Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Hot Tub
Archer
For once, the twins go down easy, which feels like a sign from the universe that Sydney and I deserve one good night without a crisis.
Luke falls asleep mid-sentence about whale migration patterns, his mouth still forming the word “humpback” when his eyes close. Lily negotiates for two stories, settles for one and a half, and passes out with Jeffrey wedged under her chin and one arm dangling off the bed.
I come downstairs to find Sydney standing at the back door, looking out at the patio.
“When’s the last time you used the hot tub?” she asks.
I think about it. “Maybe, uh—last winter? Before Bree moved out. Not sure.”
“That’s criminal, Archer. You have a hot tub, and you don’t use it.”
“I have a lot of things I don’t use.”
“Well, I’m using it. I turned the heater on earlier.” She’s already heading upstairs. “Give me five minutes.”
She comes back down in a bikini with one of my hoodies zipped over it.
I’m standing in the kitchen holding two glasses of wine, feeling like a man who has completely lost control of his evening, which I have.
The bikini is black and simple, and it’s doing things to my brain that I need to get a handle on before we get in the water.
I change into swim trunks and meet her outside.
The night is cold—November in New York, the kind of cold that bites—but the water is hot and steaming.
She’s already in it, hair up, shoulders just above the waterline.
She takes the wine glass from my hand, takes a sip, and leans her head back against the edge.
“This is obscene,” she says. “You’ve been sitting on this the whole time.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Busy doing what? You could have been out here every night.”
“Being out here alone felt, uh—depressing.”
“Fair.” She looks at me. “Get in.”
I step into the hot tub, and the heat hits me everywhere at once. I sit across from her, but that distance doesn’t last long; her legs find mine under the water almost immediately, her calf sliding against my thigh.
The sky above is dark. You can’t see stars in Brooklyn, but the city has its own glow—amber and gray, the clouds lit from underneath.
“This is nice,” she says.
“Yeah.”
“We should do this more.”
“We should do a lot of things more.”
She smiles, takes a sip of wine, and gazes at me over the rim of her glass. Her eyes are dark in the low light, and her shoulders are wet. I’m trying very hard to be a gentleman right now, and it’s not going well.
“Come here,” I say.
“I’m right here.”
“Closer.”
She sets her wine on the edge of the tub and slides across the bench seat toward me. The water shifts with her, and soon she’s right next to me. I put my arm around her shoulders, and she leans into my side, her head finding that familiar spot on my shoulder.
I turn my head and press my mouth against her temple. She tilts her face up, and I kiss her forehead, her cheekbone, and the corner of her mouth.
“You’re taking your time,” she murmurs.
“I’m savoring.”
“Savoring.” She laughs, low and quiet. “Is that what this is?”
“I’ve got a beautiful woman in my hot tub. I’m going to savor it.”
She turns in the water, placing her warm, wet palm on my chest. Looking into my eyes, I stop savoring and just kiss her.
Her mouth opens under mine as she shifts, swinging one leg over my lap to straddle me, her knees on either side of my hips.
My hands find her waist beneath the water—bare skin, warm and slick—and she wraps her arms around my neck, pressing against me.
I groan into her mouth; the combination of hot water, her weight in my lap, and her hands on the back of my neck is short-circuiting my brain.
“Arch,” she breathes against my mouth, her hips shifting. I grip her waist harder than I intend to.
“Yeah.”
“We should probably talk about some things.”
“Right now?”
“At some point.”
“At some point, sure.” I kiss her neck, and she tilts her head back, her fingers tightening in my hair. “But not right now.”
We stay like that for a while, making out in the hot tub as if we don’t have real lives, responsibilities, or a custody arrangement that involves lawyers.
Her mouth is soft and urgent, and she makes these quiet, breathless sounds that resonate in my chest. My hands move up her sides, my thumbs brushing the bottom edge of her bikini top as she arches into me.
Then she pulls back, her hands on my chest, breathing hard, her forehead against mine.
“Okay,” she says. “I think we actually need to talk.”
“Okay.” My hands remain on her waist; I don’t move them, and she doesn’t ask me to.
“Pat offered me a job today.”
“At the senior center?”
“Activities coordinator. Part-time—twenty hours a week. I’d build out the whole dance program. Benefits, steady pay.” She pulls back enough to look at me. “I think I’m going to take it.”
“That’s great, Syd. That’s really great.”
“The hours will align with when the twins are at preschool. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, I’d finish before pickup. I asked Pat, and the hours are flexible, so if you have a game or something, my first priority is obviously the twins.”
“We’ll make it work.”
“You sure? Because if the schedule doesn’t—”
“Syd. Take the job. We’ll figure out the rest.”
She searches my face for a moment, then nods. “It, uh — it changes things, though.”
“Changes things how?”
“Because if I take a real job in New York, I’m staying.
And if I’m staying, I need to figure out what I am—here, in this house, in your life.
” She’s still in my lap, her hands on my shoulders, water dripping down her arms. “I’m not just the nanny, Archer.
I stopped being the nanny a while ago. But I’m also not your—what am I?
Your girlfriend? Your live-in girlfriend?
Your girlfriend who also raises your children and has no apartment and drives your car? ”
My mouth lifts in a wry smile. “You can be whatever you want to be.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I know.”
“I need an answer, Archer. Because Bree is talking about lawyers, and at some point, someone official is going to ask what I am to you, and ‘whatever she wants to be’ isn’t going to cut it.
” Her fingers tighten on my shoulders—not pulling me closer, but holding me still.
Making sure I’m listening. “So what am I?”
I look at her. She’s still in my lap in a hot tub, and we’re having a conversation that probably requires clothes. I don’t have a prepared answer because I’ve never been good at this part.
“We’re together. You’re, uh—” I rub the back of my neck. “I mean, you’re my girlfriend. Right? Isn’t that what this is?”
“Are you asking me or telling me?”
“Both? I don’t know. I’ve never done this part before. Bree and I just, uh—we just were. We never had the conversation.”
“And look how that turned out.”
“Fair point.”
“Archer, I can’t just live in your house indefinitely without clarity about what this is. It’s not fair to me, it’s not fair to the kids, and Bree’s lawyer is going to have a field day with it.”
“So what do you want?”
She’s quiet. She’s sitting in my lap in a bikini, having the most important conversation of our relationship, which is very on-brand for us because we’ve never done anything the normal way.
“I think I should probably get my own place,” she says.
My hands tighten on her waist. “What?”
“Not because I want to leave, but think about it, Arch.” Her eyes meet mine.
“When Bree’s lawyer asks about our living arrangement, the answer shouldn’t be ‘she moved into his house two months after the divorce was finalized and never left.’ I want to get an apartment so that I have an address that isn’t yours.
I want—” She stops, takes a breath. “I want to be with you because I chose you, not because I had nowhere else to go. That matters to me.”
“If that’s what you want,” I say.
The water laps between us, and she gazes at me, waiting for more.
“But?” she prompts.
“But nothing. If you need your own place, get your own place.”
“You’re upset.”
“I’m not upset.”
“Archer, your jaw is clenched so tightly I can practically hear your molars grinding.” She shifts in my lap, placing both palms on my jaw, tilting my head down so I have to look at her. “Talk to me.”
“I just—” I exhale. “I don’t understand why you need an apartment. I would hope you’re going to be here as often as you can, so what’s the point? Why spend money on a place you don’t need?”
“Because I do need it.”
“For what? For Bree’s lawyer? You want to sign a lease and pay rent on an empty apartment just so some attorney can check a box?”
“It’s not about checking a box.”
“Then what’s it about?”
She pulls her hands off my face. “It’s about the fact that I moved into your house with a suitcase and no plan, and I’ve been here for two months. Everything I have is yours—your house, your car, your Netflix, your life. I don’t have a single thing in this city that belongs to me.”
“You have the job.”
“I have the job as of today. Before that, I had nothing.”
“You had me.”
“That’s my point, Archer.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “You’re all I have. And that’s not healthy. For either of us.”
The water is starting to feel less hot. Or maybe I’m just aware of the cold air on my shoulders and the space opening up between us, even though she’s still in my lap.
“So you want an exit strategy,” I say, and I realize it sounds wrong before the last word lands.
Her whole body goes still. “That’s what you think this is?”
“I don’t know what this is. You’re sitting here telling me you want to move out.”
“I’m not moving out. I said I might want my own apartment. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
She climbs off me, one leg then the other, sliding back to the opposite side of the hot tub. The water between us feels like it just dropped twenty degrees. She wraps her arms around herself, jaw tight.
“I’m trying to do this the right way,” she says. “I’m trying to build something real instead of just falling into your life by accident and hoping it works out. And you’re hearing that as me leaving.”
“Because it sounds like leaving.”
“It sounds like a grown woman who wants her own address. How is that threatening to you?”
“It’s not threatening.”
“Then why are you clenching your jaw again?”
I press my tongue against the roof of my mouth and force my jaw to relax, which probably proves her point more than arguing would.
We sit on opposite sides of the hot tub, three feet apart, arms crossed, with steam rising between us. But everything feels different now.
“I don’t want to fight about this,” she says.
I release a slow breath. “Syd, I hear what you’re saying.
I do. I just—” I look at the sky, which has nothing useful to offer me.
“You’ve been in this house for two months, and it’s the first time it’s felt like a home since Bree left.
Maybe even before that. The thought of you having another place to go makes me feel like—”
I stop.
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve already thought about what it looks like when this doesn’t work.”
She stares at me across the water. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“It sure feels like it.”
“I’m just saying,” she leans back enough to look at me, “we’ve been—whatever we’ve been—for about five minutes. You’ve been divorced for four months. None of this is settled. Nothing about us is settled. And I think having my own place while we figure it out isn’t the craziest idea in the world.”
“It feels like a safety net.”
“Maybe it is a safety net. Maybe I need one. You were married, Arch. You had a wife and a family, and it didn’t work. Now I’m here, and I need to know that if this goes sideways, I’m not homeless.”
“You’d never be homeless,” I say, fighting the urge to roll my eyes.
That one sits between us for a while.
“I don’t know how to do this,” I say.
“Do what?”
“Any of it. The relationship. The labels. The, uh—” I wave one hand above the water. “All of it. I’m in the middle of the season, under an incredible amount of pressure, and I’m trying to navigate this the best I can. Sorry I don’t really know how to do this.”
We look at each other. The hot tub hums. A car honks somewhere on the other side of the fence.
“I’m getting out,” she says. “I’m cold and frustrated, and I need to not be having this conversation in a bathing suit.”
She stands up, wraps herself in a towel, picks up her wine glass, and walks inside.
The back door closes behind her. I sit in the hot tub alone, steam rising around me, replaying every word from the last ten minutes. I can’t figure out where I went wrong—except maybe everywhere.
I get out. The cold air hits me, and I wrap a towel around my waist as I walk inside. The kitchen light is off, and I can hear her footsteps upstairs, the guest room door opening and closing. Not a slam. Just the click.
I take a shower. I get into bed. My bed. Alone. The sheets are cold, the house is quiet, and I lie there thinking about the woman on the other side of the hallway who asked me for one reasonable thing—and I turned it into a fight because I’m afraid of her having somewhere to go that isn’t here.
My phone is on the nightstand. I pick it up and put it down three times. I want to text her. I want to walk down the hall, knock on her door, and say, “I’m sorry, you’re right. Get the apartment. Get ten apartments. I don’t care, just don’t be mad at me.”
But I don’t. I lie there in my bed, alone, in a house that has her in it and still somehow feels empty tonight.
I’ll fix this tomorrow. I have to fix this tomorrow.
Somehow.