Chapter 24
Ingrid arrives at Le Bernardin. She’s not sure why she texted Dillon, her ex-boyfriend, but as she spots him across the room, in tan slacks and a tweed jacket with elbow patches, looking very much the bookish editor, she smiles.
“It’s been, what?” he asks as Ingrid sits down in her little black dress.
She’d picked it out this afternoon on Madison Avenue. It’s not as outrageously sexy as her plunging red number, but it’s flattering enough.
“Thirty-three years,” Ingrid informs him.
He leans in, whispering, “Well, no, because there was that one time you were in town.”
“OK, we’re not going to talk about that one time,” Ingrid says, her cheeks warm.
She can’t believe he brought that up. That one time, as far as Ingrid’s concerned, never happened.
It was so long ago. And it was entirely different from what Kyle did.
They weren’t even married yet. She was in New York, shooting a movie.
Kyle was stuck somewhere in Europe for work.
He was supposed to join her in New York on her last day but couldn’t because one of his deals was blowing up.
Dillon coaxed her into going to a hot chocolate bar with him.
They stayed in a snowy, chocolatey cocoon in that little bar, kissing until deep into the night.
Their last attempt, premarriage, prekids, to rekindle things. And what did Dillon do? Nothing. Kissed her goodbye with his warm cocoa lips.
Ingrid shakes off the memory. “How are the kids?”
“Both out of the house! Tammy’s at Dartmouth and Josh is finishing up at Haverford,” he reports proudly. “And yours?”
“Connor graduated from Harvard. He’s in Thailand, taking a gap year.”
“Thailand, really?”
“Yeah. Teaching English. Got himself a moped and everything.” Ingrid sighs. “Which we’re not exactly thrilled about.”
“And Cassie?”
“Cassie’s at Morrison College. Or was. She showed up on our doorstep right before I left,” she says, ordering a drink from the waitress.
She’d tried to text Cassie earlier—what are your plans for today?
She got back a . Which Ingrid took to mean Party it up!
or You’re a joke, Mom. It really could go either way.
Dillon laughs. “Well, I’m glad one of your kids got your spontaneity gene.”
It stumps Ingrid for a minute. That’s why he thinks she left New York?
They’d never really talked about it. Not even that snowy, chocolatey night, when they both tried to give each other a reason to stay.
“For the record, I didn’t move to LA to be spontaneous.”
“I know.”
Does he? The waitress arrives with Ingrid’s wine. They both order. Dillon asks Ingrid why she’s in town and she tells him about her meeting with Rebecca. He congratulates her.
“You’re going to make such a great movie with that, I just know it,” Dillon says.
“Do you…watch any of my movies?” Ingrid asks slowly.
Dillon nods. He proceeds to list his favorites, ranked by the type of screen he secretly watched them on.
“I know you didn’t make them for the phone. But that’s the easiest to sneak on the subway.”
“Helen won’t let you watch any of my stuff?” Ingrid asks, fascinated. And yet he watches it anyway. She beams proudly at this Oscar-worthy fact.
“Are you kidding? We have a strict no-Ingrid rule in our house. Only trash entertainment.”
Ingrid laughs.
“It was hard when Fam came out. Everyone was talking about it. I think my wife really struggled. We’d get into these fights. She insisted that it was terrible. And I, well, you know I have very strong opinions on art—”
“I do.”
“Let’s just say I took a lot of trains that year.”
Ingrid giggles. She quietly swirls her wine, enjoying the soft glow of the candlelight as she pictures him secretly cackling to her movies.
“You look amazing, by the way,” Dillon says.
“Thanks.”
“Really, you don’t look like you’ve aged at all,” he says. He studies her. She feels his eyes on her neck, her shoulders. “How’s that possible?”
Ingrid blushes. She feels younger. But this is the first concrete proof from a third party that she looks it, too. The thought crosses her mind that they could just grab a cab to her hotel. She lets herself play with the idea, just for a second.
“You don’t look too shabby yourself,” she says, leaning forward.
“Thanks. I changed back at the office. Just for you.”
“What did you have on?”
“A Snoopy sweatshirt and Birkenstocks.”
Ingrid laughs. It feels good to flirt. Then, unexpectedly, Dillon reaches across the table and touches her hand.
“Ingrid, I’m sorry I was so immature back then. I didn’t know how to handle being with someone like you. You knew exactly what you wanted. And I just…couldn’t keep up.”
Wow. She was not expecting this.
“It’s OK.” She glances at her hand, still under his.
“You know, sometimes I think about that night…in that chocolate bar…I was such a fool to let you go,” he says.
Ever so softly, he starts caressing her hand.
Her blue eyes expand. What is he doing? At the same time, her heart is pounding.
It feels so good and erotic and amazing and terrible.
She rationalizes to herself, This is what Kyle did!
You’ll finally be even! While another part of her is shouting Get out of there!
He’s wearing elbow patches, for God’s sake!
Finally, her eyes catch sight of her diamond ring on her finger, and she yanks her hand back.
“I’m sorry. I’ve got to go,” she says, jumping up. She runs toward the door before he can stop her.
“Ingrid, wait!” Dillon calls after her.
The whole ride back to the hotel in the cab, she’s disgusted with herself.
Dillon? Really? The guy who once told her he felt emasculated by her success?
Who once called her taste in books “chick lit with fancy jobs” during a company-wide meeting?
Apparently all it takes for her to think about hopping back into bed with him is his mentioning a couple of her movies.
She slides down in the cab, furious at herself.
What was she even doing at that dinner? Did she really think that she could come to New York, a fifty-three-year-old woman, and have her own affair?
Just to get even with her husband? At the same time, her fingers reach for the part of her hand that Dillon had caressed, missing his touch.
It had felt good. Sexy and delicious. A current runs through her as she allows herself to think of where the night could have carried them.
His hand on her leg under the table. His lips on her ear as he pulls her toward him. Him slowly unzipping her dress in her hotel room.
She leaves the cab, practically soaking…missing her husband and hating him, too. Hating that he did this to her. Hating that he hurt her so much that she went out with Dillon. And most of all, hating that Kyle hadn’t just flirted, he actually went through with it.
He saw everything they built together flash through his brain, and it wasn’t enough to make him stop.