Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Alicia
“Alright. I want all the details.”
Christine’s light blue eyes are lit with an enthusiasm that comes from what she calls booty chatter. We ended up meeting up for brunch in her home, as she lives close to Stella’s school and Stella has Saturday play practice for two hours.
There’s not much to tell is on the tip of my tongue, but that won’t fly, and it’s not true.
“Oh come on. Tell me something,” she says, sipping her coffee.
Behind her, bright sunlight streams in through the window and a bluebird lands on a skeleton limb of the maple that shades the kitchen in summer.
“Like, you have a whole security detail, and he personally walked you to my door.” She sets her coffee down with a pointed look. “That’s not security. That’s courtship.”
“He’s thorough,” I say, keeping my voice neutral.
“Mm-hmm.” She draws it out in a way that means she believes none of it. “And is he thorough in other areas?”
“Christine.”
“I’m just asking.” She grins, entirely unrepentant. “Okay. Fine. Tell me what’s actually going on—the non-fun parts.”
“I don’t really need this level of security,” I begin, stirring the stick of celery in my Bloody Mary.
This morning Christine went all out with the Bloody Mary bar, and picked up bagels, cream cheese, and smoked lox for breakfast. “This is all for Dorian. He’s being cautious because of a case I worked on recently. ”
“The one involving the White House?”
“That’s the one, and no, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Neither do I,” she’s quick to agree. She knows everything anyway. “How is Dorian?”
“He’s good.”
“I always thought you would end up with him.”
I roll my eyes. “It was never like that with us.”
“If you say so,” she says, voice lilting in that way that lets me know she disagrees. “How’s that wife of his?”
“She’s doing well,” I say.
“And she’s okay with her husband insisting on another woman having a security detail?”
It’s her company is on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it back because Dorian and his wife are private people, and one of the reasons my friendship with Dorian has survived the years is he trusts me.
“Wait. Didn’t they get divorced? Is this wife number two?”
“Same wife,” I say. The world believes they divorced, but in actuality, they separated for years—neither of them signed the papers, which says everything. But talking about this at all makes me feel like I’m gossiping about Dorian.
“Oh, but I remember.” She snaps her fingers. “They split and got back together. Divorce must’ve been prohibitively expensive. And you’d think of all people Dorian Moore could afford a divorce—I guess you just never know.”
“Would you quit it?” I admonish. “Dorian can afford a divorce. He never wanted one.”
“But you’re not close to his wife, right?”
“Dorian met her after we’d lost touch. She came along after college, after our crowd had scattered. But remember when Nick and Dorian spent that weekend with us in the city?”
“How could I forget.”
“He was with her then. I think she had exams or something. And that’s kind of the norm. I see Dorian when she’s unavailable and he’s filling time.”
“How is Nick?”
“I’m honestly not sure. Nick hasn’t come up in conversation—” There’s something in Christine’s posture that reminds me— “You and Nick hooked up that weekend.”
Now I’m grinning, and she’s struggling not to.
“It was a fun weekend. Let’s leave it at that.”
She sips her coffee, holding the mug with both hands, clearly covering her smile. But when she sets it down on the table, she says, “And now you’re with the hot bodyguard that Dorian has insisted stay in your home. Funny how we come full circle.”
“He’s hot. I’m not going to deny that. But just like you and Nick had fun…that’s all this is.”
Guilt stabs at me, slicing through my integrity. But it’s easiest to downplay it, and I’m not ready to dissect what’s going on.
“Because he’s younger?” She’s probing, as I guess any good friend would.
“He’s young. Just out of the military. His whole life is still ahead of him—he’s figuring out what comes next.” I’m not a next. I’m a now. “It’s fun. Like you and Nick.”
Fun. The word feels too light for what’s happening between Noah and me. There’s heat, yes—but also comfort. Safety. And that’s the part that’s unnerving.
“Yeah, that was one weekend. Nick made it clear up front it was only a thing. Has this guy—”
“Noah.”
“Yeah, Noah, has he made the same thing clear?”
“Yes, we’ve had the discussion.”
She eyes me with her you-are-full-of-it expression.
“We have.” I say it firmly, selling the position. “And come on. He’s got his life in front of him. He’s not thinking forever with a single mom.”
She still stares.
“What?”
“I am so jealous. My date last night?”
“I thought it was work.”
“Date,” she says. “Fifty-five. Nice enough. What you would call appropriate, right?”
“I think given you don’t want kids it makes a lot of sense to date older—”
“Right. So, Mr. Appropriate assumed we’d have sex. Like—just assumed it.”
I’m full of questions but I don’t need to ask them as Christine will tell all, so I sip my Bloody Mary.
“When I said I didn’t want to go back to his place, he’d gotten annoyed. Like rude. Like ‘I bought you dinner,’ and he wasn’t looking for a relationship—mind you. Oh no, he was basically just under the assumption that sex is what happened after dinner.”
“Who was this date with?”
“Harold Thompson.”
“That name is familiar.”
“Divorced two years ago.”
I snap my fingers. “I remember. His kids are older than Stella. Yeah, I’ve heard rumors that he does the escort thing from time to time.” Christine’s eyes bulge. “I don’t know if they’re true. I can’t even remember who said it. How did you end up on a date with him?”
She waves a hand. “It’s not important. The point is, he was an ass.
Dating is hard. And I’d be willing to bet if I had sex with Harold, it would suck, and here you are with a younger man who is model-fucking gorgeous and he walked you to my door, and is concerned about you, and I want some of that! ”
Yes, I’m laughing.
“Seriously. Tell Dorian I’m in mortal danger and need security,” she whines.
And then a flash of last night hits, of the orgasm that rocked through me, and I have to pluck at my sweater to wave it like a fan to cool me down.
“I don’t know why you’re holding back.” Her statement is half-whine and half-serious, and I settle in to have the conversation she’s been pushing.
“Richard went through a succession of girlfriends. Stella lived through them all.”
“But he’s serious with this one, right?”
“Jessica. Yes, he’s serious with her—I think. But there’s a reason not to do what he does. I need to model good behavior.”
“I agree!” Christine jumps in. “Let her see you date. Let your daughter see that dating isn’t always unicorns shooting fireworks out the anus.”
“So you’re saying that you think Richard is in the right?”
“You know I think that guy’s an ass,” Christine says, waving her celery stick. “But at least he’s living. You, my dear, are over here editing your life like it’s a press release. And all the while you’re having this hot sex—”
“I haven’t told you—”
“You don’t need to! You know how I know? Because if sex sucked, you’d talk about it. It would’ve been listed as a reason to not go there again. But the only roadblock I’ve heard mentioned is age and Stella—neither of which are valid roadblocks.”
I open my mouth to disagree.
“Come on,” Christine shouts. “If I can date a guy almost fifteen years older why can’t you date a guy ten years younger? Who says only men are allowed to date younger? That’s bullshit.”
I rub my forehead and pluck a pickle from my drink. “He needs someone younger,” I counter.
“For what? Sex?” She arches a brow. “When he’s with you, does he act like he needs someone younger?”
The memory hits fast—his mouth, his breath, his weight pressing me into the mattress—and I have to reach for my drink just to ground myself.
“Yeah, I’m taking that as a no.”
“I mean long term. And he’s still figuring things out.”
“Okay. Let me go over this with you. Nick being from across the pond—as in the Atlantic Ocean—that’s a distance that warrants fling status.
This man is DC-based. The only ocean between you is the one you’re manufacturing.
He travels for work? So do you. You say you don’t even want a husband.
You, my friend, are still figuring things out.
What’s wrong with enjoying what you have in the moment? I would kill to be you.”
“Yes, my life is so glam.”
“I’m serious,” she screeches. “You’re always put together. You have a closet to die for. You have an ex-husband who comes running when you call and wants what’s best for you and the two of you co-parent like pros. Your reputation in DC practically glows neon.”
I wave a hand, waving her off.
“Look, I know you work for it. I’m your bestie.
I see how hard you work for it, but the fact it looks so easy is very annoying.
But, as your bestie, I’m here to tell you that one thing that’s hard is dating.
” She slams her Bloody Mary down on the table hard enough some of the tomato juice splashes over the side.
“If you don’t take advantage of what fell in your lap, I’m going to grow livid.
Or…no…I’m not. Dump him and I’ll come over at night to console him.
” She snaps her fingers. “That’s what we should do.
” She clucks her tongue. “Give him my number.”
“No,” I snap back.
“That’s right. And if you did end it, he’s already in my no-date zone. Because you, my friend, are not one who plays around lightly. You’re just in denial—and here’s the reality: You’re into him, and these little excuses you’re making are just that—pointless excuses.”
Over the course of the next hour, Christine somehow pulls out most of what’s gone on with me and Noah.
I admit that I have enjoyed having him close—and that it’s hands down the best sex I’ve had in my life.
Christine’s response to that last part is entirely unprintable.
We never mention my police interrogation—and I’m grateful.
I needed this—just time with a friend and focusing on the lighter side of life.
Later on, when Stella and I are back home and Noah has gone out for what he calls his Saturday long run, my brunch conversation runs through my mind on repeat.
“What do you think of Noah?” I ask.
Stella is sitting on the sofa in the living room, watching a TV show on her iPad. For years, I tried to force her to watch television shows on the television screen, but I’ve about decided the fight is futile.
“He’s nice.” She tugs at the blanket that’s over her legs. “He’s cool.”
“We had dinner last night. I think he’s a nice guy.”
She lowers the iPad. “Like a date?”
“I mean…” I toy with my grandmother’s watch, silently cursing Christine for egging me into this position.
“Mom.” Stella’s no-nonsense tone captures my full attention. “It’s not like I’m harboring any hope of you and Dad getting back together. I don’t care if you date. And I like him. He’s helping me improve my game.”
“Basketball?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, he won’t be here much longer.”
“Well,” she says, playing my word right back at me, “If he is, I like him. He gets my thumbs up.” I smile, but something twists low in my chest. Stella’s easy acceptance feels like permission—and that, somehow, makes me more uneasy than judgment would have.
She goes back to her TV show and on the way out I pause, leaning against the doorway, watching her, comforted by the normalcy of it.
The smell of coffee still lingers in the air, sunlight pooling across the rug.
For the first time in weeks, everything feels ordinary again.
Which, of course, is exactly when things usually fall apart.