When Life Gives You Lululemons (19 page)

“Stop. It's so on sale, it's practically paying
you
.”

They thanked the saleswoman and headed back outside.

“Let's get some lunch?” Emily asked. “I'm starving.”

“We have to get the kids off the bus.”

Emily sighed. “Right. The kids.”

“You're still up for this, right?”

“Yes,” Emily said without a hint of conviction.

Was she making a huge mistake leaving her children alone overnight with someone who had never so much as cared for a goldfish?
Probably
, Miriam thought as she drove them both back to her house. But what choice did she have? Neither her parents nor Paul's lived nearby, and they didn't know anyone in town well enough yet to ask them to take their three children for the entire night and get them to school the next morning. Emily was a functioning adult, arguably. She paid her bills and figured out how to feed herself. Besides, if anything went horribly awry, they were just a half hour away and could be home in no time. It would be fine.

“You'll be fine,” Miriam said to Emily after they'd collected the kids from the bus and parked them in front of the television.

“I know. I'm not worried. What can be so hard? I've wrangled pop stars barely older than they are. So long as you don't mind if Maisie wears foundation to school tomorrow, then I don't see any problems.” Emily laughed when Miriam looked at her in horror. “Go! Be gone. We'll have a great time.”

“I left all the numbers for the pediatrician and the police and fire and both our cells and local contacts on the fridge.”

“Can't I just call 911? I mean, like, isn't that what it's there for?”

“Emily.”

“I'm kidding!
It's fine. They're not aliens, just small humans. I've got this, okay? And I promise, I won't even drink myself into a stupor tonight just in case the house mysteriously combusts or a gang of armed men breaks in to murder us all. I'll be on top of my game.”

“I can't tell you how much that sets my mind at ease.”

Emily grinned. “Go and enjoy.”

“You can call anytime, for any reason. We can be home in no time.”

“You're not getting out of sex with your husband that easily.”

Miriam laughed, perhaps too loudly. The pressure was definitely on. If it didn't happen that night, something was officially wrong with them, and none of the possibilities was good. Either her husband was disgusted with her, in love with someone else, or had been lying to her (and himself) his entire adult life and just realized he actually preferred men. Miriam considered these scenarios during the train ride to the city, and by the time she reached Grand Central, she was more convinced than ever that their entire marriage was riding on this evening. It had taken some effort, but by cross-referencing her calendar, she'd figured out that the last time she and Paul had properly slept together—from start to finish, without falling asleep in the middle—had been two months earlier. Christmas Eve. She'd gone upstairs at her in-laws' house in New Jersey to rest before dinner, and Paul had followed her. The kids had been occupied with their cousins in the basement, and Paul's parents were busy entertaining in the kitchen, and no one had noticed their disappearance for nearly an hour. It had been lovely, but good God—two
months
? The length of time was horrifying, but worse was the fact that Paul had not uttered a single word about it. Not so much as a token “I miss you” or “We need to make time for us.” It was as if he didn't notice.

When she joined the short taxi line outside of Grand Central, Miriam tried to forget about all of that. “You need a cab, miss?” called the porter in an official-looking uniform, hailing a cab gracefully. She had forty minutes to get downtown. It was perfect. Plus, he'd called her “miss” and not “ma'am.” Things were looking up.

In the forty-five minutes it took to go as many city blocks, Miriam's mind drifted. How long had it been since she'd felt like this? It must have been pre-kids but also pre-pregnancy. Her honeymoon? So she was a few pounds more now than she had been then. Who the hell really cared? She felt gorgeous in her new dress and couldn't wait to show it off.

When the hostess escorted her to the bar area, Paul caught sight of her and actually whistled.

“You look amazing.” He breathed into her neck when he pulled her into his arms. “Sexy as hell.”

It felt warm and safe to rest her head against his chest. Paul. Her husband. Her best friend. Who'd just called her sexy. They had the whole night, the two of them, and she was suddenly certain that all was fine between them. More than fine—perfect.

“Happy birthday, honey,” he said, pulling back a chair at the bar for her. “I ordered you their house drink. Some spicy tequila thing with watermelon. Sounded right up your alley. Damn, I love that dress.”

She couldn't keep from grinning. “Emily helped me pick it out. I don't think I would've even tried it on if she hadn't made me. And I texted a picture to Ashley and she freaked out saying how much she loved it.”

His face clouded over for an instant but then went back to the solicitous smile and admiring eyes. “Mmm. So does this mean you're all friends now?”

“What was that look?”

“Nothing.”

“You got a weird look when I said Ashley's name.”

He laughed, and it sounded insincere. “Ashley? What? If you like her, I like her.”

There was definitely something he wasn't telling her.

“You seem to like her husband.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Paul took a long drink from his vodka on the rocks.

“Mean? It doesn't
mean
anything.
You went over to her house that night I was out with the girls.”

“So?”

“Just that it was a little weird to hear from Ashley first.”

Another massive swallow. “Why don't you just chip me? Like they do with dogs.”

“Maybe I
should
chip you. If you think it's a great idea to ditch your own children on one of the few nights you actually have to be alone with them so you can go drinking and ogling some nineteen-year-old au pair, maybe that's exactly what you need.”

“What are you talking about?”

The bartender arrived and slid Miriam's cocktail to her. It was gorgeous: pink, frothy, and sporting lovely green accents of cucumber, lime, and a jalapeño slice. “German? Supposedly gorgeous? And practically a child.”

“Miriam.” He sounded exhausted.

“Paul.”

“Eric texted that he was having a bunch of guys over to play poker and asked if I wanted to join. I don't play poker. I had a new episode of
Game of Thrones
to watch, and I'd just ordered Thai. But you've been on me since we moved to make an effort and meet some new friends, and I figured I probably should.”

“This is my fault now?”

“Was their new au pair there? Yes. Was she trotting around the house with no bra? Yes. Am I male and human? Did I look? Shoot me. But this picture that you paint—that we were all over there, staring at her body and making her feel uncomfortable and acting like a bunch of middle-aged perverts, is bullshit.”

“What if it were Maisie. How would you feel then?”

Paul's mouth dropped. “Seriously?”

Miriam smiled. She could feel the tension diffuse immediately. “Okay, that was low.”

Paul kissed her on the mouth. “Too low.”

They finished their drinks and moved from the bar to a table, and Paul did his usual for a special occasion: he ordered one of every appetizer on the menu. She'd thought it was weird when they first met, but she soon saw how awesome it was to taste so many different dishes and not get stuck with a giant meat or fish main dish that you were sick of after three bites. As she dug into the spicy tuna tartare and slices of truffle flatbread and salads with pears and Gorgonzola and the most amazing grilled calamari she'd ever tasted, she was again grateful for her husband. When the waiter brought out an old-fashioned champagne glass filled with chocolate mousse and topped with a single candle, Paul leaned over in her ear and whispered, “Happy birthday, sweetie. May thirty-seven be your best yet.”

Together they devoured all the mousse and ordered the check. Miriam left for the ladies' room, and when she returned, she saw Paul furiously typing into his phone. He switched it off as soon as she sat down.

“Who was that?”

“Just work.”

Something about the way he said it seemed weird. He never said “work.” Miriam knew his entire team, and he always told her who was calling and what it was about.

“What do they need so late? Is everything okay?”

“Everything's fine. Come on, let's get back to the hotel.”

“The hotel? We're not going . . . anywhere else?”

Miriam said nothing as they waited for their coats and overnight bags at the coat check.

“Miriam? What were you expecting? You've told me a thousand times that you'd divorce me if I threw you a surprise party.”

She followed Paul into the backseat of a waiting Uber. “I thought . . . just from the way you phrased it maybe . . .”

“What?”

“That you made some other plan.”

“Other plan?” Again he was checking his phone.

“Like a show or something? I don't know, forget it.”

“It's already nine. It's too late for a show. Do you want to go get a drink somewhere? We can go to the bar at the Surrey if you'd like.” He reached for her hand and kissed it. “Although, for the record, I'm not opposed to going straight to our room.”

Something about the way Paul reached for her sent her mind back to the night he'd proposed to her in Madison Square Park and then taken her to their favorite red-sauce Italian restaurant, where both their families had been waiting for them. Dinner was rowdy and fun, with loads of cheap Chianti and endless toasts to the happy new couple, and by the time they said goodbye and stumbled into a cab, Miriam thought she might die of happiness. She had pretended to be scandalized by Paul reaching for her across the backseat, kissing her neck with a passion she now could almost barely remember, and she'd probably have let him pull her jeans down if it weren't for the cabdriver, who threatened to drop them on the side of Sixth Avenue if they didn't behave themselves. They had stayed up all night long, making love and talking about the future and laughing. Starving again at some point in the very early morning when it was still dark out, they had ventured to the corner diner for omelets and home fries and coffee, and then it was back to bed for another session. Miriam remembered staring at her brand-new engagement ring as the rising sun made it sparkle. When they finally fell asleep, it was fully light outside and they slept through breakfast and lunch, rising only in time for an early ordered-in dinner before heading back to bed.

They could find that again, she was sure of it. That kind of love and passion didn't flame out forever, did it? It took a backseat to small children with super-size needs and careers with endless demands, but somewhere—somewhere—the pilot light still burned. It simply had to, because the alternative was too awful to contemplate.

Now Miriam scooted over to Paul and kissed him so hard she could feel him back away. She bit his lower lip just a little. She stuck her tongue in his mouth.

“Whoa, tiger. What's going on with you tonight?” He pulled away,
and Miriam tried not to be offended when he mindlessly wiped his lips dry with his jacket sleeve.

“What's gotten into me?” she asked flirtatiously. “You're right. Screw the hotel bar. Let's go back to our room. I have a surprise for you.”

“A surprise for me? It's not
my
birthday.”

“Well, tonight it's going to be both our birthdays.” Miriam rubbed her hand across the front of his pants, just in case he'd missed her meaning.

They waited patiently for the front-desk clerk to give them the rundown on breakfast and checkout and spa bookings. It felt like an eternity until a bellboy escorted them from the stylish lobby into a too-tight elevator and up to their room on the fourth floor, where they'd been upgraded to a suite with a small but separate living room and a little French balcony with views of the treetops on Seventy-Sixth Street. Someone had dimmed the lights, and low music was playing from the Bose speaker on the nightstand.

Miriam threw her arms around Paul the moment the bellboy pulled the door closed, but he backed away. “I really need to shower first. I've been in meetings all day, on and off the trains and subway. Trust me, you'll be happy I did.”

She didn't particularly care if he was clean or not, but that was okay. It gave her time to get everything set up in the living room. “Promise you won't come in here until I tell you?”

“Promise,” Paul said. She heard the shower turn on a moment later.

Miriam closed the French doors that separated the bedroom and bathroom from the living area and went to work rearranging the furniture to create an empty space in the middle of the floor. It wasn't quite big enough, but it would have to do. She pulled open the Art Is Love kit she'd purchased for the cost of a round-trip plane ticket to Europe and removed: a massive rolled-up canvas tied with twine; two glass bottles of electric blue paint; a trio of paintbrushes in different sizes and thicknesses; and a coupon to include when it was time to send the canvas in for framing. On the instruction sheet, the only words were these:
Who
are we to tell you how to make love? Apply paint to yourself and your lover, and then forget all about it. Lie down on the canvas and do your thing. And enjoy!

“Well, okay, then,” Miriam murmured as she neatly lined up the paintbrushes and glass bottles on the coffee table. She turned on the TV and found a good music channel and then dimmed the lights. She wished she'd remembered to bring a couple of candles, but seriously, she was coiffed and ready, enough was enough.