I ask tiredly. “Because I’ve got a big day tomorrow and I need to be prepared. I need to get some sleep. I have to be at court at nine in the morning.”
He smiles easily. “It’s only seven. You’ve got the whole evening ahead of you.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“I just wanted to see you.” His voice softens as he puts his tumbler down so he can take me gently by the shoulders. The feel of his hands jolts me; it has been a long time since I’ve been touched like this. Marco smiles down at me, and I know that smile—sleepy, expectant, sure. This is a booty call.
“Don’t,” I say, and I am both shocked and ashamed at how half-hearted I sound. It feels so good to be touched, a warmth seeping into me, firing my very bones, reminding me that I am not alone. “Don’t,” I say again, and it almost sounds as if I am giving him permission, asking for more. I can’t believe how weak I am being.
“Are you sure about that?” Marco asks, and his voice is like a lion’s purr, velvety and seductive. “Dylan isn’t here…” He bends his head and brushes his lips with mine, and for a second I am so very tempted. This is the father of my child, after all, and this aspect of our relationship actually worked, not that I had anything to compare it to.
Then his words reverberate through my brain. Dylan isn’t here. That’s why Marco is here—because Dylan isn’t. Because he doesn’t have to deal with him, and we won’t be interrupted. He doesn’t care about Dylan. He doesn’t even care about me. He just figured on some free sex.
“You are a jerk, Marco,” I say, my voice trembling as I yank myself away from his languorous yet assured grip. “A real jerk.”
He raises his eyebrows, looking amused, unaffected. “What’s the harm in trying?”
I shake my head. “Go away.”
“I do care, Beth—”
“As if.” My voice is shaking, as is my body. “Go away, Marco. You aren’t going to get anything from me. Leave!” My voice rises in a broken cry, and Marco holds his hands up. He hates any kind of real emotion, any kind of awkwardness. He just wants to skim through life, taking everything easy, including me.
“All right, all right, I’m going.” He heads towards the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “For the record, I did come over here to see how you were doing. I do care, even if you don’t think I do.”
“Sure.” The single word is full of loathing. I can’t believe how close I came to being reeled in by him again.
Marco sighs as if he wants to say something more, but in the end he just leaves. As the door closes, I release a shuddering breath. I came so close to giving in, just because I’m lonely. How pathetic can I be?
More than that, apparently, because the next thing I do is walk into the kitchen. I mean to pour my glass of wine down the sink that is still full of flowers, but instead I glance at the cheap bottle Marco left on the table. The moment hangs in the balance, suspended, teetering. And then I drain my glass, reach for the bottle and pour myself another.
10
ALLY
The Saturday after Dylan comes to us, the one before the court hearing, I decide we need a family day out, and so we drive to Granby to pick apples at Bushy Hill Orchard.
It’s a beautiful day, cold and clear, and the leaves are at their peak. In another week they will be gone, the ground littered with a carpet of ochre and crimson, scarlet and russet. Nick is up for the trip, but Josh is reluctant; he had a cross-country practice at eight in the morning and he wants to spend the rest of the day in his room, on his phone or his laptop, only to emerge for meals, squinting and surly.
But I’m not having it, not today. “You haven’t spent any time with Dylan,” I tell him, trying to keep my tone cheerful rather than scolding. “And it’s too beautiful to stay indoors. It won’t be all day, Josh. Just a couple of hours.”
He sighs heavily, but he agrees to come, and I am buoyant, determined to make this work. The drive across the mountains to Granby, a quintessential New England town, all red barns and Colonial farmhouses, is gorgeous, and although Dylan is quiet, he