Slip of the Tongue (Slip of the Tongue 1)

“It’s fine.” I look up at him and then away. “Are you going to tell me what your problem is?”

“Not tonight,” he says. “I wish you would respect when I tell you I’m not ready.”

I shake my head, done with this. “And I wish you would respect when I tell you not to talk to me until you’re ready to work this out.”

He puts his hands in his pockets and hesitates. “Look—”

“That was a nice way of saying leave me alone.”

I stare at his feet until he finally walks away. He goes to the next bench and sits.

Nathan and I suck at this. Maybe we should’ve fought more over the years—maybe it would’ve prevented things from getting this far. The worst part is the fresh, sharp memory of how we used to be. How he used to know me. It wasn’t long ago that Nathan brought home the coffee table of my dreams because he’d spent months stopping by flea markets to find it. He listened to me. He sensed what I needed. He always knew how to make me happy.

It’s been seven years since he walked into my line of sight and flipped my world right-side up. What hurts the most is that I remember that happy moment like it was yesterday.

TWELVE

Nathan and I met at a summertime barbeque in the Hamptons. It was an engagement party for Jill, my closest friend, and Victor, the man I’d introduced her to. They’d rented a house for the weekend. Victor and his friends were short players for a beach football game, so they invited some guys from the house next to theirs.

Jill and I came onto the deck wearing skimpy bikinis and sipping strawberry margaritas. The tall, muscular quarterback was getting rushed when our eyes met. He dropped the ball immediately and jogged toward us. Since he looked as though he had something to say, I leaned over the railing to hear better.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

The glass was sweating in my hand. He had large, cappuccino-colored eyes and a suntan to match. Jill nudged me to prompt my answer.

“Oh.” I looked up from his broad chest, which was slick with sweat and sand. “Sadie,” I replied, wary of his question but smiling. It’s hard not to smile when a man like him pays you attention.

“Have you been here before, Sadie?” he asked.

“To the Hamptons? Yes—”

“No, here.” He pointed down at the sand under his feet. “Have you stood here?”

Jill put her ice-cold hand on my forearm and squeezed. She told me later the sparks between us were flying.

I giggled nervously. Having seen my reflection in the sliding glass door earlier, I knew my mouth was red from the drink. “Yes. We had a bonfire on the beach last night.”

“Okay.” The handsome quarterback dropped to his knees and looked up to the sky. “Thank you, God. If I ever doubted you—”

“Hunt, what the fuck’re you doing?” called one of the players from the beach.

The man met my gaze again and responded only to me. “I’m worshipping the ground she walks on. Literally. It calls for at least that.”

I blushed profusely while Jill clapped. “Are you all watching?” she yelled at the gawking men. “That’s how it’s done.” She winked at him. “Bravo.”

It was too much, but it worked. I would’ve swooned if he’d only offered to refill my drink.

“Stay and watch the game,” he said. “Will you, Sadie?”

My cheeks ached from smiling. “Yes.”

“Don’t skip out on me. Okay? I’m coming back for you.”

And he did. His name was Nathan. When football ended, and they’d cleaned up, Nathan and his friends came over for dinner. Later that night, he and I shared stories and a blanket on the beach. We made wishes on shooting stars. I was twenty-four.

From that day on, Nathan adored me. And I let myself be adored. That didn’t mean I loved Nathan any less than he loved me, though. It was just how we were. How we used to be.

A bottle shatters on the ground. My sunny Hamptons afternoon is swallowed up by a frigid, starless subway station in Brooklyn. I’m shivering, my shoe in my hand. Nathan, on his bench a few yards away, doesn’t look over at me. Maybe he can’t worship my ground anymore, because he’s found a new place to kneel.

The subway was supposed to arrive three minutes ago. My body sags. I just want to be home in bed.

“Hey,” I hear. “You. You lied to me.”

It takes me a moment to realize I’m being addressed. I look at the group walking toward me—the bespectacled man and his friends from outside of Brooklyn Bowl.

He plops his ass next to me on the seat. “You told me you were married,” he teases.

I spare him a sideways glance, but I’m hardly in the mood. “I am.”

“Liar.” He makes a face like he’s constipated. His glasses slide a millimeter down his red nose. “You hurt my feelings.”

I wedge my bootie back onto my bloated foot. “You’ll survive.”

“I won’t. I need a kiss to make it better.”

His friends laugh. A woman nearby looks up from her book then back down.

I stand up and walk away. He yanks my elbow, pulling me back. With a flutter of his eyelashes, he shuts his eyes, puckers, and breathes beer fumes on my face. “Just one. Please?”

“Let go, asshole.” I pull too hard and stumble back into a wall of a body. My heart leaps as two hands land on my shoulders, trapping me.

“It’s me,” Nathan says above my head.

I exhale as the tension in my body eases. I turn to thank him, but he steps around me. Spectacle’s eyes are still shut when Nathan shoves him backward. He stumbles across the platform, and his glasses clatter to the ground. “Hey, what the—”

“That’s my wife.” Nathan’s shoulders are nearly at his ears as he stalks toward the guy, who’s probably half a foot shorter and starting to look more like a kid.

“Are you crazy, dude?” he asks when he’s regained his footing. “You could’ve killed me. You don’t push someone in the subway.”

Nathan leans down and nabs the glasses. “Don’t forget your hipster crap. Who do you think you are, Clark Kent?” He throws them at the guy, who catches them at his stomach like a line drive.

Some people snicker. The group he’s with collectively oohs.

“Fuck you. I’m not the one pushing people around like some stupid superhero.”

“I’m teaching you some respect,” Nathan says. He’s outnumbered, but he doesn’t seem to care. “She told you she was married.”

“Twice,” I add.

“She doesn’t look married.” The kid puffs his chest out triumphantly, as if he’s insulted us.

His friends begin to disperse one by one, apparently bored with the confrontation. “Come on, dude,” one of them says. “Back off.”

He follows them, scowling as he inspects his lenses.

I’ve had my fair share of drunken admirers. Nathan usually lets me handle them unless I need back up. Tonight, I’m glad he was here. I look up at him. “Thank you.”

The platform trembles as the L train approaches. Nathan just nods and pulls me by my bicep up to the yellow line. We wait in tense silence until the doors open. There are plenty of open seats, but I take a middle one so Nathan can have the end. He stays standing. Once we’ve crossed back into Manhattan, I get up to be next to him. The late-night train moves fast, rattling us around. I let my shoulder bump his.

“You’re quiet,” I say.

Predictably, he doesn’t respond.

I grab the lapel of his coat and run it through my hand. “That was sexy,” I say.

He arches an eyebrow. “Getting hit on by a drunk hipster?”

“You know what I mean.” I pull him a little closer. “The way you defended me.”

“I would’ve done it for anyone.”

For some reason, he wants his words to sting. They don’t. He might do it for anyone, but he’d never not do it for me. I keep my hold on the soft wool. There’s one thing that can obliterate my anger from earlier, and it’s arousal. I lean into Nathan. It becomes clear to me that I don’t truly believe he’s been with Joan. If I did, I wouldn’t be able to stomach having sex with him. And right now, I definitely can.

I slip my hand into his coat. “

You’re getting so hard.”

His nostrils flare as he glances down at me. “Hard?”

“Your muscles.” I rub his flat, ridged stomach. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed. And your hair. It’s different, but I like it—”

He grabs my wrist, stopping me. “Don’t.”

Don’t. The other night, during sex, he covered my mouth when I said his name. He still doesn’t want me, his wife. It’s okay, though. I’m turned on enough by the way he claimed me in front of those guys to play along. “I don’t normally do this,” I say, glancing around the car. “But I was wondering if you’d like to come home with me tonight.”

“What’re you doing, Sadie?”

“Sadie? Who’s that? Your wife?” I shrug. “I don’t mind. I can keep a secret.”

“This is ridiculous.”

The subway stops. Someone gets off, someone else gets on. I blink up at Nathan a few times and slide my hand through his, back to my side. “You’re a faithful husband,” I say. “I get it. But we don’t have to touch to have fun.”

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“Haven’t you ever talked dirty?” I ask. “Or doesn’t your wife like that?”

He hesitates, but responds, “She does.”

The subway jostles us, throwing me against him. He catches me, and I’m hit with the smell of cigarettes. “Have you been smoking?” I ask, surprised enough to break character.

He pinches his eyebrows together, but then his expression eases. “Don’t tell my wife.”

I bite my lower lip. Bingo. He’s interested. I rise onto the balls of my feet. When he doesn’t move, I motion for him to bend down. He does. I whisper in his ear, “You’re making my knees weak. Not sure I can stand much longer.”

“What . . . what do you suggest?” he asks.

“How about I kneel? Right here. Take you in my mouth.”

His breathing deepens. “We’re not alone.”

“Who, them?” I ask, nodding to the other passengers. “They can fuck off. Or watch. If you don’t mind, that is.”