Page 144 of The Best Men
Since ten minutes later, as Bridget leaves, she stops in front of the couch, then says through thin lips to us, “Good luck, you two.”
“Thanks,” I say, since Mark doesn’t say a word.
I remember what he told me in Miami about their marriage?the end of it was never about his orientation. But it’s always good to know the mother of your kid isn’t a homophobic selfish jerk. Maybe just a selfish jerk.
Sometimes, that’s all you can ask for, so I’m glad she gave that much to him.
Besides, Mark seems more interested in the two people on the couch. I catch him watching Rosie and me with a soft look on his face. He seats himself on his daughter’s other side and watches a Barcelona player catch a chicken in front of the goal.
When the video finally ends, he looks over Rosie’s head at me. “It’s four. Isn’t your car downstairs? Aren’t you worried about traffic?”
Holding his gaze, I slowly shake my head. “Ishouldbe, though. I suppose.”
“Is Asher going?” Rosie looks up from the phone. “Now?”
That’s as good a cue as any. “I have a plane to catch.”
“You could stay for dinner,” she says as I tuck my phone back into my shirt pocket.
I wish I could. “Maybe another time,” I say gently. I rise from the sofa and reluctantly grab my bag and head for the door.
Mark follows me. The vestibule is tiny, and not at all private. It’s just as well, or I’d probably maul the guy again and miss my flight.
“Take care of yourself,” Mark says, his voice like gravel.
“You too,” I whisper.
From the sofa comes a question. “Are you going to kiss him again, Daddy?”
I find this query startling, but Mark does not. He holds my gaze, his eyes warming. “I am, cupcake.”
Then he lifts a hand to my chin, steps closer, and gives me a kiss so sweet and tender that I have to close my eyes and just experience it.
It’s over way too soon. “Goodbye, Ash,” he whispers. “Talk soon.”
“I can’t wait,” I whisper. Then I wave goodbye to Rosie and leave the apartment, before I lose my nerve.
49
I HATE TIME
MARK
The next three months are heaven and hell.
Asher carves out two days in October to get away, and we spend an autumn weekend in the city that makes me want to stop time. We go to bed together, we wake up together, and we visit Caroline?myniece,hisgoddaughter?since Hannah and Flip had a little girl. In November, I fly to Paris for Veteran’s Day, and the capital of France is better than I imagined, especially since my tour guide speaks French.
In my ear.
My favorite French words are the ones he mutters in that husky voice he uses when we’re naked, grinding together. He could be telling me to do the laundry or wash his socks and it’d still make me shudder.
Problem is, those weekends are like a rich cognac.
One small pour and then you’re done.
Long-distance sucks big time. The pain of separation pounds through me every day like a dull headache.
I have to live with it, and there’s no aspirin to take away the sting.
