How to Save a Life

Jordan takes another bite of the frittata I made for Maisie, the leftovers I should clarify. I’ve been researching new ideas for meals online and I think this one’s a hit.

“What club?”

He taps his fork on the now empty plate. “The private club I belong to. This is good,” he says.

“Just good?” Jordan has become a good little guinea pig, always willing to try anything I make first. He smiles deviously and puts the fork in his mouth slowly, chews his food. “Very good.”

The tease. More material for my nightly habit. I can basically feel it between my legs, which is a miracle on the level of the holy resurrection because I was pretty sure I was dead down there. I don’t remember when it happened last and it sure wasn’t recently.

Taking the now empty dish to the sink, he rinses it and places it in the dishwasher.

“Don’t sprain a vocal cord with all that praise.”

He looks over his shoulder at me. “Make me one next time and I’ll do better.”

It’s my turn to smile this time. “Where’s this private club you belong to?”

“On Madison. A couple of blocks over.” Facing me, he braces his hands on the white marble counter top. “I gave them your information. Charge everything to my account.”

“What is there to do at this club?”

“Plenty. They have a kid’s playroom. A theater. Spa. Gym. You can have lunch there…I sent you the info in a text.”

I check my phone. Sure enough, he had.

After Jordan leaves for work, I get Maisie ready and we hit the city streets. Turns out you have to be a somebody to join The Club, so it isn’t a complete surprise to see a famous New York actor walk out as I’m entering with the stroller. Rich people live a very surreal life is all I have to say.

We spend most of our morning in the kid’s playroom which is bigger than the entire first floor of my two-family. Then I spotted the rooftop pool.

I haven’t been in the water––not a pool or a beach––for close to a decade. That’s no exaggeration. You don’t get days off when you have your own business. Every minute of your time is devoted to growing it. Every penny that is not spent on essentials gets reinvested. Vacations, clothes, entertainment: they all lose value. My one goal for years has been to keep my little business solvent. And even with my level of discipline, it’s been tough.

We pass by The Club shop and I spot a red bikini hanging in the window. I have a strange reaction to this red bikini––I want it. I want it the way Veronica wants the latest Chanel nail color. Which means I have to have it.

I never ever buy anything for myself, and even though I really shouldn’t, even now, because I really can’t afford it, I buy it anyway. It also doesn’t feel right to charge it to Jordan’s account since it’s a personal item. Then I pick out a cute pink one-piece suit for Maisie and we head to the pool.

“Pool,” she shrieks, which really sounds like poo.

The baby doesn’t last long. All the activity in the playroom really knocked her out. She gets really tired. So after we spend a little time splashing around the shallow end, I change her out of her wet bathing suit and tuck her back in the stroller. She falls asleep in under ten minutes.

Which brings us here. It almost feels like I’m cheating, doing something wrong relaxing on this pool lounger. I pop in my earbuds and pull up an audiobook I downloaded for free on my phone. I got in the habit of listening to them on the job sites I’ve worked alone and it just stuck.

Sighing deeply, I fall back and close my eyes, let the heat and sun work its magic, warming my skin and drying my wet suit. I could get used to this…better not to though.

“What are you doing?” I hear not five minutes later. Right at the part in my audiobook when the hero and heroine meet.

Ignore it, I tell myself.

It sounds suspiciously like Jordan, but it can’t be Jordan because Jordan is at work. Then I hear, “Riley,” and that definitely sounds like Jordan.

I crack my eyes open and squint into the sun. A dark silhouette appears against a clear blue sky, hovering over my lounge chair in a black dress shirt, slacks, and sunglasses like he’s here to claim my soul. Except judging by the tone and the set of his mouth, he doesn’t look very happy to see me. I can see the V between his brows even with his sunglasses on.

“Chillin’ like a Bond villain. What does it look like I’m doing?”

He pulls his sunglasses off and hangs them on his shirt collar. I get a slow blink and a frown. “Showing off too much skin at my private club.”