Ethan walked me back home and had the good sense not to kiss me on the mouth when we parted ways. He kissed my cheek again, smiling shyly as he cast his gaze downward.
“I’d invite you to come up, but—” I started at the same time he opened his mouth.
“That thing with Natalie—”
We both stopped.
“You go.” I felt my cheeks heating.
“She just broke up with someone, it was long term, and she and I have this thing when we’re both single. I’m really interested in you. I’m not the sleeping-around type of guy. Honestly, I wanted to show myself that I was okay with you going out with your ex.” He rubbed at his temple. “And for the most part, I am.”
“I understand,” I said quietly. Although a part of me didn’t. I wished Ethan would have just told me the truth before we’d both compromised the beginning of our relationship. But there was no going back from what it was right now. A messy shot in the dark made by a blind, intoxicated cupid.
“Maybe it’s best if we don’t have sex until everything with Chase is over. It obviously makes you feel weird. Like I’m not fully committed to this,” I suggested.
Ethan nodded. “That’s fair. And I promise to end things with Natalie after your last date with him. You’re seeing him Friday, right?”
“For the second and last time,” I confirmed.
I pushed the door open to my building and closed it, plastering my back against it with a heavy sigh. My phone pinged in my purse. I plucked it out, thinking it might be Ethan, wanting to soften the blow of our goodbye by saying something sweet or playful.
Unknown: Don’t forget the banana bread on Friday. It’s Chase, btw.
Maddie: How do you know I deleted your number?
Unknown: When the nights get cold, the memory of your ex burns hotter. You seem like the type to self-preserve.
Maddie: You seem like a conceited idiot.
Unknown: That may be true, but you just admitted to deleting my number.
Maddie: Can I ask you something?
Unknown: Seven inches.
Maddie: Har. Har.
Maddie: Where do you want to live when you’re “settled down”?
Unknown: I will never “settle down.”
Maddie: Humor me, jerk.
Unknown: Fine. I’ll stay in Manhattan. You?
I pushed the door to my apartment open. Daisy jumped on my legs excitedly, nuzzling her wet tennis ball into my hand. I glanced at the overhead clock above my fridge. Almost eleven. Chase was going to be here to take her out in seven hours. The thought of him in my apartment made my head swim. I added him to my contacts, purely for logistical purposes. I’d delete him again on Saturday morning, post our fake-engagement dinner.
Maddie: I don’t know. Maybe Brooklyn. What did you have for breakfast?
Chase: I think her name was Tiffany.
Maddie: Dear God, you’re stabbable to a fault.
Chase: Relax. A protein pack.
Chase: Do NOT make a jizz joke.
Maddie: Favorite channel?
Chase: Is that a real question? Is there a right answer other than HBO?
Maddie: Best way to start the day?
Chase: You sitting on my face.
Maddie: Thank you.
Chase: For the riveting visual?
Maddie: For reminding me why we broke up.
Chase: Any-fucking-time.
Maddie:
I shouldn’t have gone to bed with a smile on my face, yet I did.
Chase Black was the devil. A sinister, cold creature that somehow managed to scorch his way into my veins. But whatever he was . . . being next to him made me feel alive.
On Tuesday, I woke up to zero sticky notes from Chase. Considering I’d specifically asked him not to touch my things, I should have felt a lot more cheerful than I did when I glanced at the shelf of my fridge, offended by its stark emptiness.
Not that it mattered. No Post-it Notes from Chase meant I didn’t have to clean up all his mess when I got back to my apartment. It gave me a good chance to bake something and bring it to Ethan’s office. (This was not retaliation against Chase for not leaving me any notes. No sirree. Just me trying to be nice to Ethan.)
Wednesday, however, was a game changer. Two days away from the festive engagement dinner, I found a slew of black sticky notes stuck to my fridge. Not the same color as my turquoise ones with the leopard print that I kept on my counter to make supermarket lists. Bastard had brought his own notes. That was why he hadn’t written anything on Tuesday. He’d probably asked his assistant to provide him with the stationery he required to continue our written beef. There was no way his Royal Highness had descended down from Olympus himself and visited Office Depot. The pen he’d used was gold. He had a lot to say, so he’d spread it over a few notes, sticking them one below the other in succession.
M,
What are you wearing Friday night? We need to coordinate, although I doubt I own anything purple and green with patterned smiling pigs. Or sequined, feathery hats with pom-poms and bow ties.
Or anything else completely grotesque, for that matter.
PS:
Daisy seems to be obsessed with the same squirrel. I am afraid they will create a subspecies. Squog. Squirrel dogs.
PPS:
Bull. Shit. What was Pediatric Boy’s emergency? Testosterone transplant?
—C
Frantic, I scrambled to the trash can to retrieve the last notes we’d written to each other to see what he was referring to in the second PS. The trash can was full to the brim. I looked down at it, aghast, before flipping it over, squeezing my eyes shut while breathing through my mouth.
Garbage rained down on the floor. I sifted through it as Daisy sniffed around banana peels and string cheese wrappers, tail wagging, until I found our last notes. I smoothed them on the floor, reading them over. Chase had taunted me that Ethan was still a virgin. I’d told him we’d had crazy sex the night he’d dropped me off from the Hamptons. Obviously, he wasn’t buying it.
I scowled at Daisy, who was licking the inside of a chicken-salad can, making slurping sounds.
“No one can know about this, Daisy. No one.”
She replied with half a bark. I picked up my pen and wrote, pressing it against the paper so hard the words dented the rest of the pages.
C,
Haven’t thought about my attire for the evening. But now that you’re asking, why, yes, I will go for the sequined purple dress with the green jacket (velvet) paired with brown heels. No smiling pigs, but I think I have something with Michael Scott on it.
PS:
Ethan is more of a man than you’d never be. He is honest and loyal and NICE.
PPS:
Yes, the squirrel’s name is Frank. Let them be. They’re dysfunctional but good together.
PPPS:
I’m suspiciously low on orange juice. Please do not help yourself to anything while fulfilling your side of the Daisy bargain.
—M
On Thursday, there was radio silence. I did not analyze the lack of notes while riding the train on my way to work. I didn’t care. Truly, I didn’t. But if I had given it some thought (which, again, I hadn’t), the natural assumption would be that Chase had forgotten to bring his black notes or golden pen or both.
Which meant that continuing this conversation wasn’t something he thought about regularly.
Which, again, was completely okay with me.
The day slogged by painfully slowly. I texted with Ethan back and forth. We weren’t able to see each other for the rest of the week because he was training for a half marathon—the same charity marathon Katie had told me in the Hamptons she was going to do—and had to wake up super early. Sven said I was surprisingly useless that day. I wanted to believe it was because I wasn’t going to be seeing Ethan, but realistically speaking, it was Chase that made my mind drift away from work. When Sven was out of sight, Nina helpfully added I was turning into one of my plants. “A burst of color and inefficiency.” She click-click-clicked her mouth, her eyes glued to her Apple monitor. I had to take the sketch I was currently working on home to finish since it was due the next day.