Page 87 of Grand Escape

You get what you get, and you don’t get upset. For a moment, I remembered the teachers saying those exact words in my daughter’s preschool a few years ago, and thinking it was a perfect mantra.

I’d already spent a lifetime searching for the person who would know me deeply and understand me. A partner who got me in ways I didn’t get myself. When I found that person, I’d decided I would hold on tightly. But I’d failed at finding someone on my first attempt, and had lost my way on the second attempt.

Smiling at James, I said, “Definitely,” and he signaled for the bartender.

At that moment, I’d classify myself as tipsy, but not wrecked. I knew the bartender’s name was John, and he was adorably cute in his almost too-tight plaid vest buttoned over a white dress shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He made a mean French 75, and attended graduate school here in Boston. He’d been behind the bar both times I’d been here before, but not in charge of my drinks. Now, John was my drug-of-choice dealer.

James, an established lawyer, traveled between here in Boston and New York for the law firm where he’d made partner close to a decade ago. I placed him to be around four or five years older than me.

“Divorced,” he’d told me earlier in the evening. “Wasn’t a good match.” She couldn’t handle his travel schedule, or so he’d claimed.

“Me? I’m a writer,” I’d told him and left it at that.

“Journal? Times?” he’d asked with an eyebrow raised.

His question felt less about where I worked and more about my political party. Personally, I didn’t think we were at that stage of a relationship, or ever would be.

“Freelance. I write a lot for Adweek. My life’s not that serious. Lifestyle and social media pieces, mostly,” I’d said like I meant it. I wished it to be true.

As we waited for my drink, James’s hand grazed my back, sweeping under my hair and caressing the back of my neck. More than anything, I wanted to slap his hand away, but I just met his gaze again, confirming he was still seeing me. James was into me, at least for the night, which was enough at the moment.

I’d told him I was separated. And in my heart and soul, I was separated, despite wearing my wedding band. But in reality, I wasn’t.

I was fully aware that made me public enemy number one, but everyone had a skeleton or two in their closet. Mine were neither pretty nor organized. They were a messy bag of bones that not even the most dedicated paleontologist could put back together.

John slid a fresh drink toward me as I relaxed into the high-backed bar chair. Standing behind me, James reached out to take his. Like most nights, the Oak was packed, and I’d been lucky to snag a chair when I arrived. Relieved, I’d hung my fur-trimmed jacket on the back and saddled up for a drink. James appeared moments later and had been keeping me company ever since.

“Cheers,” he told me now, tipping his lowball toward my glass.

“Cheers.” I returned the sentiment, taking a sip and closing my eyes for a few seconds.

“You probably end up in New York often,” James said, more like a statement than a question.

“You say that like you already know.”

“I assumed,” he said. “Writing, lifestyle, it’s all connected, and I was thinking we could meet up there,” he said, sprinting rather than leisurely walking from this meet-up to a potential next one.

His left hand now rested on the back of my chair and I took it in, confirming there was no wedding band. His body was turned toward me, his posture confident as he leaned a bit closer.

“You know, you need to be careful in this,” he said, caressing the collar of my coat. “I heard the animal lovers are attacking people who wear fur.”

And just like that, whatever false connection I was imagining between us evaporated. This man and I had nothing in common.

After taking a sip of my drink, I asked, “Tell me, what kind of car do you drive? A Tesla?”

He shook his head. “BMW Seven Series,” he said proudly, like this was a selling point.

“With leather seats? Guzzling gas?”

Rather than taking offense, he threw his head back in laughter, exposing the cords of his throat. Under different circumstances, I would have thought it was sexy, but I was just about over James. Not to mention, I suspected he was married with all this wanting to meet up in New York.

Then again, so was I.

“Ouch,” he said, raising a finger in the air, pretending to be burned, before settling his hand onto my thigh.

I shifted my leg slightly, trying to shake James loose as the street entrance door opened, allowing in a burst of cold air. It had been opening and closing all night, but this was the first time I’d noticed.

When I glanced at the doorway, my head started to swirl, and I tried to blame the latest drink. But it was the blacker-than-black gaze focused on me that left me off-kilter, the unzipped leather jacket, the cashmere sweater covering the body I knew better than any other.

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