sort of ended up together.”
A thought chilled her. “Do you have kids?”
“No, no kids. And we’ve grown apart. I didn’t realize how much until I met you and fell in love.”
“Right.” She tried to sound sarcastic, but the word love softened her like a VCR case on a dashboard in summer.
“It’s a relief that you know the truth. You have no idea how this was haunting me.”
“You poor, poor dear.”
“I know, I know. Of course you’re hurting more than me right now. We can talk this all through on Saturday.”
“Saturday?”
“When I move in.”
“You can’t move in. You keep forgetting—you’re married.”
“We need to be together, Claire. This thing between us is big. Just give me time to talk to Lindi.” His words were as sweet and soothing as warm honey on Claire’s sore throat.
“We’ll work it out,” he continued. “I know we will. And on Saturday we can buy that futon, and a lamp—even an area rug—just like we planned. Anything you want, baby.”
Anything she wanted. Baby. She loved it when he called her that. She fought down the throb of hope that tightened her throat. Hold it right there, you lying sack of pig parts. She decided on a more civilized approach.
“How can I trust you?” she said. “You lied to me. Our whole relationship is a lie.”
“No. My marriage is the lie. Our love is the one true thing I have. You have every reason to hate me, Claire, but please don’t stop loving me. Please.”
She was touched, of course, but she couldn’t help noticing he sounded like bad daytime TV. Plus, the picture of roasting his nuts kept floating in her head.
“I want to hold you,” he said. “I need you in my arms to feel okay in the world.”
Now that line was perfect and she felt herself melt right into her pumps, blisters and all. Maybe it would be okay. Men had to get shocked into change, didn’t they?
“I don’t know, Jared. I have to think.”
“Take a day or two, but never forget that I love you. We’ll find a way to make this work. We have to. What we have is real and true.” More bad dialogue. Stop that, she told herself. The man was professing his love and she was critiquing his performance? That was Claire, though. Always with the smart remarks, as her mother used to say. Sarcasm kept the pain at bay.
Claire glanced up to find Georgia wagging a finger at her through the glass door, like she was a puppy who’d widdled on the carpet. Bad girl.
On the other hand, a smack on the nose with a rolled-up paper was probably exactly what she needed. “I’ve got to go, Jared.” She ripped the phone from her ear and dropped it onto its cradle. The familiar wish to snatch it back washed over her. She had trouble making decisions. Yes, no. Stay, go. Sheesh.
Georgia smiled at her. She’d pleased Georgia, at least.
Claire checked her watch. Seven hours and fifteen minutes until she could plop this burden into the soft and willing laps of the Chickateers. Thank God for Game Night.
2
AT EXACTLY FIVE-THIRTY, Claire stepped off the bus and entered the cool dimness and expectant air of Talkers for Game Night. She surveyed the happy-hour crowd of downtown singles, looking for who of the Chickateers was already here. Claire loved this place and this weekly event. Waning sunlight slanted onto the bar and washed over the toned, well-groomed professionals around the room who were flirting, commiserating and dipping wontons in peanut sauce.
She spotted Kitty Knight at the far end of the bar. Kitty being Kitty, she was with a man. She leaned toward him, swinging her wineglass lazily between two fingers, just this side of slutty. If only Claire had Kitty’s flair. Of course, Kitty also had a model’s face, a flamboyant personality and saline implants. Claire had neither of the first two and no interest in the third. But Kitty stirred up a room like no one else and Claire loved trailing in her wake.
Kitty would be philosophical about the Jared fiasco. Men troubles rolled off Kitty’s back like water over bath oil. She called it the Zen of men—Be the man and you’ll get the man.
As Claire got closer, she could see the guy was writing something in his Palm Pilot. Kitty’s number, no doubt. Just before he left, Kitty gave him that flattering once-over that Claire had actually practiced in the mirror once, feeling goofy.
Kitty spotted Claire and slid off her stool for a hug. She smelled of something new—probably a perfume sample from Vogue—she liked to test out the new stuff before she purchased it—and her hug was the usual well-meaning but painful grab.
“Who was that?” Claire asked, tilting her head toward Kitty’s exiting conquest.
“Investment banker with two first names,” Kitty said on a sigh. “Arnold Oliver. New in town. When Rex is over.” Rex was Kitty’s boyfriend du jour, a personal trainer at a health club. Kitty gave Claire an up-and-down. “Oh, my gawd, it’s Career Girl Barbie.”
“It’s not that bad, is it?”
“Not for a stripper pretending to be a librarian. Wanna see my Dewey Dec-i-mals?” Kitty said in Marilyn Monroe’s breathy voice.
Claire laughed. “Who died and made you fashion cop?” Guitar Guy, Georgia and now Kitty had taken potshots at her new look.
“What are friends for?” She grinned, which made Claire smile, too. Kitty’s zingers came laced with affection, so Claire never felt wounded. “Zoe’s here,” Kitty said, nodding past her.
Claire turned to watch Zoe Bellows head their way, her waterproof nylon pants hissing as she moved. Zoe zipped herself into the lives of her lovers like a second skin, taking on their hobbies and interests. Her current boyfriend was outdoorsy.
Zoe would be completely empathetic with Claire. She was into Tarot, numerology and breathing. Inhale health…exhale toxins. Unnaturally optimistic, too, but Claire craved her slow, full-body, patchouliscented hugs.
“Hey,” Zoe said to Kitty, hugging her as best she could, since Kitty didn’t have the patience for Zoe’s lengthy embraces. Then Zoe turned to Claire. Just as Claire had hoped, the hug was long and gentle with a deep inhale, slow exhale. Soothing as a hot bath. Tonight, Zoe smelled of mint and banana sunscreen, instead of the usual patchouli.
Of her three friends, Zoe was the most likely to pick up on Claire’s shocked-by-her-vibrator expression, so she ducked away before Zoe could get a good look at her face. Claire wanted the sympathy in one big wave, not three little ones.
“So, you’re still seeing Mountain Man?” Kitty asked Zoe.
“We’re training for a bike trip through Mexico.”
Kitty shuddered. “What a way to ruin a foreign country—crouched over a bicycle, pumping your
