Page 148 of The Best Men
The message is a birthday greeting from . . . my New York dentist? Well, that gives me the warm fuzzies. He’s throwing in a twenty-five percent discount on whitening too.
I roll off the bed with a groan, and pad into the kitchen. I grab a knife out of the block and use it to slit the tape on Mark’s present. I’m opening this sucker right now. Maybe it will cheer me up.
Inside the box I peel back some tissue paper decorated with . . . are those eggplants? I let out a snort of laughter. See? Mark is already lifting my spirits.
There’s a card on top of the gift, with Mark’s handwriting on it:Can’t wait to be there with you. Please wear these. I lift the card to find a pair of boxer briefs in cerulean blue. They’re knit from something soft. Is that silk?
And the waistband says PROPERTY OF MARK BANKS in a continuous loop.
Hilarious! I’m definitely taking a thirst-trap selfie with these on. And underneath the briefs there’s something in crisp white cotton. When I unfold it I find . . .
A polo shirt. I laugh again, and when I shake out the shirt, another little card falls out.Laugh if you want, but you’ll look hot in this too. Besides, what else would you wear when we play tennis this summer?
That’s when the ache hits me hard—right in the center of the chest. I miss him. I miss his kiss. I miss hearing him tell me that I snore. I misshissnore. I even miss his most boring gray polo shirt.
And the navy one too.
Fuck my life. Why am I in Paris when Mark is in New York?
What am I even doing?
I know there are rational answers. I wanted this job. Our relationship is still new. Blah, blah, blah. But those things just don’t seem important enough tonight.
Alone in my kitchen, I drop my jeans and my underwear and put on the silky briefs. Then I shed my shirt and pull on the polo.
There’s one more thing in the box. A bottle of Glen Scotia 15.Nice, Mark. That’s a real treat. So I find a glass and pour myself two fingers of scotch. No, three fingers. I barely ate dinner, but who cares.
I take my phone into the bedroom. Time for a little photo shoot. And an hour or so from now, I can call my man and tell him how much I miss him.
51
THE ECLAIRS ARE REALLY GOOD HERE
MARK
Here’s something nobody ever tells you about childrearing—kids turn into psychos in December. There should be a whole parenting book just about surviving a month of sugar cookies, Santa cravings, and Christmas break.
There could be an entire chapter just for advice on how to get the song “Jingle Bells” out of a guy’s head.
My kitchen is trashed. Bits of cookie dough are everywhere. But at least the last cookies are out of the oven, so I can leave Rosie and Alba at the kitchen table with their sticky tubes of icing and their sprinkles.
“No sprinkles on the floor, girls,” I beg.
“Sorry, Daddy,” Rosie says. “The cast makes me clumsy.”
“Does it hurt?” I ask for the millionth time this week.
“Nope,” she says. “But Blackbeard just stepped on my pinky toe.”
“Ah.” My tone is dry. “Another trip to the ER then?”
“No, Daddy. His feet are soft.”
Alba giggles.
“Good to know. I’ll be in the living room if anybody needs me.” But I sure hope they don’t. It’s been a rough week. Bridget hasn’t said she blames me for Rosie’s broken arm.
But I know she totally blames me. Heck, I blame myself.
