The Good Widow(27)

“Please! He just feels bad that he didn’t know anything about Dylan and James. Or he wants a big tip. Either way, bartenders flirt.” I finish the last of my drink. “James was like that too—flirtatious. Talkative. Outgoing. The salesman in him, you know? He could make anyone feel like they were the only person in the room. Everywhere we went, he’d strike up conversations with perfect strangers, and within five minutes you’d think they’d known each other all their lives.”

“Did it ever bother you? Make you jealous?”

“Not really. It was just who he was—like he couldn’t help himself. I had always thought it was harmless—” I don’t want to finish that thought. Like what if I hadn’t thought it was harmless? What if I’d been jealous? Would it have stopped him from crossing the line? “What about you? Did Dylan do anything that made you insecure?”

“I look back now and see certain things in a different light. But in the moment? No. Not at all. I’m a lot of things, Jacks, but jealous isn’t one of them.” He finishes his first drink and moves on to his second. “But maybe I should’ve been.”

“Me too,” I agree, thinking back to when I’d caught Beth snooping on her husband. She’d been scrolling through his iPhone and glanced up at me and said, “The men you never think would stray—they are always the ones with the most to hide.” And then we’d laughed—because he was Mark. An accountant she’d been married to for twelve years who, save for tax season, came home every night at six on the dot. Whose biggest self-proclaimed flaw was his penchant for itemization.

I watch the bartender washing out glasses on the other side of the bar, taking in his broad shoulders and coffee-colored skin, the dark rum in the mai tai starting to grab me. I take a bite of the calamari. It’s warm and crunchy, and the sweet coconut flavor swims in my mouth.

“So, you said Dylan was kind—what else?” I ask.

Nick watches the bartender blend a daiquiri. “She was a server.”

“Where did she work?”

“In Laguna, at Splashes Restaurant.”

The last time James and I were there together comes to mind. It was on a whim actually. I’d woken up and craved crab cakes Benedict. And I suggested that restaurant. Bits and pieces of the brunch come back to me. I overdosed on mimosas—the sweetness of the Piper champagne sliding down my throat helped dissolve the residual anger I was feeling from an argument I’d had with James about his mother the night before. He’d defended her yet again when I told him that she’d suggested my oven was dated and I might want to upgrade it. She’d even chip in. He couldn’t see why that would get under my skin. How she was constantly putting me down in her passive-aggressive way. He just didn’t see it. End of story. It infuriated me.

I try to remember our server from that day. I can’t picture her face, but I do recall that she was engaged. James complimented her ring, which struck me as odd because the one he’d picked for me was a simple gold eternity band, and he didn’t even wear one.

Ironically, I’d gotten over that fact pretty quickly. It was my mom and sister who’d questioned me when they noticed his ring finger was still bare after our wedding. But I’d waved it off. I’d never been conventional in that way. If it had been up to me, our wedding and reception would have been low key. Just friends and family on the beach catered by our favorite burger place. But it had been the opposite—a large crowd of people, most of whom I didn't know, noshing on caviar. Because that's what his mother had wanted.

“Did she work Sunday brunch?”

Nick nods. “Yes, almost never missed one. Hated it because of all the drunks, but said she made the most tips on that shift over any other.”

My heart begins to quicken as I recall something else. We’d just gotten home from the restaurant, and I was kicking off my shoes into our bedroom closet when he said, “I forgot to tip our waitress. I have to go back.”

I thought he already had—I’d glanced at the bill, then saw him put down a fair amount of cash, but my mind had been fuzzy from falling asleep in the car on the way home. I told him that and laughed, pushing him down on the bed and nuzzling his neck, my champagne buzz making me horny for makeup sex. But he pulled back. “I have to go. Her shift might be over soon. We’ll pick up where we left off as soon as I get home. Promise.”

Was that the day he met her? Had my crab-cakes craving been responsible for introducing my husband to his mistress?

I shake my head slightly at the irony. They’d met right under my nose, and I was too drunk to notice it, or maybe too confident. So confident I’d let him travel all over the country dangling his ring-free wedding finger. I don’t say this to Nick, not wanting to rehash the memory. Instead, I order a third drink, this time a pi?a colada, deciding getting drunk right now sounds pretty damn good.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN


JACKS—AFTER

It’s possible I might be the only person living in Orange County who doesn’t like the ocean.

Let me rephrase that. I like looking at it—there’s something beautiful about the way the sun reflects off the whitecaps, making them sparkle. And I’ve been known to go down to the shoreline and splash my feet, letting the waves brush up against my thighs as they rock me back and forth, licking the salt when the occasional droplet finds my lips. But something always stops me from diving in, from cutting my arms through it like a knife. I like the idea of it—of floating on my back and imagining my hair air-drying into loose beach waves that are never actually achievable. But each time, I get only as far as waist deep, eventually inching back onto the dry and safe sand.