Slip of the Tongue (Slip of the Tongue 1)

I unearth myself from the comforter, sit up, and look back at him. “Where were you last night?”

“I told you.” Nathan sighs, drowsy. “Mikey’s.”

“Who else was there?”

“All the guys. I lost money. Not a lot, but—”

“And the wives?”

He pauses and, infuriatingly, chuckles softly. “What, you think they had their own table going or something?”

“So Joan wasn’t there?”

He wrinkles his nose and opens one eye. “Joan? Mike’s fiancée?”

“Do you know another Joan?”

He closes his eye again. “She lives there. She made us food.”

I fume. Cooking for Nathan belongs to me and me alone. “Why didn’t you order out?”

“Uh. She offered, so we let her.” He shrugs. “She stayed in the bedroom the rest of the time. Why?”

I shake my head. My thoughts tumble around like dice. Can Nathan lie this easily? If so, since when? I’m not sure how to interpret him, as if he’s speaking a foreign language. On a night five years ago, Nathan called me twenty minutes before he was supposed to pick me up for the theater. He’d lost the tickets to a Broadway show we’d been looking forward to for months. He said, since I was already dressed up, he was sending a car for me. We’d have dinner instead. It was a lie. I knew before I hung up that he was going to propose, and he did. During a sunset helicopter tour of New York City. We were over the Empire State Building, where we’d spent half of our first date.

Now, I’m wading in uncertainty. What he says is convincing, but it’s also convenient. He can say he was with Joan, and it wouldn’t be a lie. I’ll only know if I ask him specifically whether or not he’s slept with her. But at the moment, he’s not doing everything in his power to keep me at a distance, and for that reason, I don’t want to bring it up. “Never mind.”

“Can I go back to sleep now?”

I nod, even though he doesn’t see. He’s already drifting off again. “Do you want me to stay?” I ask.

He breathes through his mouth for a few seconds. “Hmm? No. Take Ginger out.” For being barely cognizant, he says it with edge, as if I’ve angered him.

I get out from under the blanket—my touch, my love, spurned once again. Ginger looks up. “Walk,” I say, and she leaps to her feet.

“Sadie . . .” Nate says. “Favor?”

I turn back. He’s like a little boy, puffy-eyed and bundled in his blankets. Come back, I want him to say. Or, I’m sorry. At this point, I’d even take a confession. I slept with Joan, it meant nothing, I love you. “Anything,” I say, and I mean it.

“Make coffee.”

How can two meaningless words feel like the tip of a blade pressing into my chest? Not sharp enough to pierce the skin, but a reminder that he could if he wanted. I take a deep breath and realize I’m wrong. It’s not what he says that stings. It’s what he doesn’t. “Sure, babe.”

I could put on a pot to brew while I’m downstairs, but I have some things to make up for myself. After making myself presentable to the public, I swap my slippers for Chucks and Nathan’s ratty sweatshirt for my coat.

I walk Ginger in the direction of Quench. It’s Nathan’s favorite coffee by a mile. Despite his hand on me a few minutes earlier, I can’t help feeling chilled to the bone. As if a freeze rises from the storm’s leftover puddles. Nate’s momentary lapse can more likely be credited to a hangover than a change of heart, and it hurts. “Take Ginger out,” he said, and, “Make coffee.” His orders were as empty as the neighborhood on this Sunday morning.

Since there are no patrons at Quench, I bring Ginger inside. They know her here. Gisele, the chipper culinary student who works mornings and weekends, comes out from behind the counter to greet us.

“How’s my favorite pup?” she asks. She sets a paper cup with water in front of Ginger.

Gisele treats Ginger better than some customers, and I don’t blame her. New Yorkers are heinous before caffeine. “How’s school?”

“I’m the only one in my class not hanging on by a thread because Thanksgiving break is on the horizon. In other words, I love it.” She brightens as she goes back to her place behind the register. “By the way, I might take International Cuisine next semester. Maybe you and Nathan can be my guinea pigs.”

“We’re always up for that.”

She grins. “Where is he this morning?”

“Asleep,” I say. “He hit the booze a little hard last night.”

With a laugh, she shakes her head. “It must take an entire brewery to bring down a guy his size.”

“Don’t let his height fool you. If there’s hard liquor involved, he’s the tallest lightweight around.”

We exchange a smile. “Two coffees?” she asks.

I glance at the pastry window. “We need sustenance too. What’s Nathan order these days?”

“He hasn’t been by in a while.” She has her back to me as she pours our drinks. “I was going to ask if he got a new job or something. I don’t see you guys walk by anymore.”

“We’ve been out of sync lately,” I say. “We used to try to leave around the same time, but because of my promotion, our schedules are different.”

She puts our drinks in a tray. “Cool.”

“I guess we’ll take two dark chocolate pistachio croissants.”

She picks up tongs but only puts one pastry in a bag. “He doesn’t like those. I’m not supposed to tell you because he knows you love them.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Why should I care if he doesn’t like them?”

She shrugs. “Maybe he doesn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

I roll my eyes. “Nathan thinks everyone is as sensitive as he is.”

“Croissant for you, glazed donut for him. I think he’s ordered that a few times.” She passes two pastry bags across the counter. “Donut’s on the house. Tell him to feel better.”

“Thanks, Gisele. I will.” I pay for mine with a smile.

At the condiment station, I pop the lid off my drink to pour half and half in my coffee. I’ve been to Quench a hundred times, but this morning, an old memory nags me. I haven’t thought of it in years, but I’ve never quite been able to shake it.

When I was in college, in this exact same spot, I bumped hands with someone while reaching for creamer. Between his soulful green eyes and shoulder-length, dirty blond hair, he was, up to that point, the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen. The sun came through the window, turning the amber strands in his hair gold.

“Sorry,” he said. “After you.”

“Thanks.” I poured half and half, sneaked a glance at his pink, ripe-looking mouth, and then passed the container. He smiled as if he knew exactly what effect his protruding, full lips were having on me. I could sleep on the bottom one for fuck’s sake. I nearly lost my balance.

“Pistachio?” he asked. He was talking. I had no idea what about. Who knows how long I’d been on the planet of dumbstruck women.

“Excuse me?”

“Is that the pistachio croissant?” he asked. “I was going to try it . . .”

“Oh. It’s the best.” We both looked at it. “Do you want some?”

He was surprised. “Okay.”

I tore off a piece. “Hope you don’t mind my germs.”

“Not one bit.” He took it from my fingers. I watched him chew and lick a dark-chocolate glob from the corner of his mouth. “Delicious.”

“Told you.”

We smiled at each other a little too long. I couldn’t think of one normal thing to say. I just wanted to tell him how something he was—cute, sexy, unexpected. I looked good, hair straightened and makeup done, dressed up for a class presentation I had later that morning.

Finally, he said, “I’m waiting for someone. Can I sit with you for a minute?”

I hadn’t planned on staying. I was going to class early to rehearse my PowerPoint slides. My feet wouldn’t move, though. “Sure.”

He picked up his co

ffee, chose a table by a window, and pulled out a seat for me. “You go to NYU?”

“How can you tell?” I asked as I sat.

“Your bag looks heavy. Textbooks?”

“And a laptop.” I set my oversized tote on the ground. “Back problem waiting to happen.”

He smiled. I almost missed the dimple that creased his cheek because of my fascination with his lips. “I’m a photography major. I want to take beautiful photos. Or, photos of beautiful things.” He tucked some loose strands behind his ear.

“I should’ve guessed.”