His Secret Love by Ava Ryan

5

Jake

Even though it’sbeen nearly two years since I lived there, I still find myself reaching for my keys as I complete my trek down the hallway and approach the door to the apartment where Marlene and I lived during our marriage. Her apartment now. Old habits die hard, I guess. Some do, anyway. On the other hand, some refuse to die. For example, I wish I could find a way to stop girding my loins every time I know I’m about to see her. And she asked me to come early today because she has something she wants to discuss with me, so that ain’t good. We have shared parenting, which means a lot of back-and-forthing with the kids and a lot of tension for me. Things are much better between us these days, though, leaving me to hope we’ll get past the stilted politeness with which we treat each other. Baby steps are fine for now and certainly better than all the scathing silences we’ve endured. And we’re both mature adults who remain on the same page when it comes to making our new normal as easy on the children as possible. So that helps. As long as Marlene and I both keep our eyes firmly on the prize—raising happy and healthy children—peace should prevail throughout the kingdom.

That’s the hope, anyway.

I take a deep breath before ringing, taking the time to make sure my emotional state is perfectly calibrated for diplomacy. I’m not angry, tired or hungry (or hangry, as Skye likes to say), the trifecta of doom for a successful interaction with Marlene, who’s a handful on a good day.

Skye.

I’ll call you,I told her.

But I haven’t.

I pause, my hand poised over the bell, while that dull ache centered in my chest flares to life again. It travels with me these days, a cocktail of turbulence that I could do without.

Sweet memories. Longing.

Something that feels suspiciously like loss, ridiculous as that sounds. I can’t lose something that was never mine. Skye and I enjoyed each other. That’s the beginning and end of that story. She’s going back to her regularly scheduled life, and here I am with mine. All the best to her.

I just wish…

Fuck,I think as my frustration and adrenaline levels ramp up, forcing me to run my hands over the top of my head as I pace a few steps away from the door.

Fuuuck.

Here’s the thing: my interlude with Skye was a plot twist I didn’t see coming. I mean, yeah, I knew that her profile seemed intriguing. I knew that her picture was gorgeous. My time with her blew my socks off. It really did. Now, instead of having a fond memory of a hookup with a woman I’m fine with never seeing again, I’ve got this…this…

I’ve got this thing. I don’t even know what it is. A weak spot? An incubating obsession? A persistent longing? All of that? None of that? All I know so far is that it’s all Skye, all the time. And this thing is in the fucking center of my thoughts right now, which is really saying something. I’m a single dad with two kids. An ex-wife. A big career. Newfound wealth to spend. There’s a lot of shit rattling around in my brain daily. There’s no room for anything extraneous.

That being the case, I’d greatly appreciate it if someone told me why Skye seems to be the only thing I think about lately.

I remember her smile. Her laugh. The sparkle of mischief in her expression. The velvety feel of her lips. The slick suction of her pussy. Her breathless coos as I fucked her. Her cries as she came for me.

I remember her eyes.

I’ll call you.

At this point, you may be wondering, what the fuck is this guy’s problem? He wants to see her again and he said he’d call her. Why doesn’t he put himself out of his misery, pick up the phone and call her?

Well, I’ll tell you.

I don’t want to want to call her this much.

I want my interest in her to be down at some manageable level, like, say, a four or a five. Six at the most. Somewhere much closer to neutral. This thing here? I don’t want to put an exact number on it, but let’s just say it’s higher than a mere six. Higher than I’m comfortable with at this stage of my life. Significantly higher.

Hence, I need to keep a lid on it. And I’ve been trying.

Not that keeping a lid on it has been easy. My impulse was to ask her to stay the night, which wasn’t keeping a lid on it. My bad. But then she said she needed to go, and I didn’t try to change her mind. Lid. Good for me. Then I said I’d call her. No lid. But I haven’t called her, and it’s been a week. Big lid. Well done, Jake.

Except for the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach because I know I fucked up. She’s gotta be pissed by now. Royally pissed. And if I ever cave to this relentless desire to see her again—and I’m not saying I will, but if I do—I may find myself blocked or ignored.

Which means that I may never see her again, no matter how much I want to.

I suppose that’s the biggest lid of all.

Well. Fucking. Done.

Anyway, I’m not going to get it all figured out by standing out here in the hallway and looking suspicious on the security cameras. I take another calming breath—my mood is significantly shittier now, which won’t help my interaction with Marlene—but I’m doing the best I can here.

I hit the bell.

I hear the hurried sound of her heels clacking on the floor inside, then the door swings open and there she is.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey,” I say.

A wary beat passes before we both remember that the new thing we do these days is kiss each other on the cheek. So we hastily lean in and do the deed, eager to demonstrate our mutual goodwill, albeit as quickly as possible.

“Come in,” she says, shutting the door after me. “How are you?”

“Good. You?”

“Good. Drink?”

“No. Thanks.”

Nodding, she leads the way to the living room, where we both perch on the edge of the sofa as though we’re afraid to get our asses zapped by a pulse of electricity. I don’t hear the kids, but I assume they’re in the back somewhere watching TV, so we can talk.

“Thanks for coming early,” she says.

“Of course.”

I wait.

Peaceful Divorcing 101 pro tip: keep your fat mouth shut whenever possible. Idle chitchat isn’t a thing you try to do, because it often blows up in your face and leads to a miscommunication or hurt feelings at best, or an argument at worst. Far better to stare at the wall and pray it eventually does something interesting.

“I wanted to mention a couple of things to you.” She smooths her skirt, giving me the impression that she’s nervous. “Just to, ah, let you know what’s going on.”

“Okay…?”

“Alan and I broke up,” she says quietly. “He, ah, went back to his wife.”

I absorb this news in silence for a second, trying to diagnose how I feel about it.

First of all, I can’t say I’m surprised. When your wife of many years comes home and tells you she’s leaving you for one half of the married couple with whom you’ve socialized for years, you tend to get most of your surprise (also jealousy, rage and heartbreak) out of the way up front. Not that Marlene would have sought my advice on choosing a guy to help her torpedo our marriage, but I could have told her that he wasn’t a safe bet. Good old Alan, while charming and successful, possesses all the sincerity and ethics of a wolf zipped into a sheep’s costume with his snout clearly visible. Our friend group heard rumors for years that Alan enjoyed extracurricular activities. I just never thought he’d enjoy them with my wife.

So there’s that.

Second, I’m not sure why she ever thought that karma would let her and Alan ride off into the sunset together, and, again, I could’ve told her otherwise.

Given all that, what is my current emotional state? Triumphant and/or gleeful? Vindicated? Hopeful for reconciliation?

No. None of that, which is surprising.

After everything Marlene and I have been through together—good, bad and ugly—I feel…indifferent. Maybe even a little sad for her, because I know she’s got to be devastated. I’m well past any lingering feelings for her because, if I’m honest, the two of us started growing in different directions well before her affair blew open the lid on our dying marriage. Mostly I feel grateful that she and I were early adopters of an ironclad rule requiring both of us to keep our private lives private and never expose the kids to any dating partners unless and until an engagement is imminent. Thank God the kids never got attached to Alan and will now never need to detach from him.

Fucking selfish bastard.

“I see,” I say.

Humorless smile from Marlene. “You’re not surprised.”

“No,” I say.

She looks up at the ceiling, blinking furiously as her mouth twists with unmistakable bitterness. “I feel like an idiot.”

Part of me feels like she should wallow in that feeling for a good long time. Like Justin Timberlake says, what goes around comes back around. But I discover I’ve moved past that kind of pettiness.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

“Thanks for that,” she says, ducking her head and wiping her eyes.

“It’s okay,” I say.

Her head comes up again. “Do you think that we could be friends again?” she says with new urgency. “One day? Now that Alan’s out of the picture?”

I stare at her, remembering the time when the sight of that vulnerability in those teary, almond-shaped eyes would’ve brought me to my knees. That seems like a million lifetimes ago. I’m over it now. Way over it. She burned it out of me a while back and left only this endless indifference. While I obviously want the two of us to have as harmonious a relationship as possible, I want it for the kids. Not for myself. I’m doing fine without her friendship on a personal level. I can’t see what it would add to my life at this late stage.

Besides which, I can’t shake the feeling that she’s sending out feelers to see if there’s any potential between the two of us. If I know nothing else about Marlene, I know that she doesn’t like to be alone. The last thing I want to do is send her any mixed signals or, I don’t know, hook up with her again for old times’ sake. I’m trying to keep things peaceful around here.

“I’m doing the best I can,” I say gently.

She seems taken aback. “You’re seeing someone?”

I don’t know why I don’t tell her it’s none of her business.

I don’t know why Skye’s face flashes back into my mind’s eye.

“No,” I say.

She looks stricken anyway but says nothing.

Another tear or two falls. I look out the window, giving her a minute.

Marlene, being Marlene, pulls herself together quickly and returns to her brisk self.

“Okay. Enough of that,” she says, giving the cuffs on her blouse a minute adjustment. “The other thing I wanted to mention is that I hired a nanny. She’s already started. She’ll be here in a minute with the kids.”

“Wait, what?” I say, frowning because a) we hadn’t made a final decision about getting a nanny; and b) the selection of any potential nanny is, according to our shared parenting plan, the sort of thing we’re supposed to do together. “You just hired someone? Without checking with me?”

“I did. We need one. I don’t know how we’ve made it this long without one. We can’t keep relying on my mother and neighborhood teenagers and one or the other of us trying to come home early while the other one works late. It’s too much. We need a reliable system. Especially with my promotion. I don’t know what my travel schedule will be like going forward.”

“You’re right, but that’s not the point. We’re supposed to do these things as a team. You get a say. I get a say. See how that works?”

“I’ve tried to discuss this with you. I’m tired of your stonewalling.”

“I’m not stonewalling. I’m not sure it’s best for the kids to introduce a new person into their lives at this juncture after all the changes they’ve already had—”

“I made an executive decision. She’s already on board, and it’s going well so far. Neither of the kids has died or been kidnapped. This is what I’m doing with my money for our kids.”

Fun fact: I was a struggling resident with a crushing student loan debt for most of our marriage, something that Marlene, as the big breadwinner, never let me forget for a second. I’m now the big winner in the net worth sweepstakes, but she still makes plenty of money and does whatever the hell she wants with it.

Another fun fact: I bend over backward to consult Marlene on issues concerning the kids. Marlene does whatever the fuck she wants and pretty much always has.

And all of that is beside the point.

“I don’t give a fuck whose money it is. Who is this person? How were they vetted? How do we know if—”

“I handled it. You’ll love her.”

“I don’t know one thing about this person who’s been spending time with my kids.”

“I’m not getting into this with you now,” she says. “She comes from a good agency. She’s been great so far.”

“And she’s supposed to, what? Stay at my place when I’ve got the kids?”

“You just finished decorating your massive new apartment,” she says acidly. “You’ll make do.”

“I don’t appreciate—”

“That’s enough of this conversation,” she says, standing abruptly and heading for the door. “Here they are now. Racing down the hallway like they’re on the playground. Don’t you hear that?”

I don’t.

Marlene, I should mention, is a stickler for rules. I’m convinced she spent a past life as either a rabid traffic cop with a whistle surgically attached to her lower lip or a mall security person, barking out orders to unsuspecting teenagers as she zoomed from store to store on a Segway.

I hear the door and then the joyous voices of the munchkins when they realize I’m here.

“Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”

That’s all it takes to dissipate my annoyance with Marlene.

I surge to my feet and brace myself just as they race into view and launch themselves at me, laughing and shrieking. I scoop them up, one in each arm, and hold them close so I can savor the feel of their sturdy little bodies, their warmth, their giggles and their little-kid scent layered with fresh air.

Here they are, the best part of my life. The best thing I’ve ever done or ever could do.

My life.

“Neck chomps,” I say, nuzzling and tickling Charlie first, then Becca. I gotta tell you, I dread the day when they stop greeting me like this and require more dignified behavior. “I must have neck chomps.”

“No neck chomps!” they squeal, angling their heads to give me better access. “No neck chomps! Piggyback!”

In our well-worn routine, I toss them onto the sofa, then stoop so they can climb onto my back. We’re on our first galloping circuit of the living room (Marlene loves this, let me tell you) when, for the second time in the last several days, I find myself face to face with a stunning redhead and nearly plow her down.

Holy shit.

It’s Skye.

Sudden catastrophic paralysis locks me down from head to toe.

Generally speaking, if a man unexpectedly finds himself between two women he’s slept with, something has gone badly wrong with his day. I know that. And if Marlene discovers that I hooked up with her precious new nanny, it’s not going to go over well. Trust me on that.

Even so, I feel the sudden, fierce flare of something close to joy to see Skye again. I’m sure some of it creeps into my expression. The same way a faint imprint of a smile creeps across Skye’s face and lights up her green eyes before she blocks it off.

I don’t relish voluntarily sticking my ass in the hot seat, but I don’t see any way around it, since I’m not a liar or a player (Alan, anyone?) and don’t plan to start now.

I open my mouth, determined to tell Marlene the whole story.

“We’ve, ah, already—”

“Skye Graham.” Shooting me a look that manages to be simultaneously veiled and pointed, Skye hurries forward and sticks out her hand. “Great to meet you. You’ve got awesome kids. I really appreciate the opportunity to work with them.”

Evidently, I’m having a slow day. I blink, trying to come up to speed.

“But…” I say, frowning.

“Come on, guys,” Skye says brightly, heading for the hallway that leads to their bedroom. “Let’s make sure we’re all packed.”

“Let’s go!” Charlie cries, squirming to get down. “Come on, Becca!”

I set them both down and off they go with Skye, leaving me gaping after them, heart racing and thoughts spinning.

“See?” Marlene says behind me. “I told you you’d love her.”