged me earlier about meeting for lunch again, and Tiffin wanted to know if Beck could come over this Friday to hang out with Liam after school. There’s another message from my mom, a photo of her and my dad on vacation in Jamaica.

I fire back messages, one by one, and clear them out. Disappointment trickles over me when I realize Dante isn’t bothering me tonight.

I secretly enjoy it when he bothers me.

Re-reading our messages from earlier, I fall asleep with a perma-smile on my face.

* * *

“
Y
ou’re getting waxed
, right?” Saige asks me in between crunches Thursday morning. It’s six in the morning and Axel stands before us, arms crossed as he counts reps. I should’ve waited until after our workout before telling her about my date this Saturday with Dante.

“What? No,” I say, fighting through the burn in my abs. “There’s no point. I’m not sleeping with him.”

“Yes you are,” she says without missing a beat.

“No. I’m not.”

“You
so
are
.
”

“Ladies,” Axel barks. “We only have an hour. Let’s make it count.”

“
Only
an hour?” Saige grunts under her breath.

“You didn’t have to come,” I tell her. “For someone who hates working out, you’re sure insistent on joining me for these sessions.”

Axel’s back is to us for a second as he says something to another trainer who passes by.

“Hell, if I could afford it, I’d have him train me every day of the week,” she says. “He’s so fucking hot.”

I swat her and quickly replace my hand behind my head before he sees.

“What?” she wrinkles her nose. “I may be married, but I’m not dead. I can look as long as I don’t touch, but anyway, let’s get back to this Brazilian wax you’re going to get.”

Rolling my eyes, I collapse onto my mat when I hear Axel get to thirty. My abs are on fire and we’ve only begun.

“Twenty seconds, then we’re at it again, ladies,” he says, voice deep in his barrel chest. He turns away again, chatting to a girl who struts by in expensive yoga pants and a hot pink bra who looks young enough to have never lived a day in her life without internet access.

“I’m not getting waxed,” I say. “And I’m not screwing him anyway, so this conversation is pointless.”

“But you don’t know that. You never know what’s going to happen. One thing always leads to another,” she says. “And guys like Dante appreciate some grooming down there. They like to see what they’re working with. Men are very visual.”

“Stop.” I swat at her once more as Axel points to the floor and tells us to get ready to begin again.

“I’ll make you an appointment with my girl,” she whispers.

“No thanks.”

Saige’s lips twist into a stifled smirk. I know her. She’s going to push and prod until I cave in and next thing I know, I’ll be checking in for my wax appointment and lying spread eagle on some table in some woman’s waxing studio.

I never should’ve said anything to Saige, at least not yet. I guess I let my excitement get the best of me . . .

And yeah, I’m shockingly excited about this date.

Nervous and terrified too.

But mostly excited.

* * *

I
t’s half
past seven Saturday night and already I’ve peed eleven times today. My stomach rumbles, begging me to feed it, but we’re doing out to dinner soon, and besides, I haven’t been able to eat more than a handful of crackers and a mug of Earl Grey tea. My stomach has been tied in knots all day, my heart nearly arrhythmic every time I think too long about the reality of this situation.

All week I’ve been excited for my date with Dante, but tonight, as I’m less than an hour from seeing his face at my door, I’m having some seriously deep reservations.

What the hell am I doing?

We’re completely mismatched. Our priorities couldn’t possibly be any different. He’s this suave, successful, ridiculously attractive twenty-seven-year-old living his prime years one carefree day at a time, and I’m a thirty-something single mom whose hobbies include list making . . . and list making.

I’m fooling myself if I think this man actually wants to date me for me. He has to have a MILF fetish or a screw loose or something.

Standing before my bathroom mirror, I stick a bob pin between my lips and sweep my hair back into an elegant chignon. I squeezed my body into a sexy black dress and at Saige’s insistence, I went out and splurged on a pair of fuck me heels.

And I’m waxed clean, which was a blast to experience.

But now I feel silly, and it’s too late to cancel, so I have to do this.

My phone lights up with a text.

From him.

Closing my eyes and drawing in a cool breath, I pull my shoulders back and give myself a minute, reminding myself that for all intents and purposes, Dante wants to see me. He wants to take me on a date.

Until I have proof of ulterior motives, I suppose it would be pointless to waste any time worrying about them.

Snapping myself out of this self-induced frenzy, I open my eyes, take a drink from the glass of red wine I poured for myself earlier, and begin applying my makeup. Brushing sheer foundation over my skin, I make a mental list of goals for tonight: