Page 19 of Loverboy
I couldn’t believe Spalding brought me here to wine and dine me on my own dime to ask me if he could sleep with other women. I didn’t even recognize him anymore.
Well then. He wouldn’t recognize me, either. I’d stood up and leaned over him as he’d raised his champagne flute toward me. But I’d tipped the bottle too far above to hit the glass, thrilling myself as the first of the foamy, golden liquid began to pour from the bottleneck onto his shiny, shiny hair.
Spalding’s shriek had made every head in the restaurant swivel towards us. “This is my favorite tie!” he’d sputtered as the last drops rained down on him.
“But attachment is the root of all suffering,” I’d said through clenched teeth. “I’m walking the path to joy right out of here.”
A waiter had approached with his hands up and open. Like he’d expected me to attack. I’d straightened my spine and handed him the bottle. “Here. This is empty. But don’t bring him another bottle. I’m divorcing his cowardly ass and he won’t have the money for vintage champagne after tonight.”
Then, in the utter silence of the stunned room, I’d lifted my briefcase to my shoulder and left without a backward glance. I’d taken the Subway to Ginny’s apartment, where I’d spent the night crying on her sofa.
The following morning I’d gone back to my own apartment at six a.m. Spalding was sitting at the kitchen table, eating peanut butter toast and coffee.
“I don’t want an open marriage,” I’d told him. “I won’t do it. If you make me choose, I’ll choose divorce.”
“Oh dear. Siddhartha said: If you find no one to support you on the spiritual path, walk alone.”
Now it’s only me whowalks alone, though. These days he’s walking the path of happiness with Saroya. I called that one. Even if they didn’t start up until I’d moved out, it was still a betrayal.
Almost a year later, I’m still angry about it.
And because our divorce was technically my decision, I was forced to buy out Spalding’s marital portion of the buildings my grandparents left me. His divorce lawyer was an animal. Spalding had once dipped into inherited money to pay for my MBA, so the judge divided the property I’d eventually inherited. Never mind that I worked like a dog to see him through his so-called medical crisis. And never mind that we were only divorcing so he could boink his life coach.
Even if I’m poorer now, at least I’m free of him. Or I would be, ifsheever stopped showing up.
I started a pie shop instead of a family. I’m happy with my choice. But if Spalding and Saroya are starting a family, I’m going to need to take up kickboxing, or find some other outlet for my rage. They will raise their bundle of joy next door, in the building he gained by divorcing me.
Ouch. Just ouch. I wonder if Buddha said anything useful about revenge.
I flop around in my bed, trying to get comfortable. Shoving Spalding and his new woman out of my mind isn’t easy. And I only manage it when my busy brain flips over to thinking about Gunnar Scott instead.
There’s another man who’s too attractive for his own good. Although he’s handsome in a scruffy way that’s different from Spalding’s genteel good looks.
My attraction to Gunnar began the very first night we ever worked together. I was—I can admit this now—a terrible bartender at first. I was only nineteen years old, and not a drinker. I had to mix each cocktail with the care of a chemist in the laboratory. One ounce of this, a half ounce of that.
Meanwhile, Gunnar would be just down the bar, pouring liquors I couldn’t even pronounce with a flick of his strong wrist.
He made four times as many drinks as I did the first night. I was sweaty and demoralized by two a.m. But Gunnar was sipping a beer and facing the bills in the cash pouch with the finesse of a Las Vegas dealer. “Hey new girl,” he’d said between tasks. “You need some help getting up to speed?”
“I’ll get there,” I’d said defensively.
“Never said you wouldn’t.” I watched his T-shirt flex over his strong chest. “If you’re down, you can come over to my place and I’ll give you some…” His eyes did a slow tour of my breasts. “…special tutoring.”
With a gulp, I’d turned away. “Iftutoringis code for sex, then no thank you.”
Gunnar had only laughed. “Can’t blame a guy for trying.” He’d reached up to grab a thin book off the shelf over the register. “Better take this then, and study it.”
I’d taken his copy ofMixologyand thanked him curtly. By studying that book, I became a more confident bartender. That’s when my father hatched his scheme to dangle a promotion in front of both of us at the same time. So Gunnar and I became fierce competitors.
It was so typical of me to fall for my father’s scheme. I wanted Daddy’s approval so badly that I’d rather go to war with the hot guy in the tight T-shirt than go home to bed with him.
What a waste. I might have had a night of fun with someone who could have taught me to mix a gin fizz and a bloody Mary while naked.
But nope. My misplaced sense of duty and pride forbade me to have fun, or even ask for help.
I close my eyes and picture Gunnar behind my eyelids. He’s aged well, damn him. Same scruffy blond hair and hot body. Same loverboy smile. What are the odds that he’ll invite me over again? Pretty bad, I’m guessing. If he really needs the barista job, he won’t proposition his boss.
Ah well. If he figures out how to make coffee before Monday, I can still watch his muscles flex while he does it.
