Slip of the Tongue (Slip of the Tongue 1)

I look back just as Finn leans in to, what? Hug me? Kiss me? I flinch, and he ducks left at the last second to get the door. “See you Saturday morning.”

I step back. “See you then.”

In my apartment, I move Nathan’s bedding and sit on the couch. I turn on the TV and change channel after channel, but I’m not paying attention. I replay my conversation with Finn. He’s a hearts-and-flowers guy. So is Nathan. I wouldn’t be surprised if Nathan had his own version of cheering a girl up in high school. They’re just a couple of starry-eyed, doting Yankees fans. I’m not sure what to make of the fact that they’re alike in some ways.

I switch to a sitcom rerun and hug Nathan’s pillow to my chest. After a minute, I write him a text.

I miss our romance.

I erase it.

FOURTEEN

Nathan walks into our bathroom as I apply my third coat of mascara. In the reflection, I catch him scan my outfit, lingering on my backside. “Client meeting on a Saturday?” he asks.

“Nope.”

“Really?” He reaches past me for his toothbrush. “That’s the dress you wear to close deals.”

I check my lipstick for the fourth, fifth time? I’ve lost count. “Yep.”

He loads up on toothpaste, sticks the brush in his mouth, and leaves the bathroom. It’s the abrupt end of another conversation. But then, he stomps back in and pulls the toothbrush from his mouth. “Where are you going?”

For the last week and a half, we’ve been sidestepping each other, averting our gazes. He’s still sleeping on the couch. Neither of us has made a move to change that. There’s been no invitation on my end, no request to come back from him. Progress is at a halt. Why not give him a taste of his own medicine? A giddy current travels up my insides as I ask, “Since when do you care?”

He looms behind me. “Come on.”

“‘Come on’ what?” I lean closer to the mirror and pretend to focus on my eyeliner. The deep indigo of my dress turns my irises almost purple. “I won’t bother you with my plans.”

He spits in the sink, tosses the brush on the counter, and walks out. He isn’t the only one who can keep a secret. Not that it’s anything exciting—seeing Finn today is a work obligation. Nathan doesn’t know that, though.

I select nude YSL patent leather pumps. I don’t normally waste them on work, but they lengthen my legs, and I have a feeling the camera will love them. My dress, fitted with a scoop neck, doesn’t offer much coverage. I select a wool coat and scarf and head for the front door.

Nathan looks up from the couch while he laces his tennis shoes. Judging by his Adidas athletic pants and long-sleeve t-shirt, he’s got another pick-up game in Brooklyn. It’s his second this month. “I’m your husband,” he says. “I have a right to know where you’re going.”

I stop in my tracks. It’s oddly intuitive of him to choose this moment, when I’m off to spend the day with another man, to remember I exist. It’s also infuriating of him. He’s given me nothing since the night I sucked him off five feet from where I’m standing. “I see,” I say, turning to him. “Now you’re my husband. I didn’t realize we got to pick and choose when our vows apply.”

He pulls back. “Our vows always apply—period. Don’t question that because of a few rough weeks.”

“Try months,” I say.

“When have I ever left you in the dark?” he asks.

If nothing else, Nathan has been better about keeping me in the loop this week. A text or scribbled note lets me know where he is or where he’s been. The question is whether or not I can believe him. “Where are you going?” I challenge.

He points to his sneakers. “Basketball game.”

“Where?” The game is in Brooklyn. I know it, but I watch his face closely as he answers.

“Same as usual.” He says it as if he goes there every weekend. “Park Slope. There’s a court between Michael and Connor’s apartments.”

We stare at each other, him on the sofa, me across the room near the door. He’s always spent time with his friends in Brooklyn. I swear it’s been happening more lately, though. “I’m getting headshots taken for work.”

“Oh.” He goes back to tying his shoes.

“By Finn,” I add.

He stops. “Finn. Across the hall?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“He’s a photographer.”

“You told me he was an investment banker.”

“He was.” I wrap my scarf around my neck. “Now, he’s a photographer.”

“That’s convenient.”

“Yes,” I agree. “It is.”

Nathan leans his elbows on his knees and gives me another once over. This time, he narrows his eyes on my dress. “It’s a little sexy.”

I shrug. “It’s for the website. I want to look good.”

“You’ll freeze.”

“Oh, well. What’s that saying? Beauty hurts.”

“I don’t think that’s it.” He stands. “Beauty is pain. Or the other way around.”

He makes no move to leave. My neck begins to sweat. The scarf quivers when my heart beats. “Why doesn’t his wife live here?” Nathan asks. “What’s her name again?”

“Kendra. They’re moving.” I swallow. “She will . . . live here.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

He flaps the hem of his shirt as if he’s hot. We still haven’t switched on the heater, though. “Are you doing this in his apartment?”

“No. We’ll be outside.” I lean back against the wall. “Do you want to come? You’re better at this creative stuff than me.”

He looks past me into the entryway. “I have the game. I’m sure Finn’s plenty creative.” He snorts. “Finn. What kind of a name is that? Is he an appendage?”

I cross my arms, unimpressed with his attempt at an insult. But at least he’s taking an interest. It could mean giving up alone time with Finn, which I’ve come to enjoy, but it’d be worth it. “I’d like for you to come, Nathan. Can you reschedule the game?”

“Can you reschedule the shoot?”

My question annoys him. I see it in his eyes. As if it took him two hours to get ready for some stupid basketball game. I brace myself against the wall and keep my voice mellow. “It’s just that my hair and makeup are done. And Finn’s already set his day aside.”

“I was making a point.”

“What point?” I ask.

“Never mind.”

“No, what?”

I can tell he’s about to brush me off again, but he stops. He blinks to the side, gnawing his bottom lip. “I don’t ask you for a lot,” he says. “Do I?”

I don’t really need to think about it. It’s no secret Nathan goes out of his way for me time and time again. My girlfriends tease me about it—with envy. “No, you don’t ask me for much,” I agree.

“It would be nice to . . . get a little bit more back. I wish you knew what was important to me the way I know what’s important to you. I’d never really expect you to give up your photo shoot to spend the day with me. But why should I always have to skip my plans?”

I feel a pang in my heart, equal parts guilt and sadness, over the implication that I don’t care as much as he does. But I can’t quite swallow his words down without pointing out the obvious. “Because you made me this way,” I say. “If I’m selfish, it’s because you nurtured that in me. You practically forced me to be adored all these years.”

He frowns, and I see the struggle on his face. I think he wants to let go of what’s bothering him, but he won’t allow himself to—maybe out of principle. Maybe there’s still a point he has to prove. “I want you to feel adored,” he says. “I guess I just want to feel the same.”