41. Mansion Kink
MANSION KINK
A WEEK LATER
Mark
“I have two things to discuss with you,” Bridget says as she puts a plate down in front of me on her kitchen table. It contains three tacos, two with carnitas-style pork, lime and radishes, and one stuffed with homemade guacamole.
My mouth waters. But at the same time, I know she’s about to ask a favor. That’s the only explanation for the feast she’s set in front of me. “What did you want to talk about?”
“Rosie’s teacher wants her to do math with the second graders instead of the first graders.”
I pick up a taco and consider this while I take a bite. “Okay?” I say through crispy pork and crunchy radishes that make me moan in happiness. Let’s face it—Bridget’s tacos are the closest I’ve come in months to having a sexual experience.
The summer has been hellaciously busy. Work is nuts, as always. But Bridget has taken five business trips in ten weeks. So I’ve done a lot of extra parenting, too, including summer T-ball practices that start at eight a.m. on Saturdays and Sundays.
Whoever thought that was a good idea? I haven’t slept in since June. Hell, some days I feel like I haven’t slept at all since then.
“Are you good with her jumping up a grade in math?” Bridget continues. “The second-grade class does math at the same time as the first graders so she won’t miss any other subjects.”
“Sure,” I agree, since math is awesome. “What else?”
She taps her fingers on the table. “Tomorrow morning—before your tennis game—my book club is throwing a baby shower for Maxine.”
I put the taco down on the plate. “Did you say tomorrow morning? During Rosie’s T-ball practice?”
Bridget winces. “It’s Maxine’s first baby. I offered to bring the cupcakes. Rosie and I are making them.”
I shove the rest of the taco in my mouth and make her sweat it out. But of course I’m going to say yes. I’ll come here tomorrow morning—it’s Bridget’s weekend and Rosie is coloring in her room right now—and pick my daughter up for T-ball practice like a good dad.
Because I am a good dad. And my kid will grow up knowing that both her parents would do anything for her.
Except stay married.
“Fine,” I say through a mouthful. “But shockingly I have some plans, so I’ll have to cancel tennis with Brett. Someday, if I manage to get a more exciting life, I won’t be so easily bought off with guacamole.”
I expect her to smile, but she doesn’t. “You should have a life, Mark. You should date . . . whoever you want.”
Thanks, Bridget.
A flame of anger slices through me, since I don’t need her permission.
But I cool it down with a sip of the iced tea she made just the way I like—with a splash of lemonade.
I should have a social life. It’s just that I don’t have any idea how to get one.
Last month I downloaded Grindr, spent an hour perfecting a profile I’d started last spring, then spent another hour interacting with strangers . . . before deleting it again.
I hate dating apps. Hate . And I don’t have any single guy friends anymore, either. No wingmen in sight. When I see the odd college friend, I’m usually the third wheel.
It’s a problem I don’t know how to solve. I might actually let Valencia set me up with her dentist one of these days.
Maybe.
“Is there anything else?” I ask Bridget. “Flip’s party starts in half an hour.”
“That sounds fun,” Bridget says with a cheerful smile. “I like Flip.”
“Everybody likes Flip,” I point out. I’m not in the mood for his birthday bash, though. Seeing his whole preppy crew will only remind me of Asher.
“Where’s the party?” Bridget asks. “Where do multi-millionaires celebrate their thirtieth birthdays?”
I snort. “I swear, this place had a preppy name too. Hang on. It’s somewhere on the Upper East Side . . .” I pull my phone out and navigate to my email. I need the address before I hit the number 4 train uptown.
I tap the link to bring me to the party’s page. “It’s called Downton Club—on Madison and Seventy-Ninth.” I roll my eyes. “ Join us at an historic private supper club for finger sandwiches and Pimm’s cup cocktails with old man Flip . Jesus—these people have a kink for mansions.”
Bridget’s eyes twinkle. “Come on. It sounds like they’re being ironic.”
“Maybe,” I admit. Although I still don’t really want to go. I have to, though. It will be nice to see Hannah and her big baby bump, of course.
The wedding was only three months ago. It feels like three years.
“More guacamole?” Bridget asks. At least she feels bad about shanking me with another early T-ball practice.
“No thanks,” I sigh. Idly, I scroll down the list of RSVPs, wondering if Asher will be there, though I’m sure he won’t.
But then . . .
His name appears on the RSVP list.
And all my blood stops circulating. Wait. Really? I scroll up to make sure that I’m reading the yeses and not the maybes or the nos .
But it’s true. His name is there. He RSVPed yes .
Holy shit.
I spring out of my chair and pace across Bridget’s kitchen, staring at my phone.
“Mark?” my ex-wife asks. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” I bark. Although, I’m not sure that’s true. Asher’s in New York? And he didn’t even tell me?
I feel sick.
On the thirty-minute subway trip uptown, I don’t feel any better. I knew that someday I’d encounter him again. But I thought I’d have more time to put on my poker face.
Or at least a nicer shirt. As I exit the 4 train on Seventy-Seventh, I actually contemplate looking around for a men’s shop and buying something better than the polo shirt I’m wearing.
But I don’t do it. A grown man does not have a fashion crisis before confronting the hookup he isn’t truly over.
It was never about my wardrobe, either. Asher and I are in different places in life. We need different things and we both knew that. The end of our brief fling was very civilized.
Okay, that may be the right word for the last second I saw him, but it’s the wrong word to describe Asher at all.
The fizz of excitement and dread that I feel as I trudge down the street is anything but civilized.
And the way I felt when he stripped me down and fucked me hard was anything but civilized.
I can fake it, though. I’m going to have to.
My phone chimes with a text, and suddenly my heart is in my mouth. I pull it out of my pocket, hoping to see Asher’s name.
But it’s only Hannah. The preview on the lock screen reads: Mark, before you get here, you should know that Asher . . .
I shove the phone back in my pocket as my stomach bottoms out. I don’t even want to know how that sentence ends. Asher and his new boyfriend are here . That’s probably it.
Whatever happens, I’m going to be cool-headed tonight. I’ll greet him in a friendly way. But not flirty. I’ll shake his hand. Good to see you again , I’ll say, as if it isn’t tearing me apart to be in the same room again. What brings you to New York?
I already know it isn’t me.
The Downton Club is a four-story limestone row house between Madison and Fifth. It has an intricately carved oak door with only a tiny brass sign beside it. You’d never know it was here if you didn’t know it was here.
Rich people. They’re seriously weird.
I trudge up the limestone staircase and open the door, feeling like a peasant. Inside the marble foyer, a host greets me. “May I help you, sir?”
Holy crap. He’s wearing a full livery suit and sports a handlebar mustache. I’ve stumbled onto a doppelg?nger from the set of An Arranged Marriage . And he could easily be cast as an extra.
“I’m here for the Flip Dubois birthday party. The name is Mark Banks.”
“Of course.” He consults a list on a clipboard. Then he makes a check mark next to my name. “The party is straight through, sir. Enjoy your time with us.”
“I sure will,” I lie.
As I pass through a carved doorway and head towards the party noises in the rear of this place, I realize that Flip’s party is a big affair. As the mansion opens out to reveal a large parlor with French doors leading to a garden, the tacos I ate do the samba in my stomach.
I’m in no shape for a party. I’d rather turn around and go home.
But then I spot him . He’s by the back wall, one hand casually slung on Flip’s shoulder. He’s holding a martini glass in his other hand, and laughing at something Flip just said. His golden face is split into a smile.
And I ache.
When I look away, I spot my sister waving at me. She smiles and beckons me over.
I hold up a finger in the universal sign for just a second . And then I do a one-eighty and locate the open bar. Because this moment requires a beer. Stat.
Later, I won’t remember anything I said to the bartender, or anything he said to me. I’m too full of prickly awareness and tension.
I’m in the same room as Asher St. James. He didn’t even bother to tell me he was coming. Unbelievable.
Then a hand lands on my shoulder.