Once Upon a Real Good Time Read online

  I care deeply for her son. I like working with him. I want to see him succeed. That’s why I don’t want to be the music teacher who screws students’ moms. I don’t want to have that rep, with Kyle or with anyone.

  I want to be better than that. I want to set an example, not just for my daughter, but for all the kids I work with.

  Trouble is, I don’t know how to do that if I’m sneaking around and keeping my true feelings a dirty little secret.

  Chapter 22

  Mackenzie

  * * *

  Roxy palms an extra-wide zucchini at the farmers market that weekend. “So, the resistance is working out well for you?”

  I stick my tongue out at her.

  “Wait, wasn’t that what he did to you?” Roxy asks, deadpan.

  I stare at her. “He did, and it was spectacular,” I say as the memory of the spontaneous sex with Campbell from the other night sizzles me from head to toe. And the bend-over-the-bed sex the next day. And the get-on-all-fours-now kind we had the day after. And the texts he sends me.

  The thinking of you as I’m falling asleep notes. The still thinking of you as I wake up ones.

  Tingles zip down my chest. They’re so dangerous, but so delicious. He makes me shiver all over, inside and out. I don’t know what to do with all these new emotions—they feel so damn good I can’t find it in me to turn them down.

  “Lucky bitch.” Roxy flicks her red hair off her shoulder then stares studiously at the veggie in her hand.

  “It was definitely ‘lucky bitch’ sex with him. But then, sex with Campbell has been of the ‘lucky bitch’ variety since the start.”

  “Not jealous. Not jealous at all,” she mutters as she sets down the long green veggie. She lowers her voice so the bearded guy running the stall can’t hear. “I always think I’ll like zucchini by itself. But it’s a trick. Zucchini fools you with that shape. It’s like a super-hot guy who’s really dull inside.”

  “Like the guy from the subway?”

  She rolls her eyes. “So dull. He was eggplant-level dull.”

  “Whoa. That’s saying a lot for you to compare him to an eggplant.”

  “Exactly. I’m telling you, it’s getting to the point where I’m going to call a cease-fire on all dating. I'm going to march straight to the nearest sperm bank and put my money down on a tall Harvard man who loves puppies.”

  My eyes nearly pop out. “Are you serious?”

  She nods vigorously. “Must love dogs is critical, don’t you think?”

  “No. I mean are you serious about the sperm bank thing?”

  She shrugs. “Maybe. Someday. I like kids. I like men too. The problem is, finding a straight, interesting, loyal guy who doesn’t live at home is nearly as challenging as making a zucchini taste good raw.”

  She makes a fair point. “The problem with zucchini and eggplant is you have to dress them up too much.”

  “Exactly,” Roxy seconds. “With zucchini, it’s only tolerable if it’s hidden among other veggies. With eggplant, it has to trick everybody with sauce slathered all over it. It has no actual taste on its own.”

  “Thank God for zucchini bread, then.”

  “Amen. That’s the only form I actually like zucchini in, and then it better practically be zucchini cake.”

  We wander to the next stall. It’s lush with mushrooms of all shapes and varieties, shiitake and cremini and a beautiful basket of chanterelles too. “But mushrooms are so yummy.”

  “Does that mean your guy,” she says, strolling past the portobellos, “is like a delicious dish of sautéed mushrooms?”

  I crinkle my nose. “It’s weird to think about non-phallic vegetables to describe a man. But mushrooms are pretty freaking tasty.” I count off on my fingers. “So is roasted broccoli with parmesan cheese, so are green beans with sesame seeds and garlic, and so are fried artichoke hearts.”

  She stares at me with hunger in her eyes. “Thanks. Now my mouth is watering, and I’m going to kidnap you so you can make all those dishes for me, because they sound incredible.”

  “They do sound good,” I say as I select some mushrooms, since I’ll start with that for dinner. But I definitely need to make fried artichoke hearts too. As I choose the mushrooms, an idea pops into my head. “I bet Campbell’s daughter would like making fried artichoke hearts with me. She gets a kick out of learning to cook new savory dishes, since she focuses more on sweets. She loves figuring things out in the kitchen and trying new recipes.”

  Roxy freezes while riffling through the morels. “Oh my God, you’re falling for his kid too.”

  “What?” I scoff as I meet her wide eyes.

  She points at me as if I’m the guilty suspect she’s ID’d in a police lineup. “You’re totally into his kid.”

  I flub my lips. “Yeah, she’s cool. But I’m not falling for her—or him, for that matter.”

  Roxy arches a most skeptical brow as I buy the mushrooms, including the morels for her.

  “It’s only sex,” I whisper as we leave the mushroom stall.

  “But you do like having sex with him.”

  “Duh. He gives me multiples, and he’s a rock star in bed.”

  “And out of it,” she says under her breath.

  “He’s also a really interesting guy, and we have great conversations, and his daughter is fun, but that’s all there is. I’m not falling for him. I’m not falling for either one of them.”

  “I guess it’s a good thing you’re not dating him. I mean, you wouldn’t want to give it a go with him or anything like that. Perish the thought.”

  “Roxy, dating him isn’t even possible.” We wander down the row, and I scan over the green beans and sugar snap peas, searching for artichokes. “Kyle is doing so well with Campbell as a teacher. He has a concert coming up at the end of the week that he’s so excited about. And besides, even if I did pursue something, what are the chances it would work out?”

  Roxy raises a finger. “Now we’re getting somewhere. That’s your concern, isn’t it? Not whether you’re falling for him.”

  I sigh heavily. “I can’t think about falling for him. I don’t have a great track record with men. Don’t forget I’m the girl who got knocked up her last year of college, then graduated while sporting a baby bump.”

  “And you haven’t even tried to date seriously since then.”

  “I’ve dated. There have been a few guys.” I rattle off a couple names of men I’ve gone on more than a few dates with over the last thirteen years. Hmm. That’s a short list.

  “And none of those guys have turned into anything serious. It’s not as if you brought any of them over to meet Kyle.” She drapes an arm around me. “I get that he’s your number one priority. I’m not suggesting he should be anything but that.” She squeezes my shoulder and takes a beat. “But do you think maybe you’ve held back when it comes to dating because you’re afraid of your own supposed track record?”

  “Hello? Considering my accidental pregnancy at age twenty also derailed my career plans, it seems a reasonable concern.”

  “This is my point exactly.” She levels me with her gaze over a table of arugula. “You haven’t forgiven yourself for getting pregnant so young, and you don’t give yourself a chance to be anything but supermom. It’s like if you’re less than supermom, you’ll slip up again, so you avoid taking chances.”

  “But . . .” I have nothing to say. She’s right. I don’t take big chances when it comes to men. I make safe choices or no choices.

  Though lately, I’ve been making secret choices, and those aren’t the best ones either.

  Which also proves my point—I’m a screwup when it comes to romance.

  Roxy’s eyes light up. She grabs a bundle of asparagus and heads to the vendor to pay for it. But as she sets it in her canvas bag, her words keep nagging at me.

  We leave the stall, and I ask her a question. I’m not sure I want her answer, but I probably need to hear it. “Do you really think I stress about my checkere
d past?”

  “I do. I really think you do. I think you need to let it go. It’s not like you’ve done something terrible. You turned something unplanned into something completely beautiful. You’ve carved out a wonderful life for you, your son, and your son’s father, and you have this cool, random modern family. Your kid is doing great. You’re a talented graphic designer, and you’ve built a business of your own that’s way better than any corporate gig you’d have had if you’d taken the job with that ad agency.”

  Not taking the job after college was a risk, but it turned into a fantastic reward over time, given how my solo business has grown by leaps and bounds. “That’s true.”

  “Plus, you’re a terrific friend and a fantastic cook. You’ve turned everything into, well, into a delish slice of zucchini bread.”

  “I do like a good zucchini bread.”

  “Come here.” She grabs my arm and pulls me to a vendor selling sweets. She buys a few items then hands me a small slice of bread. “Try this.”

  I bite into it, and my taste buds sing hallelujah. “It’s tasty.”

  “See? Zucchini bread can sometimes taste exactly like cake.”

  But even as I chew, I’m not sure zucchini cake is what I want. You can’t have something this tasty every day.

  When Friday night rolls around, I help Kyle adjust his tie, and we walk ten blocks to the community center for the fall concert. Parents are hustling and bustling inside, since most of the performers are kids from various schools in the city.

  I find Jamison quickly. He’s in the auditorium, smiling and looking handsome. He gives Kyle a hug and then a high five. “Go get ’em, tiger,” he says.

  As Kyle heads backstage, I’m reminded he’s reason enough not to go further with Campbell. I don’t want to ruin a good thing, and what Kyle and Campbell have is a very good thing.

  Jamison and I take our seats. We catch up briefly on his production of Chicago, and he asks how work is going with a new agency client of mine. Swimmingly, is the answer for both of us.

  Just like Roxy said.

  There goes one of her check marks—I definitely have a kick-ass job. It’s a job I didn’t expect to have thirteen years ago. I never set out to have this career, but I do love it madly.

  I love my crazy friendship with my son’s father too, even though that’s certainly something I never thought my college bestie and I would team up on—raising a kid. Funny how so many unexpected moments turned into welcome opportunities.

  But even so, that doesn’t mean every unexpected moment will or can.

  Be content with what you have.

  After a few minutes, I feel a hand on my shoulder. Warmth zips through me, and for a brief moment, I’m terrified the hand will belong to somebody I shouldn’t feel a spark from whatsoever. But when I look up, green eyes and a gorgeous jawline greet me.

  A glow seems to spread in my chest, and tingles race down my arms—a new cocktail of twin sensations. Desire and happiness fill me as I look at the handsome man standing next to me.

  “I didn’t realize you were coming,” I say.

  Campbell is with his daughter, who waves at me. “Hi, Mackenzie. I can’t wait to hear Kyle perform.”

  “And I wouldn’t miss this for anything,” Campbell says, and my heart goes swoon.

  Silly organ. Swooning is for kids.

  They sit next to us, and soon Sam and Jamison are talking about Hamilton. “I’ve seen it five times, and I swear it gets better every single time,” Sam tells Jamison.

  His jaw comes unhinged. “Girl, I cannot even with you. I’ve only seen it three times. It’s literally the best show in the universe.”

  “I know! I’m going again in a few weeks.”

  I snap my gaze to her. “You’re going a sixth time? I’ve only seen it once, and I basically had to sell my soul to the devil to get the ticket.”

  Jamison smiles wickedly and taps his chest. “I’m the devil she speaks of. And it wasn’t that hard. I just called my friends on the show.”

  “Oh, it was hard,” I correct. “You had to call ten times.”

  He huffs. “It wasn’t that many times.”

  I turn to Sam. “So what’s your secret?”

  She smiles impishly and tips her forehead to her dad.

  Campbell grins, a gorgeous, lopsided smile that dares to make my heart kick over. But I remind my heart to settle down. “What’s your secret? Did you pull the Heartbreaker card?”

  He nods then blows on his fingers. “It comes in handy from time to time. Not to mention the ‘I used to be in Les Mis’ card.”

  Jamison jumps in. “You need to kick it up a notch. You should totally play Jean Valjean next. That would be mind-blowing to see you as the lead in a revival.”

  “Yeah, Dad. That would be cool.”

  Campbell laughs, shaking his head. “I don’t know if I can pull off Valjean. He has quite the range.”

  Jamison holds up a finger. “Listen, if you ever want to play Jean Valjean, you better come to me, and we will talk about putting together a production. I will pull whatever strings I can possibly reach to produce a revival with you as 24601.”

  I turn toward Campbell, lowering my voice. “If you played the lead, I’d see you three times. Maybe even five.”

  “Is that so? You’d be a Les Mis fangirl?” he asks playfully.

  I drop to a full whisper. “I would throw my panties on stage if you were Valjean.”

  “That’s quite an incentive. I’ll consider it more seriously now.”

  “You do that.”

  Silence descends over the auditorium as the curtain rises. All eyes turn to the stage as the concert begins. A classical guitarist plays a song, and he’s followed by a brass band. A trio of girls comes on next, singing a cappella. These kids are all good, and it’s a delight to watch the different groups of middle and high schoolers.

  At the end, the string quartet comes on stage—two violins, a cello, and a viola. They’re the closing act of the concert. These four kids are the ones who are most serious about music, and it shows.

  They shift from Brahms to Beethoven to Arcade Fire to Jay-Z, and goosebumps erupt on my skin with every piece. It’s beautiful and uplifting at the same time as they play a mix of classical and rock.

  When it ends, Jamison and I are on our feet, clapping and cheering. “Bravo!”

  The musicians bow to another round of thunderous applause. I turn to Campbell and throw my arms around him. “You’re amazing. You did this.”

  He tugs me close and shakes his head. “No, he did this. I told you, the kid’s talented.”

  I smile in his arms, savoring the strength of his embrace and the manly smell of him as I catch a faint whiff of his neck. I let the hug last a little longer than it should, because it feels so good right now. So right too. Like this is exactly how life should work out—him attending a concert my kid’s performing in.

  But that’s what terrifies me too.

  I don’t know how this feeling could possibly last long enough to make the risk worthwhile.

  Because as I look to the stage and Kyle’s smiling face, the pride in his eyes, I don’t want to risk a thing that might hurt him.

  Later that night, Kyle is still on a high from the show. He’s practically bouncing off the walls in our apartment, recapping the performance. Which is precisely how I can tell he’s like a dog who needs to be run.

  “You need to burn off some of that energy. Why don’t we go wild tonight?”

  He stops pacing across the living room. “Let me guess, Mom. That means milkshakes and fries?”

  I nod excitedly as I clean the kitchen counter—my way of blowing off excess energy. “What else could I possibly mean?”

  “I can’t think of a thing I’d rather do than get a milkshake and fries at nine thirty on a Friday.”

  “We know how to party.” I’m grabbing my coat, scarf, and hat when my mind slings back in time. “Want to try a new place? Campbell recommended a great diner called
Willy G’s in Murray Hill. He said it’s the best.”

  Kyle flashes a toothy grin. “Sounds cool. Let’s go.” He swipes his phone from the coffee table and says, “Hold on. I need to text a friend.”

  “You can bring someone if you want,” I offer as I tug the light-blue knit cap down on my head. November has ushered in chilly nights.

  “It’s cool, Mom. I don’t need to bring anyone. I just need to text someone.”

  Twenty minutes later, after a hearty subway review of our all-time favorite scenes from Harry Potter—riding the dragon out of Gringotts ranks near the top—we arrive at the bustling diner in Campbell’s hood.

  Even though I’m not thinking of him at all.

  Just like I wasn’t checking him out at The Grouchy Owl.

  As I grab the handle of the door, savoring the rush of warm air that brings with it the smell of diner food, grease, and burgers, I toss out a question to my son. “On a scale of one to ten, how awesome are diners?”

  Kyle rolls his eyes. “Mom, they don’t make scales that high.”

  “That is the perfect answer.”

  Diners are one of my favorite aspects of New York. I’ve been to diners around the country, and I’ve never encountered one that can compare to those we have in Manhattan. Call me a New York diner snob. I’ll own it. New York diners are the best in the world, and they’re one of the reasons I’ve chosen to cobble together a life for the two of us in the city. Diners, Broadway shows, art, museums, friends, family, sports, and entertainment. I love everything the city has to offer.

  Including milkshakes and fries.

  Once we’re inside, a curly-haired woman in a mint-green waitress uniform tells us to grab a booth. We choose a big one near the back, slide into the orange vinyl seats, and peruse the menu. I shake my head as I stare at the plethora of offerings. “Why am I even looking? I know what I’m getting.”

  “Milkshake and fries.”

  The words come out in a deep rumble, and they’re not from my son.

  I look up from the menu to see the man I’m crazy for.