Far Too Tempting Page 7
Best,
Matthew
Then there’s the e-mail attached from a fan. It’s one sentence, but it says, I love Jane madly!! Please, please, please give us more of her!!!
I mark the note as a keeper, but only because I love my fans madly too. It never gets old hearing from them, but I don’t want to disappoint them, either. I don’t want this gal to feel let down if my next album is a mediocre mish-mosh of adequate songs. I’m about to close out of my e-mail when a new note pops up on my screen, with only Matthew’s first name, rather than his full name. Intrigued, I click it open.
from: thissideofthepond@gmail.com
to: janesecretmail@gmail.com
time: 11:48 AM
subject: Time Travel Tricks Fail
I really shouldn’t say this, but that whole erasing those ten minutes didn’t do the trick for me. I’m still thinking about them.
from: janesecretmail@gmail.com
to: thissideofthepond@gmail.com
time: 11:49 AM
subject: Penny For Your Thoughts
Interesting. What about them exactly is on your mind?
from: thissideofthepond@gmail.com
to: janesecretmail@gmail.com
time: 11:49 AM
subject: Reporter Cred Zero
The taste of your lips. My hands in your hair. How I could have kissed you all night.
P.S You should delete this message. It’s not helping my cred as a reporter.
from: janesecretmail@gmail.com
to: thissideofthepond@gmail.com
time: 11:49 AM
subject: Man Cred
What about your cred as a man?
from: thissideofthepond@gmail.com
to: janesecretmail@gmail.com
date: 11:50 AM
subject: You be the judge
You tell me. Helping? Not helping?
from: janesecretmail@gmail.com
to: thissideofthepond@gmail.com
time: 11:51 AM
subject: On a scale of 1 to 10…
It’s high. Very, very high.
from: thissideofthepond@gmail.com
to: janesecretmail@gmail.com
time: 11:51 AM
subject: How about thirty minutes?
Now I’m thinking about more than ten minutes with you.
from: janesecretmail@gmail.com
to: thissideofthepond@gmail.com
time: 11:52 AM
subject: Or even an hour?
What would you like to do in more than ten minutes with me?
from: thissideofthepond@gmail.com
to: janesecretmail@gmail.com
time: 11:52 AM
subject: Could do this for hours…
I would really like to kiss your neck. The hollow of your throat. Your bare shoulder.
from: janesecretmail@gmail.com
to: thissideofthepond@gmail.com
time: 11:53 AM
subject: Where do I sign up?
I like the sound of this…
from: thissideofthepond@gmail.com
to: janesecretmail@gmail.com
time: 11:53 AM
subject: Damn Black Keys
I bet your earlobe is quite tasty too. I should nibble on it next time I see you. BTW, I have to run. Have an interview with The Black Keys now. And all I’m going to be thinking about is you…
I place my phone next to me on the counter, and I am grinning—ear to fucking ear—as I happily watch the cooks whip up a bowl of white rice with sautéed veggies. I wonder if they can tell I’ve been flirting, because right now I am glowing, absolutely glowing, and I know I’ll be rereading that e-mail exchange far more times than I should. But I’m okay with that. Because it’s been so long since I’ve had this kind of back and forth. This kind of attraction that’s not a lie.
The woman behind the counter thrusts the bowl at me and hands me some chopsticks. I dive into my food, and I’m actually humming as I eat. I put down the chopsticks, root around in my purse for my notebook, and open it up to the working title for my newest song, “Mixed Messages.” I jot down a few quick thoughts. The things I can do in ten minutes.
Then a sliver of doubt runs through me. He’s not saying those sexy things to get me to agree to the article, is he? My mind starts to swim with the underhanded possibilities, even though the way he kissed me didn’t seem fake at all.
But then, at least I’m writing again. It’s a muddle of a song, but maybe there’s something there. Maybe flirtation, maybe mixed messages, is what I need. So I check my phone one more time just in case.
There are three new messages. But they’re not from Matthew. There’s one from Aidan: Hey Jane, just wanted to circle back on the Gay Men With Straight Wives meeting. Hoping you’ve had a chance to think about it. Talk soon. Aidan.
Then one from my sister reminding me she has more potential publicists for me to consider.
Then one more from Jeremy and it’s titled, Got a Club?
Jack London said, “You can’t wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club.” Studio time is booked for you two weeks from now. I assume you’ll be ready. Consider the attached your clubs.
I click on the attachments. They are tickets for the Museum of Modern Art, the Museum of Natural History, even the Intrepid Air and Space Museum.
I write back: Air and space? Want me to write a song about hot sailors?
His reply: Whatever it takes to make a new album, Black. Whatever it takes.
Tick, tock.
Chapter Nine
I pick up Ethan from school that afternoon, since it’s my turn to have him for a few days.
“Want to go see some dinosaurs?”
“Rawr!” is his answer, and we head to the Museum of Natural History.
“Should I write a song about dinosaurs?” I ask as we check out the Tyrannosaurus Rex that we’re both sure comes alive at night, just as it did in one of our favorite movies.
“Yeah! Write about triceratops. Those are cool!”
“What else?” We head over to the Giant Whales exhibit, where Ethan stares, goggle-eyed, at the massive blue whale. “If you could write a song about anything, what would it be?”
He screws up his features in a thoughtful expression. “You should write about carbon. Because we still have to fight carbon. Did you know we’re trying to defeat carbon just like Voldemort,” Ethan says seriously, looking at me as he tugs my hand and pulls me over to a replica of a whale heart that we can crawl through. “But you can’t defeat carbon because it keeps being made. But you have to try.”
I laugh as we head into the aorta. “I guess you’re still in the middle of that global-warming unit at school.”
I spend the rest of the week with my boy, taking him to and from school, using all of Jeremy’s clubs, and finishing “Mixed Messages,” even though Ethan tells me I should write about whales, naval ships, and Egyptian warriors. But the fact that I managed to write a song gives me the confidence that I can do the story with Matthew. And not just because he sends the most fantastic e-mails, but because I actually have the primordial makings of what everyone’s been asking for—what’s next.
As I get ready to return Ethan to his dad, my phone buzzes with an e-mail. My mouth waters when I see Matthew’s personal e-mail address pop up.
from: thissideofthepond@gmail.com
to: janesecretmail@gmail.com
time: 3:03 PM
subject: Distractions
Do you have any idea how hard it was to focus on The Black Keys earlier this week?
from: janesecretmail@gmail.com
to: thissideofthepond@gmail.com
time: 3:04 PM
subject: Innuendo
How hard was it?
from: thissideofthepond@gmail.com
to: janesecretmail@gmail.com
time: 3:05 PM
subject: Yes.
Extremely.
I close the e-mail, and wipe the stupid smile off my face, and the sexy images from
my brain.
“Time to go see your dad,” I tell Ethan, and we’re off to Bloom’s Books on Lexington Avenue. Once inside, Ethan darts through the store to his favorite section, and I find him pulling the Captain Underpants collection—the story of an elementary school comic-book superhero—one by one off the shelves. I promised him anything he wanted, within reason, when I won my Grammy. He chose books. This makes me happy.
“Do you want me to help carry them?” I ask when his arms are full.
He shakes his head. “I can do it.”
As we walk toward the counter, a coffee table book of photos captures my attention—it’s a book full of images of kissing. I snag it, figuring maybe Jeremy was right. Maybe I need to do the opposite of Crushed and write love songs. I buy the books and settle into the bookstore’s café with my son, where he reads about cartoon kids and I ogle kissing pics, respectively.
“Daddy!”
Ethan drops his books and rushes over to Aidan, who’s walking toward us in the café.
It’s such a universal response—the pure joy of the “Daddy!” reaction most kids exhibit when Dad comes home at the end of the day. Or when they are traded off to Daddy for the next few days, as the case may be.
Aidan picks him up and hugs him. “Hey there, little bud. How was school? But more important, what the heck has Captain Underpants been up to?”
Ethan launches into an explanation of the hero’s latest escapades as Aidan listens thoughtfully, nods at times, and widens his eyes to show his enthusiasm.
“I can not wait for you to read some of these stories to me.” Then he claps Ethan on the back and tells him to pop back into the chair for a few minutes. “I need to talk to your mom.” Then he pulls me aside.
“Hey, Jane,” Aidan says. He’s wearing a green V-neck sweater with a white T-shirt underneath, black slacks, and black shoes. Simple but classy. I swear he’s the most stylish high school history teacher in Manhattan. He teaches now at a progressive private high school on the Upper West Side called The Little Blue School.
“Hello, Aidan.”
“How’s everything going post-Grammy? Are you still on cloud nine?” He reaches out to give me a hug. I barely respond, standing there stiffly. I know it’s a friendly hug, but any contact from him is weird. It reminds me of how every bit of contact between us was a one-way street. He never wanted me like I wanted him.
“Yeah, everything is great.”
“That’s awesome. I’m so proud of you,” he says with a bright smile. Then he turns more serious. “So I left you a message, but you’re probably overwhelmed.”
“I received the message. And the e-mail too.”
“Oh. I didn’t hear back from you.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, looking down at the off-white tiled floor in the café.
“So what do you think?”
I shrug and look away. Because if I look at him, I will feel everything again. Every single awful thing I felt the night a year ago when I learned he needed a fucking support group.
I’d been playing poker at Kelly’s apartment, our monthly poker night with our mom friends. We were a competitive crew. The regulars were Kelly and Natalie, and another mom friend and Gretchen. We usually assembled at Kelly’s place, a truly spacious two-bedroom on the Upper East Side. Kelly’s husband is a top research analyst at a bank, so they both can pull. He was out that night and their daughter, Sophie, was sound asleep in her Pottery Barn pink-and-green bedroom.
We’d all had a couple glasses of champagne and as these things go, we started talking about sex. Gretchen won a round of Texas Hold ’Em with three nines and must have been feeling pretty good. She simply remarked, “I had sex this morning. Third time in a week I’ve had morning sex.”
As moms, having morning sex, not to mention having it three times in one week, was quite a feat.
“Morning sex is great,” Gretchen said. “We do it before the boys wake up, I’m ready to go because I’ve just spent the last eight hours with Brad Pitt in my dreams, and then it’s over in ten minutes. And the best part is then I get to read in the evenings after we put the kids to bed.”
Then it was Natalie’s turn to boast that she and her husband, Trevor, had pulled off a quickie in a cab two weeks ago. We all hailed to the queen and tossed $1 red chips at her in admiration.
Kelly and I just laughed, neither one of us offering any stories. I wondered what was wrong with me if everyone else was actually having sex once, twice, three times a week and in cabs. I decided after I cashed in my forty-five dollars in winnings that I would definitely, come hell or high water, have sex with my husband that night. If I had to pin him down on the bed, tie him up, handcuff him. Because I wanted him. I had always wanted him since that night I laid eyes on him at Matt Murphy’s in Boston. I had never not wanted him.
I applied lip liner and lipstick in the window of the train home. I fluffed out my hair in the faded glass in the front door of our apartment building. I walked two flights up and unlocked the door to find Aidan wasn’t alone. He was seated on the couch, calmly, with a skinny man, probably in his forties, with thinning hair and a beaky nose.
“This is Calvin,” Aidan said.
I was a little tipsy from the champagne, so I reached a hand out to shake Calvin’s hand. “Well, hello, Calvin, and welcome to our humble home. Were you guys watching the playoffs or something?” I don’t follow sports, but there’s always some sort of championship game on.
“Actually, Jane. Calvin is my sponsor.”
Sponsor? Was my husband a drinker, a drug addict, and I didn’t know? Was he in AA or NA or something else?
Aidan kept talking. “Jane, I told you I’ve been going to night classes in European History at NYU for the last few months. That’s not true.”
He’d been lying to me? My Aidan, my dutiful, gorgeous, beautiful, young husband and doting father to Ethan had been lying to me?
“I’ve been going to a support group. GMSW.”
Calvin gave Aidan a supportive smile.
“Gay Men With Straight Wives,” Aidan said. “I’ve been working with them to face up to who I am and the decisions and choices I have made in my life. And I want you to know that I’m gay.”
Calvin patted Aidan once on the knee.
I started laughing. “That’s a good one, Aidan.”
But I was the only one laughing. “Jane, I love you as a friend and as the mother of my child. But I don’t love you the way a man should love a woman,” he went on. “And I can’t give you what you want, need, and deserve in a partner. The truth is I have been attracted to men since high school and I kissed a guy once in college. But I no longer want to hide. I want to live an open, honest life. And I ask you for your forgiveness.”
My head was spinning, like someone was compressing it between two hands.
“Is he your lover?” I rasped, pointing to Calvin.
Aidan shook his head. “No, and I have been faithful to you. But he is my friend. And he has helped me find the courage to come out of the closet. He did the same thing ten years ago when he came out to his wife. Now his ex-wife.”
It was like they were speaking Russian or something. And even if I had a translator with me, the words still wouldn’t make sense. Because this couldn’t possibly be happening. I wanted Aidan. I loved Aidan. I wanted to make love to Aidan.
But Aidan—my stomach still churns at the memory—wanted to make love to Tom. “And I met someone,” he continued. “Nothing has happened with him, because I wouldn’t do anything while we were married. But I met a man named Tom and we have feelings for each other and we want to have the opportunity to explore a relationship.”
It was like that moment when you pass from buzzed to drunk to wasted. You lie down on your bed, you close your eyes, and the bed starts spinning. The alcohol has won and it’s taking you on a bumper-car ride, leaving you bruised and broken.
Aidan kept going. “I’ll be moving out. I’ve arranged for an apartment and I hope we can have a peace
able divorce and share custody of Ethan.” He hung his head in his hands momentarily, then stood up and reached out a hand to shake mine. “I know this is hard for you and I am truly, truly sorry for any pain I might be causing.”
“Pain you might be causing?” I croaked, placing a hand on the wall to steady myself. Aidan wiped what might have been a tear from his eye.
Then Calvin stood up and handed me a book called My Husband is Gay. He spoke for the first time. “A lot of other straight spouses have found this book helpful in the recovery process. I know my ex-wife did.”
He paused and took a step toward the door with Aidan, who picked up his prepacked gym bag, stuffed presumably with a few days’ worth of clothes. “Jane, I hope you’ll read this book. It will help you to know you’re not alone and that there’s support out there for women like you.”
Women like me.
“Just get out. And take your book.” I said, thrusting it back to him, as if it were some sort of diseased creature.
They left and I crumpled to the floor, staring at the door, dumbstruck.
“So what do you think?” Aidan asks gently, rooting me back to the here and now.
That I hate your support group. That I’m am ass for hating your support group. That on a rational, logical, human level it’s awesome that such a group exists. But on a personal one, I can’t help but feel they took you away.
But yet, I know it wasn’t the group. It wasn’t me; it was him. But I’m not always rational. I’m not always logical. Sometimes, I am an emotional beast.
Placing my hand on my hip and narrowing my eyes, I ask him, “Were you the one who told Jonas about us?”
“What?” he asks, confused. “Who’s Jonas?”
“Jonas Applebaum. The reporter who outed you at the Grammy presser.”
“I don’t even know Jonas.”
“Did Tom?”
“Jane,” he chides.
“Well, it was embarrassing. And as for your group—” Then I just shrug my shoulders and hold up my hands, remembering Kelly’s advice. Because I don’t know that I’m ready yet to be the poster child. “I have a lot on my plate, but I’m considering your request and will get back to you soon.”