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Jessie found me crying on the stairs. She came up to me, slow and silent. When I didn’t acknowledge her, she sat with me. Her presence was comforting. She didn’t fling empty sympathies at me, or try to soothe me with empty words or say she understood. She put her arm around me and we sat without speaking. I felt safe.
A few days later, I walked into the Foley kitchen, where Jessie was painting by the window. We were alone, and since she’d comforted me, I decided to show my interest in her art.
I wasn’t ready to be confronted with my face, pinched with grief, tears streaming from my eyes. She’d captured my pain from a private moment and put it on canvas for anyone to see. Hurt and angry, I’d lashed out. Insulted her, her artistic abilities, everything. Yelled loud enough to bring the rest of the Foleys into the kitchen. Timothy had to drag me away.
Later, when I’d cooled down, I’d gone over to apologize. I found the canvas sitting out in the trash. Even though I hated it, I couldn’t leave it, so I picked it up and brought it to LA, hiding it from prying eyes deep in my closet.
For a couple of years, I refused to touch it. Then one day near the anniversary of my parents’ deaths, I took it out.
It looked different. The grief was still present, but there was a strength in it that I hadn’t noticed the night I’d yelled at her. I stared at it for hours, and for a while, I felt like I had with her on the stairs, the only time she’d put her arm around me. I was safe. Jessie had taken all the emotion that was too big for me and released it through her brush.
Addison never found it, thank god. That would’ve been a shitshow. She became paranoid about Jessie after our fight over Jessie’s other painting. I told myself that was why I didn’t press the issue when Addison wanted to spend Christmas in Paris or St. Barts—having Addison around Jessie or any of her family brought out Addison’s nasty side and I didn’t want to deal with the inevitable fights. Mostly, I was too ashamed of the woman I chose to marry to share her with my favorite people.
The clerk finally finishes and I hand over my credit card. Most of the stuff I arrange to have shipped to Jessie’s apartment, but I leave with a bag of paints, brushes, and canvases, something for her to open on Christmas Day.
“One more stop,” Timothy says as we exit the shop. “We need fuel for Bawdy Carols.”
To the liquor store, it is.
Chapter ten
Jessie
Ishiver,bouncingwhileMina carefully arranges the garment bag in the back seat of Timothy’s truck. The guys have already hung their suits and Nic and I are going to be forced to cuddle in the crowded back seat, which shouldn’t make my stomach dip and swoop, but it does.
I blame Nic. The intensity of his silvery stare from between my legs in the laundry room has me fixated. I don’t understand what happened between us and chalking it up to a chance encounter between two bored and horny people feels like I’m missing something. We’ve been alone heaps of times over the years and he’s never once offered to go down on me. Why now?
If I can’t stop thinking about it, then I’m not going to let Nic forget. I’m dressed to remind him he’s been between these thighs and he’s not welcome back, but the cold biting at my exposed legs has me regretting not wearing leggings or tights. Sometimes spite is shortsighted.
It’s been fun shopping with Mina though. She knows the best shops, and she quickly found me a dress. Shoes too. She didn’t pressure me to buy somethingnicefor Nic. I did anyway because excellence in cunnilingus should be rewarded.
“We’re early,” Mina says, slamming the truck door. “But let’s go to lunch. I’m freezing my tits off and I need them to hold up my dress.”
We take off at a brisk pace, arms linked. The street is lined with trendy shops and wreath-ringed streetlights, last-minute shoppers rushing along, arms bulging with bags.
“What do you want to do for the bachelorette party?” I ask.
“Let’s drink and play silly games. Lexi and Charlotte—my high school friends—like to keep things simple too. How many people fit in the massive hot tub outside your parents’ room?”
That was another Timothy present, but one that gets some use—my mother and her friends frequently hit it after yoga. Often with a few bottles of wine. “We’ll fit.” The damn thing holds ten. Twelve if people are willing to get friendly.
Mina laughs. “You know Timothy will crash our party.”
Yeah. Likely involving nudity.
We push into the trendy Asian fusion restaurant. Good smells and warmth wrap around me. I shed my coat, hat, and scarf, sinking into the soft, high-backed leather booth with a contented sigh. The closest thing to post-orgasmic bliss has to be walking from the freezing cold into a cozy place. I let the satisfaction roll through me as I snag the drink menu.
We order our drinks and Mina orders a couple of shots. When the waitress leaves, Mina leans over the table, her voice dropping. “What’s up with you and Nic?”
“Nothing.” My heart kicks up a gear and I pretend to skim the menu even though I already know what I want. “We don’t like each other.”
“I can see that. Except for the whole thing where you’re always looking at each other.”
“Scowling,” I say, slapping the menu onto the table. “Because hate.”
“More like eye-fucking.” She grins. “Because pants-feelings.”
My spine snaps straight. “I am not eye-fucking Dominic Fontana!”
