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It works, apparently. A little Italian food paired with two glasses of wine, a fire, and well…the next thing I know, Chet is stripping me out of my good underwear, and I am letting him.
This isn’t a good idea, I’m thinking, as his hand slides up my shirt. I know it isn’t a good idea when he shoves my panties aside and gets to know the other, more enjoyable parts of me. But by the time he lays me back onto the couch and the plastic that covers it sticks to my back as he explores my good side with his tongue, I give absolutely zero fucks. I convince myself there’s no such thing as a bad idea, and anyway, I can’t help myself. Not even if I wanted to. How else am I supposed to get rid of him?
My moves are calculated. Same as him, it seems. There’s no surer way to get fired than fucking the wife of the man who hired you to fix his house, no matter how bad their relationship might be. Plus, the longer I delay renovations, the longer I have a home. And the longer I have a home, the longer I have a shot at keeping my marriage.
So we fuck. We laugh. We keep it light. We tiptoe around anything of substance. Besides food. I’m considerate enough to feed him before he fucks me. Men seem to like that. Eventually, when we both run out of fucks to give, Chet leaves. I intentionally don’t ask him to stay the night. That would be far too convenient.
And yet, it doesn’t stop me from meeting him at the door the following morning wearing a smile and not much else. “I want you to fuck me like you did last night,” I say to him. It doesn’t even sound like me, even as the words topple out of my mouth. It sounds like something Ann would say, which only widens my smile and apparently, his too.
He shrugs and drops his sack lunch. “You’re the boss.”
I was afraid he might tell me no. I was afraid he might tell me that I had been right the night before, that this wasn’t a good idea. But he doesn't. He simply lays his tools down and gets down to business.
Chet’s a good lover, as I knew he would be. He takes his time, working me meticulously and thoroughly, the same way he works on my house. He seems genuinely interested in what turns me on, which isn’t even a requirement for what we’re doing. He’s eager and enthusiastic—a deadly combination when you know something is short lived.
He makes me crave him in a way he doesn’t yet realize is dangerous. Beginnings are usually like that.
But this is different.
This isn’t a beginning. Not really.
I know because afterward, he says, “I hope this doesn’t change things between us.”
“Why would it?” I ask.
He answers with a shrug. But it turns out, neither one of us are very good liars. It changes everything.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
SADIE
“You’re a godsend, Sadie. A true godsend. Lord knows you can’t get much out of teenagers these days.” Ann has asked me to help her set up for her New Year’s Eve party. How she is managing to host not one, but two big parties in the span of a week is beyond everyone. It’s all anyone on Penny Lane and everyone on our neighborhood app can talk about. Ann, and her parties. Ann, and how amazing she is.
Little do they know, she has a secret weapon to do most of the work: me. I don’t mind. In a different life, with a different upbringing, and someone to bankroll my dreams, I would have started my own catering company. I chose the safe route and went with accounting instead. Ann says it’s never too late. Here, in her lovely kitchen, I can see what she means. It makes me think of the renovations Chet is doing to mine, and I realize all hope is not lost. False starts are a part of life.
Meanwhile, she wastes no time kicking off her heels, asking me to do the same, moving into full-on work mode. She’s throwing orders left and right and I can’t seem to get a word in edgewise. It’s too bad because a part of me wants to tell her all about Chet. I want her to notice how good sex looks on me. I want her to notice that I’m different. I’m desirable.
But apparently there isn’t time for that. Apparently, everything is about her list of preparations that is miles long.
I shouldn’t be surprised. The neighbors are right. Ann takes entertaining to another level. Everything she does is on another level and as much as I hate to admit it, I can appreciate that. They say you rise or fall to the level of those around you. I believe it.
In any case, at least the busy work helps to take my mind off of the things I’d rather not think about. It helps me avoid the impending disaster in my own home, and I mean that literally and figuratively.
I like my handyman well enough. He fucks me good. And I won't lie. There’s a part of me that revels in the fact that my husband is essentially paying him by the hour to do it.
But it would be unwise not to give things room to breathe.
“Thank you for this,” Ann tells me earnestly. “I’m so grateful you could help.”
“It’s no problem,” I tell her. “That’s what friends do.”
“You’re sure?” she asks, fishing. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she is more perceptive than I thought.
“I’m sure,” I say, because she doesn’t know how good I, too, can be at withholding. My dream of being an event planner, avoiding Chet, and my goodwill are not the only reasons I agreed. I’ve started to notice that the other women in the neighborhood are dropping by Ann’s place with greater frequency. It stings just a little to see another car in her drive or someone else sitting on her front porch. It’s crazy. I know it’s crazy. But how are you meant to concentrate on fixing all of your problems? How are you meant to live your life with this sort of shit going down?
I have no idea. I only know that every time I see her with someone else, I can’t help but wish it were me.
“We have one goal tonight,” she tells me as she lays out more cocktail napkins and lines them up with surgical precision. Once. Twice. Three times, she checks her accuracy. “We need to make sure everyone drinks up.”
