Deprived of instant comfort, Holly’s screams ratchet up. Without a word, Chloe disentangles herself from me and lurches down the hallway, calling out nonsense words in advance of her mother’s soothing touch.

I’m on the floor, on my naked ass, sitting on my discarded pants.

What the hell am I doing?

Scrambling, I dress quickly and dispose of the condom, assuming that when Chloe reappears, she’ll have something on as well. My mind jumps from thought to thought, scattered like dandelion seeds on the wind, all the thoughts in one direction but without any rhyme or reason.

I left Simone, abandoned in a restaurant she hates, to find comfort with Chloe.

And here I am, about as uncomfortable as I can be.

“Hey,” Chloe says, re-appearing in a loose bathrobe, a red-faced, tear-streaked Holly in her arms. “Looks like she has a new tooth coming in.” Chloe’s doe eyes meet mine, her bewildered expression filled with regret and questions.

“Right.”

We smile at each other.

“That was, um...” Chloe searches for the right word.

“Intense.”

“Yes.”

“I should—” I point toward the door.

She nods slowly. “Right.” Her face falls.

“Chloe – I don’t want you to think I run around doing this all the time.”

“Doing...?”

“Showing up at women’s doors having a quickie.”

“Really? You’re not the booty call type? Because I hate to break it to you, Nick, but that’s what you just did.” Her words come with a heavy dose of amusement.

The words booty call hit me like an arrow to the crotch.

“Booty call?” That’s what my kids call it.

“You know. Call or text a woman. See if you can come over. Netflix and chill...”

I groan. “That’s not what this is. That’s not who I am.”

“I know.”

“You do? How?” Because I’m not sure who I am right now. Tell me, I want to ask. Tell me who the hell I am.

She shrugs. Holly grabs a fistful of her hair. “Because we didn’t do the Netflix part.”

I groan again.

“And because I can just tell. You have integrity. I can trust you.”

Tell her about Simone.

“Chloe, I—”

Holly starts to cry, the sound one of pain.

“I have to go,” Chloe says sadly. “Time for some ibuprofen and a long night.”

I almost offer to stay. It’s reflexive, the impulse to provide assistance.

I fight instinct and don’t say a word.

Instead, I kiss her on the cheek, offer a peck for Holly, and make my way quietly into the cold, stark night.

The slap of icy air does not provide clarity.

Damn it.

Chapter 17

Chloe

My mother is back from Paris, recovered, and in need of a massage after a day of “helping” me.

We pull into my parking space at O, Charlotte, Holly, and of course me, the driver. Or at least we try to pull in, but there is another car in my spot. A decrepit Hyundai that looks like it may have once been red.

Great.

“Okay, Plan B,” I say. “I will double park at the front entrance, set up the stroller, put Holly in it, and you can take her to my office. I’ll find a place to park on the street.”

“I’m sorry, Chloe, but I don’t have time. My massage appointment is in seven minutes.”

I just look at my mother. She shrugs, the innocent victim of circumstance.

I drop her at the front door. She waves cheerily as the doorman opens it for her.

I circle the block four times.

When I finally stagger into the reception area, there’s no one at the desk. A few seconds later, Carrie pops around the corner and looks at me. At us.

“May I help you?” she says frostily.

“Actually, yes, you may. Can you take this diaper bag to my office?”

There’s a pause as she studies me.

“Chloe?”

I smile weakly.

“Oh my god! I didn’t know you were coming in! I didn’t recognize you! Is that the baby? I thought you didn’t return to work for another week?”

Bite back sarcastic reply.

“I don’t. We’re here for my mother. It’s a muscle emergency.”

By now, Carrie’s astonishment has drawn attention. Holly’s stroller is surrounded by a crowd of women, all cooing in high-pitched voices and all with their backs to me. I am invisible.

Which is a good thing under the circumstances.

In the flurry of getting Holly dressed to impress on her first visit to O, I sort of forgot about myself. She is wearing a tiny sundress, something Charlotte picked up in Switzerland. The skirt has a border of hand painted wildflowers, and it came—inexplicably—with a matching handkerchief. To dry my tears of joy when I am overcome by her sweetness, presumably.

I, on the other hand, am perhaps not at my best.

I didn’t really have time to change my clothes, what with getting Holly ready and packing her bag and the equipment, and making a salad for lunch. Charlotte wanted a glass of Sancerre, so I opened that, and then I made up my bed with fresh sheets for Howard’s arrival tonight.

We were just out the door when I heard a little noise. Everybody back inside for a diaper change.

Anyway, I’m still in the black Athleta dress and espadrilles I wore to the North End this morning on yet another pastry run for my mother. Was it only this morning? Looking down, I see remnants of powdered sugar at the hem. I brush at it but it doesn’t improve.

I am holding the crumpled-up Swiss handkerchief, which I have been using to blot the perspiration from my face.

No wonder Carrie didn’t recognize me. I don’t recognize me.

“I’ll just be in my office,” I offer, but no one hears me. I clear my throat. “Carrie, could you join me?”

I leave the door open so I can listen for crying—Holly’s, that is.

“What’s going on today?” I ask Carrie. My desk is covered with papers, fabric samples, magazines. I hate that.

“Big private party tonight,” she answers, sitting down across from me. “It was a last-minute booking, but we pulled it together. A divorce celebration. In fact, the woman throwing the party will be here in twenty minutes to finalize details. Catering is tearing their hair out.”