Page 44 of Just This Once

Chapter 14

Taryn

Over the last week, Dante has become a staple at my house. Like we’re living some old-school sitcom, with the funny upstairs neighbor poking his head in the window to toss out some wisecrack. Except, instead of the funny upstairs neighbor being a sarcastic old man, he’s an annoyingly handsome young man with a penchant for sexual innuendos and a bad habit of providing me candy.

Jake has developed a special affinity for Dante, who is unsurprisingly capable at teaching my son stereotypical paternal lessons that he misses out on with Craig. Between soccer practice and meals, Jake has been outside hammering away on Dante’s project even after the sun has set.

It is incredibly heartwarming. And even more disturbing.

Because I can’t deny how I turn all gooey inside when the two of them clasp hands, smiling and laughing. Or hear how excited Jake is to hang out with Dante, clearly missing that kind of relationship in his life.

Worse yet, Maddie is always included. She’s learned the difference between a flathead and Phillips screwdriverand has told me about the importance of girls knowing how to perform household maintenance. “For their independence,” she said, according to Dante. As if I’ve never told her that before. As if I haven’t always harped on her knowing how to do everything on her own so she didn’t have to rely on anyone else.

It’s impossible to pretend my children aren’t falling as fast and hard for Dante as I am.

Even for his stupid turtle.

That he’s brought down to show us how the thing gets around on his stupid adorable skateboard, lying on his belly and pedaling with his hands and feet… Or whatever you call a turtle’s feet. Paws? Claws? Stumps?

I don’t know, but those are questions Dante is making me consider. Going to the grocery store and buying extra carrots so Maddie can take them up to Dante’s apartment to feed Tortellini and discuss the latest episode ofGossip Girlsince they’re doing a rewatch together.

Honestly… I hate how much I like him.

Every single day, I look forward to seeing him, acting like I’m not actually hanging on his every word. It’s pathetic how I’ve started dressing for his compliments and finding moments I can be alone with him, which are much too far and few between. Because everyone wants his attention—the crew at work and my kids at home. He’s everyone’s favorite, but I want to behisfavorite.

And it makes me feel out of control.

I never expected nor wanted to be attracted to anyone after my divorce. My life is a series of spinning plates, and one misstep could send them crashing to the floor. I put these plates in motion years ago, but lately, they seem to be moving faster and faster, and I fear Dante’s unrestrained force will send them all careening away. Yet I can’t stop it. The inevitable spill.

Which is why I spend a few hours downtown. Aftermeeting with Ian and Griffin for coffee, I waste another hour at Lux & Lace, being talked into buying a fancy petal-pink bra that I don’t need and swear up and down to Marianne and Clara that no one will see besides me. Especially aJersey Shorecast member knock-off. Then I buy a gratitude journal at Chapter and Verse, convincing myself I will start using it—I swear—before popping into Stone Ink for a quick hi to my nephews, Jasper and Jaybird. They’re both tattoo artists like Ian but could not be more different. Demonstrated by how they’re in the middle of an argument about something I don’t care to referee, so I skip right on over to Sweet Cheeks, where I buy myself a cinnamon bun. The mental and emotional gymnastics I’ve been putting myself through lately are quite taxing on the system, and I need a good jolt of sugar to keep up my stamina.

Good thing, too, because when I arrive back at home, I discover Jake kicking the soccer ball around with Dante in the backyard while Maddie watches, and I absolutely do not take a picture. Even though that was my first instinct. To document all three of them laughing.

Ugh. Even I’m sick of myself.

So, I do the only thing worse than mental and emotional gymnastics and decide to physically work out.

I let out all that pent-up frustration on an imaginary target while I follow a cardio kickboxing YouTube video until my T-shirt is ringed with sweat and my hair sticks to the back of my neck. Since having kids, finding and keeping a workout routine has been difficult, but even more since I turned forty. Everything about perimenopause sucks, but the worst part for me has been how my vagina has suddenly revolted. We’d always had a relatively good relationship until recently, when she became a mercurial bitch. Some days, she’s dry; others, she smells weird. My periods are out of whack, and I’ve had so many blood tests done, I’m on a first-name basis with all the phlebotomistsat the testing center. But what I really detest is how I sometimes pee when I cough or sneeze or land a roundhouse kick to a pretend attacker.

Which is why I purchased a “pelvic floor strengthening course.”

I have no idea if I’m actually doing anything as I complete these exercises, but the perky blond lady leading them certainly thinks it’ll help, so I’ve been faithfully doing them every week.

I grab the two yoga blocks I need and position myself on top of them before hitting play on the video, and I close my eyes, as instructed, imagining an elevator shaft in the middle of my body, inhaling and exhaling to send that elevator up and down.

I hear the back door open and assume it’s one of the kids, so I don’t press pause on my exercises. They’ve heard and seen this all before.

“Now, take those breaths further. Zip up those transverse abdominals with every exhale and suck up a blueberry with your lady parts. That’s it. Big inhale and exhale, let it go. Drop the blueberry, set the elevator shaft down, unzip the abs.”

I hear a big exhale next to me, and since I know Frankie is outside, it can’t be him. I open my eyes and shoot my arm out in reflex at the intruder.

Dante catches my wrist, grinning. “Sorry, babe, didn’t mean to scare you and your blueberry-picking lady bits.”

I growl and lean over to grab one of the yoga blocks I’m sitting on, whacking his shoulder with it. “You asshole.”

“Hey.” He laughs, stealing the block from me to put under his butt as he sits down. When I hit the pause button, he has the gall to act affronted. LikeIinterruptedhim.

“We were just getting to the good part.” He moves to play it, but I nudge my shoulder into his, knocking him off-balance. He takes me with him, down to the floor, my breathstolen when he rolls us so I’m on my back, and he pins my hands above my head. “Mm. Now,thisis the good part.”

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