Husbands & Lovers

Chapter Twelve Mallory

August 2008

Winthrop Island, New York

I opened my eyes to the crack of sunlight through the curtains. For a moment or two I stared at this line of gold, trying to make sense of it. Trying to shed the remnants of the panicky dream that clung to me—running along a hallway, fire licking at my heels. Something in my chest. Need to find something. Need to find someone.

An arm lay across my ribs. I turned my head and saw a tangle of golden-brown hair on the pillow next to me. Floods of relief. Monk. Winthrop Island. It was true, it was real. He was mine. Then—

“Shit! Monk!”

I pushed at his shoulder. He startled, flipped his head over, opened his eyes to half mast, grinned sleepily. “Good morning, Pinkie Pie.” Then—

“Shit! What time is it?”

He dove for his watch on the nightstand, swore, fell out of bed. Scrambled on the floor for his pants. I leaned over the edge and found my shirt. From somewhere in the house came the thunder of small feet descending a wooden staircase.

We stared at each other and froze.

“Under the bed!” I hissed.

Monk jerked up his pants, grabbed his shirt and boxers, and disappeared below. I let the comforter fall down the side to hide him and pulled my shirt over my head. A second later, a pair of small people burst through the door and jumped on the bed.

“Mallory! Mallory! Mallory! Guess what!”

“What, munchkin?”

Blue held up her fist and opened it. “I lost a tooth!”

Chippy chimed in gleefully. “And there’s blood all over her pillow!”

“It must have been this morning because the tooth fairy hasn’t come yet!”

“I was the one who found the tooth! It was in her hair!”

“It was stuck and he yanked it out! Did you hear me scream?”

Chippy picked a scrap of colorful fabric off the comforter and held it up. “Are these your underpants?”

“We have to be more careful,” I said to Monk that afternoon, while the kids were upstairs with Carson, the math tutor, a doctoral student in applied mathematics at UMass Amherst who told me (over beers at the Mo, waiting for Monk to start his next set) he made more money tutoring the little scions of Winthrop for the three months of summer than he did the rest of the year teaching undergraduates at the university. (Like, a lot more.)

“Yes and no,” said Monk.

“Yes and no?”

“I mean yes, obviously, it’s not appropriate for my kid brother and sister to come barging in and jump on the bed while I’m trying to have sex with my girlfriend. But no, I’m starting to feel like this whole sneaking around thing is pointless. I mean, give me one good reason why the world shouldn’t know we’re together?”

“Because I’m the nanny. It’s not professional to sleep with the son of the house. Kind of slutty, actually. And worse, it’s a cliché. It’s a sad, old cliché.”

We lay together on the beach below the bluff, tucked out of sight from the main house, where I usually trooped during math time, sketchbook in hand. Monk tried to schedule his afternoon break at the same time and join me here, guitar in hand, and the tranquil hour would unwind to the scent of the ocean and the hot sand, the sounds of the notes plucked from the guitar strings and the scratch of charcoal on the fine, expensive paper Monk had ordered on Amazon and presented to me, bound with a shimmery gold ribbon scrounged from the box of recycled gift wrap that every self-respecting Winthrop resident kept in the attic, exactly one week after our first kiss.

Five weeks and possibly thousands more kisses after that first kiss, I still caught myself daydreaming about it. Returning to the moment of revelation. Monk Adams loved me! The shock of Monk’s lips on my lips. Monk pulling back to touch my cheek, my jaw, my hair; to look at me with this soft, amazed expression I’d never seen before.

You too? he’d asked, incredulous, and I told him I couldn’t believe he had to ask. I couldn’t believe he never knew, all this time, that he was the sun to my earth.

He raised both eyebrows and said the sun to your earth? I thought I was in the friend zone.

I touched his face, the corners of his eyes, the hair at his temples, and told him he was an idiot.

He kissed me again, gently now, because we were trying to wrap our heads around this new idea—the two of us, together, how do we proceed? How do we catch up on lost time? Fall on each other right away, or relish the anticipation?

I’d just pulled Monk’s shirt free—had just laid my fingers for the first time on the warm skin of his back—when Mr. Adams’s voice drifted down from the bluff above us.

Monk? Son? Come on, we’re waiting for you!

Monk swore and lifted his head.

You should go, I whispered. He’s your father. Go have dinner.

But you, he whispered back. This.

Trust me, I’d told him. This is not going anywhere.

Now Monk lay on his back next to me, in possibly the same sacred patch of sand. He’d just come in from a swim and the ocean rolled lazily from his skin. I couldn’t look away from this one fat drop that balanced on the ball of his shoulder.

“A sad, old cliché?” he repeated.

“Banging the nanny, like where’s your imagination?”

“So you’re embarrassed to be seen with me. I get it. It could wreck your whole artist vibe, if word got out.”

“There is a certain stigma.”

He rolled onto his side and grinned at me. “I mean, I realize I hit the jackpot with you—”

“Oh, the jackpot, is it?”

“Mad sexy genius who also happens to be my best friend. Gorgeous and talented. I’m punching way above my weight, I realize that.”

“I think your dad would beg to differ.”

Monk squinted one eye at the hazy sky. “Well, as my remarkably intelligent girlfriend once suggested, fuck him.”

“Monk. Seriously, though. Don’t break up with your dad because of me. He’s your dad. He wants the best for you.”

“You’re what’s best for me. That’s all. Steering us both through the bullshit. Brave as hell.” He picked up my hand and kissed the knuckles. The old mischievous glint in his eyes. “Just not brave enough to go public with your preppy boyfriend.”

How could I resist him? All wet and gleaming and drenched in sun. I set my sketchbook aside and bent my head to lick the salt water from his shoulder.

You’re delicious, I told him.

He leaned forward and kissed the part of my hair. So are you.

I looped my arms around his neck. His mouth was warm and soft and tasted of the iced tea we’d drunk at lunch. In no time he’d whipped off my bikini top, rolled me onto my back, had me laughing and gasping and grabbing at his shoulders, pulling impatiently at his trunks.

At which point he rolled away to lie groaning in the sand, arms spread. “We have to stop.”

I crawled on top of him and kissed the hollow of his throat. “No, we don’t.”

“I didn’t bring anything with me.”

“Well, that wasn’t very smart, was it?” I wriggled out of my bikini bottoms and dropped them over the side.

“Sorry if I didn’t anticipate my girlfriend getting horny again so soon.”

“If you’re talking about last night—”

“Hey, there’s a reason I passed out cold until seven a.m., oh Insatiable One.”

“I’m not insatiable. You satiate me all the time. The more you satiate me—”

He sucked in his breath.

“—the happier I am.”

“Whoa…Mallory…”

“It’s okay. My period ended, like, two days ago. We’re fine.”

“Wow. Damn.”

I rocked my hips. “Should I stop?”

“I’m gonna die, Pinks. That is all.”

His fingers strummed across my breasts, the small of my back, my breasts again. I closed my eyes and stretched for the sun.

“Goddess.” He moved his hips to meet mine. “Do you have…any fucking clue…how good you look up there. How good you feel.”

I was full of sunshine, full of Monk. Full of some incandescence I couldn’t describe. Like joy, only more. I remember thinking I was going to burst with it.

His hands slid to my waist. “Damn it, damn it.”

“Oh my God, keep going—”

“Mallory, stop me—”

“Not yet—”

“Seriously…Pinks, please…I can’t hold on…”

“Oh my God, a little longer, please Monk.”

But it was too good. I couldn’t stop; he couldn’t stop because I couldn’t stop. I’ll pull out, he gasped. As soon as you come, I’ll pull out.

I came in long, barreling waves that made me sing. He didn’t stand a chance. I felt him jump, heard him shout, heard him swear.

He rolled us over and pulled out hard. Hovered on his elbows, panting, head bowed.

“Shit, my bad. I’m so sorry.”

“Honey, relax. Shhh. We’re fine. There’s no way. Honestly.”

“I should’ve—”

“Hey, it was my bad too. Egging you on.” I reached up and speared my hands into his hair. Catching my breath. Sloppy with endorphins. “I couldn’t stop, Monk. I couldn’t.”

He eased himself down to rest on top of me, skin to skin. His arms cradled my head, his cheek rubbed mine. He sounded like he’d swallowed a mouthful of sand. “What happened, Pinks? What’s wrong with me? I’m a responsible guy, I swear. I would never.”

“I know you are. I know.”

“It’s fucking scary, what we have. This. Don’t you think? It takes me over sometimes.”

“It’s nature,” I said. “Life force and everything.”

“Your damn nakedness. I just lose my brains.”

I stroked his hair. “Shh. It’s okay.”

“Shit. Mallory. I’m such an asshole.”

“Seriously, don’t worry. Biological impossibility.”

“Nothing’s impossible, Pinko.”

“Anyway, it’s just this once.”

“You remember health class. The rhythm method is the least reliable form of—”

“Oh, please. I think I know my own ovaries, okay? Relax.”

He levered himself up. The sun streamed down his hair and face and wide, immaculate shoulders, his golden chest. My insides turned over in this convulsion of bliss. I wanted to sing and cry at the same time. Monk looked down at me with his serious face. “You know that if anything happens, I’ll stand by you, right? Whatever you decide.”

“Nothing will happen.”

“Like in my dreams, we’re on a desert island with my guitar and maybe a dozen kids running around naked—”

I started laughing. “Stop it.”

“Okay, maybe not a dozen. And not naked. That would be weird, right?”

“Plus skin cancer.”

He found my hand and kissed the knuckles. “I guess what I’m trying to awkwardly say is I want this to last. Not just for summer. For—you know, as long as you want me. Some place together in the middle of nowhere—I don’t know, some cabin in the mountains, beach hut, whatever you like—where you can do your thing and I can do my thing and we just…support each other’s work and wake up together in the morning and make each other coffee and have sex whenever we want and…sorry, I’ll stop now.”

“Don’t stop,” I said. “I like this.”

“You don’t think it’s a little—I don’t know, co-dependent?”

I sat up on my knees and put my arms around his neck. “But also kind of fun.”

The kiss went on and on. I loved the tickle of his chest hair against my breasts, the sun on my bare shoulders, our stomachs colliding. When we stopped for breath, I propped my arms on either side of his neck and crossed my wrists behind him. “Do you know what I wish? I wish I could go back and tell the high school me to chill out. Everything will turn out all right.”

“I wish I could go back to my high school self and tell him to man the fuck up and ask you out already,” he said.

I shook my head. “No. It would have been too soon. I think we needed to hurt a little, date the wrong people, just so we know when it’s right.”

“I would never, ever hurt you, Pinks. That I can swear.” He frowned. “You think it might help if you got up and, I don’t know, swam in the ocean for a bit?”

We climbed the path together. Monk dropped my hand as we came over the top of the bluff and checked his watch. “Gotta head to the course. Working till dinner, then playing at the Mo tonight.”

“Pick me up at the end of the drive?”

He started to reach for my hair, then glanced at the house and pulled back. “You’re sure you want to watch again? I mean, it’s just the same stuff. I can throw in a cover or two to mix things up, but—”

“Ooh, like what? Do you take requests?”

“Whatever you want me to play, Pinko. I’ll play it for you.” He glanced at the house again. “Fuck it, you know what? They can deal with it.”

He cupped my face and kissed me on the lips. Long and slow, like he meant it.

“So, are you and Monk getting married?” Blue wanted to know.

My lips froze on her forehead. I’d just put the twins to bed, shades down, covers up. Almost over the goal line. Freedom beckoning.

“Me? And Monk?” I said. “What do you mean?”

From Chippy’s bed came a singsong voice. “Monk and Mallory, sittin’ in a tree. K-I-S-S-I—”

“When did you see us kissing?”

“On the lawn. Right after math.”

I stood up from the edge of Blue’s bed and put my hands on my hips. “We were not kissing.”

“Yes, you were,” said Blue.

“He was tickling her tonsils with his tongue,” said Chippy, right before he burst into maniacal little-boy laughter.

“All right, all right. You two. Fine. That’s a secret, okay? Our secret.”

“Mom saw it too,” said Blue. “She called you a bitch.”

I climbed into Bessie and slammed the door shut. “We’re busted,” I said.

“Busted? Well, that sounds exciting,” said a throaty voice from the back, like the ghost of Katharine Hepburn.

I swiveled and jumped at the same time. A woman sat pin-straight on the fraying bench seat, wearing a pink linen blouse and pearls, rusty blond hair, inquisitive blue eyes, cheekbones on loan from a carpenter. A waft of familiarity about her.

Monk said, “Pinks. Meet my aunt Barbara. Mom’s big sister.”

Aunt Barbara stuck out a slender, bony hand over the top of the seat. “Pleased to meet you, Mallory. My nephew tells me you’re his muse.” She drew out the word muse to its fullest possible extent.

I looked at Monk. “Your muse?”

He grinned and shrugged. “Shoe fits, right?” He propped his hand on top of the wheel and leaned in to kiss me as we barreled down West Cliff Road toward the village. “Buckle up, buttercup. We’re late.”

“You don’t care that we’re busted?”

“I mean, I’m not surprised, if that’s what you’re asking. Especially after that fat one I planted on you on the lawn this afternoon. Did the twins give you hell?”

“Your stepmother saw it. Blue says she called me a bitch.”

Aunt Barbara leaned forward and spoke above the engine’s roar. “That’s what the shrinks would call projection, I think.”

“Barb’s not a fan of the third Mrs. Adams,” said Monk.

“I think she’s a bit of a climber. And a drunk. Appalling combination. I can take one or the other, but not both.”

“Wait a second,” I said to Monk. “You knew they were watching, didn’t you? You did that on purpose.”

A grin appeared at the corner of Monk’s mouth, though he kept staring forward at the road ahead. “I kind of thought they might be watching. I didn’t know for sure.”

“You bastard. You outed us.”

“Look, I’m tired of sneaking around with you, is all. What’s there to hide? It’s not like we’re having some fling.”

“We kind of are.”

“Maybe you’re having a fling,” he said. “I’m having a full-on affair.”

“Children, honestly,” said Aunt Barbara. “As long as you’re using protection, it’s really not that big a scandal. You should have seen what we got up to in the seventies. I remember one summer I came back from college and all the husbands and wives had sort of swapped places. Like a game of musical chairs. You needed name cards to keep everyone straight.”

“Wow,” I said. “Must have been a rough winter.”

“No, I really think they were having a ball. Of course, it might have been all the barbiturates. Monk, dear. The Mohegan Inn. Is this one of those places where they serve beer?”

“I’m sure they’ll mix you a drink if you ask nicely, Aunt Barbara.”

“Good.” She sat back against the seat. “I expect I’m going to need it.”

The narrow streets around the Mo were packed with parked cars. Monk had to jimmy Bessie into a spot between a house and a tree and lift Barbara out through the back.

“Are all these people here for you, darling?” she asked.

“I doubt it,” he said, just as I said, “Pretty much.”

She looked back and forth between us. “Well? Which is it? Because I’m too old to sit on the bar, like the old days. For one thing, I’m wearing white pants.”

“I’m guessing there’s a party at the firehouse, that’s all,” said Monk.

I rolled my eyes. “He’s being modest. He’s got a real following now. The last show two weeks ago, we had to go in through the kitchen.”

She looked aghast. “Are you saying my nephew is a rock star?”

Monk threw his arms around his aunt and seized her up into a hug that left her pink Tod’s loafers dangling about a foot off the pavement. “I love the way you say that, Aunt Barbara. Like it’s cholera.”

“Well, there are similarities.”

I could see Monk was revving up. His eyes crinkled, his skin glowed. He reached into the back of the Wagoneer and pulled out his guitar in its case, stickered over like a vintage suitcase. He grinned at both of us. “Look at you. My two best girls.”

Aunt Barbara looped her arm around mine. “Honestly, he gives me a toothache sometimes.”

Monk led us around to the kitchen entrance, where Mike waited in a cloud of nervy cigarette smoke. “Fucking fire marshal’s going to shut us down.” He sucked in the last of the cigarette and tossed the butt on the pavement. “Twice the legal capacity, last I checked. Bunch of kids boating in from Mystic. Some fucker posted it on Facebook.”

“Facebook? What on earth is that?” asked Aunt Barbara.

“Like MySpace, only cooler,” I told her.

“That clears it up nicely,” she said. “May I trouble you for a Manhattan, sir? As dry as you can make it.”

The kitchen smelled of stale grease and cigarettes, which told you all you needed to know about the standard of cuisine at the Mo. I followed Mike around the stacks of food service boxes that probably should have been taken straight to the refrigerator some time ago—bacon, hamburger patties, iceberg lettuce, French onion dip—and a couple of beleaguered fry cooks. I heard the crowd even before Mike shoved open the swinging door from the kitchen—a dull college roar that rose and fell according to the laws of mob physics. It was probably no more than a couple hundred people, but in an ancient, low-ceilinged tavern like the Mo, it felt like a thousand.

“Good Lord,” said Aunt Barbara. “Where am I supposed to sit?”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to sit, really.”

“Don’t recommend sitting,” Mike agreed.

“What about my Manhattan?”

“I’ll mix your fucking Manhattan in a second, lady. I got to get this shit under control before we get shut down.”

Behind us, Monk laid a hand on my shoulder. “You’ll be okay, Pinks?”

“Don’t worry about us. I’ll keep your aunt safe from the riffraff.”

“Oh, I don’t mind a little riffraff,” said Barbara. “It’s my knees I’m worried about.”

Monk looked at me. “Wish me luck.”

“Break a leg. Break everything.”

“Break it up, you fucking lovebirds,” said Mike. “All I need is a riot on my hands. Bro, you want a beer first? Shot of the old firewater?”

Monk shook his head. He stuck his hand into my hair and kissed me. For a second, he rested his forehead against mine. “Pinks. Love you.”

Before I could say it back, he was gone. Some whoops ripped through the crowd as people caught sight of him. I felt this instant of terror that I’d never see him again, that he had disappeared between the jaws of some monster, like Jonah and the whale, the way my grandfather used to tell the story to Paige and me when we were kids, in order to terrify us into the faith. Mike’s voice came on the microphone, telling the crowd to shut the fuck up so they could hear the music. The crowd shut up so fast, it was eerie. Then Monk’s old chuckle, familiar and strange through the mic. He said some words I didn’t pick out—my brain had gone into some kind of trance, I think. But I remember hearing his voice say my name.

This first song is for Mallory. Actually—that sheepish chuckle again—all my songs are for Mallory.

I reached out and steadied myself against the wall. A few guitar chords—I thought, panicky, shouldn’t he warm up or something? Tune the guitar? But this was Monk. He could do anything.

Barbara leaned into my ear.

“Sorry to be a bother,” she said, “but I’m afraid I need to use the ladies’ room.”

As it turned out, Mike didn’t need to worry about the fire marshal shutting him down. The fire marshal was in the audience, whooping at every song. He asked for Monk’s autograph afterward.

In fact, there were a lot of people who asked for Monk’s autograph afterward, most of them women. I stood next to the bar with my arms crossed, trying not to scowl. Aunt Barbara perched on a stool next to me, nursing her second Manhattan. “Are you sure you don’t want one, dear?” she asked, in a kind voice. “You look as if you could use it.”

I peered at the glass. “What’s in a Manhattan?”

“Kids these days,” she said. “Rye whiskey, vermouth, bitters. I like mine with a brandied cherry, but that appears to be beyond the scope of Mike’s powers. Failing the cherry, a lemon twist will do.”

“All right,” I said.

Barbara turned and summoned Mike with a flick of her finger. “Another Manhattan for the lady,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said obediently.

“I had a word with him about his language,” she told me. “For the love of God, how much longer is this supposed to take? I’m going to miss SportsCenter.”

I surveyed the lineup of blond blowouts and exposed belly buttons. Monk sat on his stool, using the guitar as a desk while he signed the flyers that had announced the concert, in lieu of anything more official in the way of merch. “Not too much longer, I think. Only a dozen left.”

At that instant, Monk raised his head and winked at me over the swoops of glossy hair.

“I did like that one about midwinter,” Barbara said. “It brought a tear.”

“I’ll bet that doesn’t happen often.”

“Ouch,” she said. “Now, who’s that fellow? He doesn’t look much like a music aficionado to me.”

“Which fellow?”

“The gentleman over there by the wall. Is he waiting for somebody? I suppose that charming girl is his girlfriend. The one getting her arm signed, who seems to have misplaced her pubic hair.”

I craned my neck to find the man she meant. Mike set down the Manhattan next to my elbow. A hum of dread overtook my nerves. I turned to Mike and said, “Is anyone helping him out? If someone gets a little close?”

Mike said, “I wouldn’t worry about that, kiddo. He’s only got eyes for you.”

“No, I mean…”

I couldn’t say what I meant. The word bodyguard seemed wrong—something a real rock star would need, not Monk Adams playing his guitar at the Mo for a bunch of lobstermen and college kids. I picked up the Manhattan and slugged down half of it before my sinuses exploded.

“Jesus Christ,” I said.

“It’s an acquired taste,” said Barbara. “You know, he really has turned out well, under the circumstances.”

I wiped the tears from my eyes. “You mean Monk?”

“With Jackie in and out of rehab, and the father—”

“Jackie?”

“My sister. Monk’s mother.” Barbara sipped the Manhattan. “Our parents divorced when we were in our early teens, after my mother had slept with just about all the other men on the island. Possibly a few of the women too, now that I think about it. Jackie took it harder than I did. Jackie always took everything harder. Then she married a philanderer. Go figure.”

“Mr. Adams.”

“Mind you, he was more discreet. Took the old-fashioned approach. Strictly secretaries and that sort of person, not someone his wife and children might bump into at a party, God forbid. He was a funny sort of snob that way. Never dipped his pecker in his own inkpot.”

I spewed a little Manhattan and reached for the cocktail napkin.

“Poor old Jackie. Buzzy just couldn’t comprehend why she was so upset. I don’t think he ever imagined he was doing anything wrong. Probably thought he was sparing her, if anything. Drove her nuts.”

“What about the kids, though? Didn’t it bother them?”

“Well, at the time, they wouldn’t have known what Buzzy was up to, would they? His little girlfriends weren’t of their world. What hit them hard was Jackie going off her rocker. The divorce. So she took all the blame, you see.”

I glanced across the room at the top of Monk’s head. “Where is she now?”

“Last I heard, she’s in Miami with some charming fellow she met in rehab. Buzzy still sends her money—he’s a better ex than he ever was a husband—though I sometimes wonder if he should.” She pauses to sip from her drink. “I hope I’m not boring you with all this? I don’t usually air so much dirty laundry at once.”

“No, I appreciate it. Monk and his dad—it’s pretty complicated. So it kind of helps to have the backstory.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say Buzzy’s a bad father. Compared to some, anyway. Always had time for them, made sure they had the best of everything. But he wouldn’t just let them grow on their own. Are you a gardener at all, Mallory?”

“Um, not really.”

“Shame. It’s better than therapy, gardening, and much cheaper. Anyway, there are two types of gardener, in my experience—the kind that goes for the showy blooms, that knows all these tricks for making them grow the biggest and brightest, in nice orderly rows. Hires in experts, does expensive interventions. And there’s the kind that sort of throws in the seeds in a nice sunny spot and waters and feeds them and watches what happens. You do see what I’m saying, don’t you?”

“I think so.”

She finished the drink and motioned to Mike. “I’ve always tried to be present for Monk, to use the fashionable term. But I really can’t claim the credit. I suppose, when your parents fail you, you either go to pieces or you become the grown-up you require. Or maybe our Monk is just that kind of extraordinary boy who would’ve thrived wherever you planted him. Oh, here’s that man. He looks as if he knows you, dear.”

All this time, I’d been staring at Monk while Barbara’s words floated into my ears. The nympho grandmother, the mother in rehab, the philandering father, Aunt Barbara giving him the love he needed, my two best girls. Now my gaze moved to the right, to the tall, slender man with the brown hair and the Bruins cap who picked his way toward us, holding a beer.

Staring at me from a pair of familiar, glassy eyes.

“Hello, Mallory,” he said. “Thought I might find you here.”

Two days after Monk kissed me for the first time, I gathered up my nerve and called Dillon while the twins were upstairs doing math with Carson.

Mallory, babe. What’s up? he’d asked me, from his cubicle in the corporate offices of Dunkin’ Donuts, across the water in Providence.

I’d plunged right in with the words I’d rehearsed to myself all morning. So, this is really hard to say, and I want you to know that it has nothing to do with you, I think you’re a really terrific person, but I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and I realized I just don’t feel about you the way you deserve to be—

You’re breaking up with me? he’d asked, incredulous.

Sort of. Actually, yes. Yes, I am, Dillon. I think it’s best for both of us, under the circumstances.

What circumstances? Is there someone else?

Of course, I’d known he was going to ask that question. Doesn’t everybody? Wouldn’t you? So I knew exactly how I was going to answer him.

I’m sorry, Dillon. There is. It’s someone I’ve known and cared about for a while, and in the past few days we’ve both realized that—

I knew it, he said. I fucking knew it.

Dillon—

I mean, you don’t return my calls. You barely return my texts.

I’m sorry. It’s been busy—

Obviously, he said.

I was sitting in the middle of the lawn, in the sweet spot for cell service. Legs up to my chest. I set my chin between my kneecaps and closed my eyes. Last night—the sailboat at sunset, the champagne and the picnic basket Grace had packed for us, Monk leading me across the lawn to the guesthouse, the candles, the hours that followed—I had not remembered Dillon once.

Not once.

It’s not you, I told Dillon. This guy—he and I—we’re just—

Monk, right? The guy who got you the job? Monk Adams?

I said, Yes. Monk. I’ve known him since high school. We—

Look, I get it. Rich prep school guy. That’s what I figured. I guess I didn’t stand a chance.

Dillon—

I wish you the best, Mallory, he said. And hung up.

Later that evening, after I’d put the twins to bed and found Monk at our meeting spot, on the stone wall that divided the two properties, he asked me what was wrong.

I tried to explain about Dillon, how bad I felt, how much it hurt to hurt someone, even when your whole heart belonged to someone else.

Monk put his arm around me. I know, Pinks. I know.

For a while we just sat there on the wall, side by side, paying tribute to the people we could have loved, if we hadn’t belonged to each other. The setting sun painted the horizon. I remember thinking how strange it was to feel sad in the middle of so much happiness, how you couldn’t just experience joy all by itself without feeling as if you had somehow stolen it from somewhere else. That there was only so much joy in the world.

After a few minutes, Monk stood and turned to stand between my legs, holding my waist gently between his hands. Last night, he said. I just want you to know how much it meant to me.

Me too, I told him.

I was so damn nervous, Mallory. Naked with you for the first time.

Monk, please. You’re literally a perfect physical specimen.

His mouth wore this wry, wise smile. Pinko, he said, that’s not what I mean.

Then he kissed me, and I think it’s fair to say I never gave poor Dillon another thought.

Until now. As I looked at Dillon’s face, I couldn’t quite wrap my head around his presence here, in the warm, woody tavern room at the Mohegan Inn, Monk on his stool on the platform ten yards away. It didn’t seem real. Dillon belonged to the mainland, to my past. It felt like a decade since I had slept with Dillon for the last time, kissed him goodbye at the ferry dock in New London. Once, his face had been so familiar to me. I knew every line and color and scar. Now he looked like a stranger whose picture I’d seen before.

“Hey, Dillon,” I said. “Good to see you. What brings you here tonight?”

Dillon leaned over to kiss my cheek. “You’re looking good, Mallory. Just wanted to see what you were up to. Listen to some tunes.” He sipped his beer, angled his head in Monk’s direction. “He’s pretty good, right?”

“Excuse me, young man,” said Aunt Barbara, “but I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

Dillon turned to her. “I’m Dillon. Mallory’s ex-boyfriend?”

“Oh! Like family, then.” She held out her hand. “Barbara Huxley. Aunt of Mallory’s current boyfriend.”

“You must be so proud.”

“I am, thank you. I’d like to say he gets his talent from me, but I can really only take credit for his good looks.”

A bemused look appeared on Dillon’s face, like when I’d tried to explain chicken fried steak. All that time, he thought he’d been eating chicken.

“Well, this is nice,” said Barbara. “Monk will be so pleased you’ve come. In fact. Speak of the devil.”

I’d been concentrating so hard on Dillon’s face, trying to decipher the expression there, that I hadn’t noticed Monk walking up to join us at the bar. He slung an arm around me and pulled me in for a kiss that—looking back—might have lasted a second or two longer than it needed to, strictly speaking. He raised his head and said, “Whiskey?”

“Barbara ordered me a Manhattan.”

“Good choice, Bar,” he said, still looking at me.

“Monk, sweetie,” she said, “you’ll never guess who’s here. Such a surprise. It’s Mallory’s ex-boyfriend, Dillon—I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t catch your last name.”

“Rooney. Dillon Rooney.”

Monk held my gaze another second or two before he turned to Dillon. I had the feeling he’d noticed the whole scene from his stool atop the Mo’s foot-high platform of battered wood, ten feet square, signing flyers and tanned, slender arms, and he wasn’t surprised at all to hear Dillon’s name.

But he didn’t show a shred of resentment. Not Monk Adams, drilled from birth in the rules of civilized conduct. He smiled affably and held out his hand. “Rooney. Pleasure. Monk Ad—”

Which was all he had time to say before Dillon pulled back his fist and swung for Monk’s jaw.