What it means that I went home with this hunk and had the best sex of my life on my non-wedding night.
What it means that I want to see him again.
“And it was very, very good, but yes, they do end,” I say, echoing the sentiment, since I don’t want him to think I’m going to Velcro myself to him on the rebound train.
He nods toward the door. “I’ll call you a car service now. And I have some clothes for you to head home in.” After he makes a call, he strides to the living room, picks up some folded items, and offers me a pair of gym shorts and a Renegades sweatshirt. With a smile of gratitude, I take off his T-shirt, and pull on the new duds. I swim in both of them, the shorts slipping down my waist.
He holds up one finger. “I’ve got something for that.” He heads into the kitchen and returns ten seconds later. He hands me an apron with snowmen printed on it. “Take this. Wrap it around your waist.”
I grin in approval. “It’s a life hack for a belt.”
He winks. “You got it.”
“It’s also a Christmas apron. You own a Christmas apron?” I ask, sort of in awe. It’s so freaking cute, I don’t know what to do with how sweet it is.
“I own many. I was born on Christmas.”
Nothing has made more sense than that. “Of course you were,” I say. I tie the makeshift apron-slash-belt and head to the entryway, pull on my cowboy boots, and grab my clutch. “Can you just toss the remains of my wedding dress?”
“Consider it done.”
“Thanks for that. And for tearing it off me.”
“Oh, I assure you, the pleasure was definitely mine.”
“And mine too.” I draw a deep breath. Here goes the hard part. I hate to do this, but I have to. “I really want to see you again. But . . .”
Harlan shoots me a resigned smile. “I know. Wrong timing.”
I smile so damn sadly. “Worst timing ever,” I say, choking up a little.
Yup, the whirligig of emotions knocks me around again. “I think I need to sort out everything that’s happened.” But I can’t stand the thought of walking away. “But what if we try again? Maybe in the fall? That feels like enough time. But duh. The fall is for football. You’ll be busy with the game.”
“I will, but I’d love to see you again. Maybe the third time will be the charm.”
I sure hope so.
When the car arrives at the curb, he sets the Indiana Jones hat on my head, then kisses me goodbye. I glance down at my get-up. “I should return all your clothes to you. Do you want me to drop them off later? Leave them on your porch?”
He waves a hand dismissively. “I’ve got plenty of aprons, shorts, and sweatshirts to keep me busy till the fall. Why don’t you return them when you’re ready for that date?”
My heart warms at that. I wish I were ready now. But I’m not. “I will.”
I leave, decked out in his clothes, my new hat, my old boots, and an apron.
I’m a mess, but I’m happier than I was yesterday evening.
And I’m a little hollow too.
Imagine that.
The Fall
10
Katie
One more lap.
I push through the cool, blue water, burst above the surface, then breaststroke my way to the end of the pool. When I hit the edge of the deep end, I slap my palm on the concrete and indulge in several long breaths.
My father putters at the other end of the pool, organizing floaties in a big basket. I hoist myself out of the water and reach for the towel I left on the diving board. As I dry off, I inhale the quiet.
It’s six in the morning on a Sunday, and even though the swim and tennis club my dad owns is open right now, the classes don’t start till after nine.
Swimming has always centered me. I suspect my love of yoga started in the pool. They’re different, sure, but also not. Both rely on that mind-body connection, on breath, on finding your own pace.
I wrap the towel around my waist and circle the pool toward the shallow end. The scent of chlorine is thick and familiar—it reminds me of home.
As a kid in Texas, I spent afternoons goofing off in the water when Dad taught classes. Later, the pool was an escape for me when Mom left Dad shortly after we moved to California.
Oh, yeah, my mom out-Draper-ed Don Draper. She banged the assistant of the magazine she ran, then she married him. I should have seen the Silvio situation coming.
Dad smiles at me as I reach him, and maybe that’s the real therapy—talking to him about Mom and Silvio, sure, but also about life and business, his wife, Janice, and their adventures in fishing and golfing. He’ll tell me about the swim classes he’s teaching here. I’ll update him on the corporate clients I’ve taken on. He’ll give me business advice, and I’ll weigh in on what to give Janice for her birthday or anniversary—that lemon pound-cake candle from the wine country vintage shop that actually smells like lemon pound cake, a mug that says Please cancel my subscription to your issues, and a weekend getaway trip to her favorite golf resort.