Never Say Forever

I’ll reassure him, it’s not you, it’s me.

Even if it is actually him, because the last man I rubbed myself against like a cat in heat was, in fact, him. For five years, I’ve managed to behave with perfect decorum. I’ve become practically revirginized! Yet a couple of nights under the same roof as Carson Hayes, and I’ve become a rampant strumpet.

I need to tell him that I’m not the same person I was before and that I wasn’t even that person back then. I’ve always been responsible and played by the rules. That my behaviour last night, and the night so long ago . . . is all on him. Because I’ve never felt the attraction, the strength of feeling that I have for him.

My secret lover. The night I’ve told no one about.

Oh, my fudge knuckles. I press my hands to my burning cheeks. I’m so embarrassed that I’ll have to have this conversation with him that I could almost go and live under a bridge instead.

“Mummy? Is the chest Uncle Carson keeps at the bottom of his bed for his toys?”

Yes. Some very particular toys.

“No. It’s full of bedlinens.” His toys are in a drawer in his closet.

I know. I should practise what I preach on the prying front, but in my defence, I only looked once.

Once was more than enough.

“How do you know that? It’s locked.”

Because the key was on the dresser.

Okay, the top drawer of the dresser.

Under some socks. That is, the key to his toy stash. I’m not at all sure what’s in the blanket box. Honestly, after the toys, I didn’t dare look.

“Because it’s called a blanket chest,” I say, using my because I said so tone.

The man obviously has a very active and varied love life judging by the array of toys in there. The thought is quickly followed by another, a one much less welcome. What happens if he brings someone home while we’re here? My stomach twists like a rusty chain as the thoughts continue, sudden and unwelcome with images accompanying them. Carson. A woman in his bed. Faceless. Nameless. Not me.

“I promise I wasn’t looking at the watches again.” My daughter’s voice brings me back from a place of dread. A voice that says she was doing exactly what she promises she wasn’t. “But Norman’s tummy was talking,” she says, brandishing her tatty rabbit. “He wanted Uncle Car to make pancakes.”

“Well, if he’s not here, he can’t make them.” And if he’s not here, he won’t be tying anyone to his bed who isn’t me. At least, not this morning.

But he might’ve left last night for that exact purpose.

Or similar.

I hate my brain right now. Whether he left last night to tie up a hundred women should be no concern of mine. At least, that’s what I try to tell myself as I push the mass of dark waves from Lulu’s face. “He probably had to leave on business.”

The kind of business we started on the couch last night.

The kind of business that left him as hard as a pole and without an outlet.

“Or maybe he’s out running!” Yes, that could be it. He definitely takes care of himself. I’ve seen the evidence. Plus, all those running shoes in his closet, and yesterday morning he’d looked dressed for exercise. Shorts and compression tights and one of those T-shirts meant to wick away sweat that, in his case, were more like an advertisement for those delicious broad shoulders, chest, and abs.

But as an explanation, this sounds much more appealing, even if it means I’ll still have to face him soon because vertical exercise alone is better than finding him doing the horizontal kind with someone else.

“I don’t think he’s running, Mummy. I think he’s not here, and he’s not going to make me pancakes even though he pwomised.” Mutiny sits in the jut of her chin.

“It’s too early for tantrums,” I say with a groan.

“I’m just cross!” She wraps her arms around her chest—the four-year-old version of folding them. “Because I’m distapointed.”

“Disappointment is a fact of life.” Especially where men are concerned. “You’d better get used to it.” I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s thinking the same about me this morning.

“When I get big, I’m going to make pancakes for breakfast every day.”

“But for now, I guess you’ll just have to do with weekend pancakes made by yours truly.”

“Who’s Yorls Trudy?”

“Never mind,” I say with a sigh. I wonder if I should book her a hearing test?

There’s an envelope on the kitchen countertop when we finally make our way there.

An envelope addressed to Lulu.

“For me!” She whips it from under my fingertips, ripping it open though it isn’t sealed. “It’s a pretty parrot!” she exclaims as she pulls out a correspondence card illustrated with what looks like a macaw in the top right-hand corner. I didn’t think people still used correspondence cards and find myself smiling at the whimsy in this one. “And dollars! Lots of them. Five and five is ten, and one more five is fifteen . . .” She bends to pick them up as they flutter to the floor.