Page 65 of Rebound With Me
“Have fun at the party, Charlie!”
Vince ends the call and tosses the phone away before I can stop him from pulling off my dress, my lukewarm complaints about how we have to get out to enjoy the sun and let housekeeping clean the room go ignored.
It took another hour to get out of the hotel room, because we both had to ensure that the other was thoroughly covered in sunscreen. My body has never felt so adored and attended to, and seeing the man that Eve referred to as “Mr. Seriously Sexy” behave like an insatiable teenager at times, is flattering to say the least.
The resort is fully-booked, so it is not surprising to find that all of the recliners around the pools are taken by the time we circle the area. I notice about fifty different women of all ages—moms and grandmas, women on their honeymoons—checking out the delicious man I’m holding hands with. I do not blame them. He looks super fine in his swim trunks, tank top and aviators.
“Let’s go down to the waterfront. There’s a beach, right?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Hang on, I wanna get a picture of us with this view. Look at that. It’s gorgeous here.”
It really is. It’s a beautiful day, and the location of this resort, in the Adirondacks, on the lake, is perfect. It’s hard to believe I made these reservations for me and Russell. He probably would have insisted on spending the days seeking out antiques and dining. And I would have made myself believe that I like it.
I feel self-conscious when Vince holds up his camera to take a picture of us. This is the first time we’ve taken an “usie” together. He leans in, cheek pressed up against mine, and takes three shots. He looks at the pictures. “Damn. We look good together.”
I almost burst into tears, because, damn, we do look good together. He texts me the pictures, and I try to ignore the sinking feeling that those will one day be the only evidence of our summer together. I shake it off, and let him lead me down to the beach, where there are slightly fewer people, for some reason.
“Why would anyone want to sit around a pool when they could be by the lake?” he says.
“I have no idea.”
We place our towels and things on two side-by-side patio lounge chairs and look out at the lake.
“You want to go in the water?”
“Not yet, let’s get some sun first.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
He lays back and closes his eyes.
It isn’t anywhere near as humid here as it is in the city now, and I love it. I find myself wondering if we can squeeze in another weekend getaway before the summer is over.
The relative quiet is suddenly disturbed when a woman squeals as a man picks her up and hangs her over his shoulder then drops her into the lake. She splashes him before standing up, casually rearranging her tight little bikini over her lady bits.
As they walk back up the beach, I realize they’re heading for the two empty lounge chairs next to mine. They both stare at us as they slow their pace.
It takes my brain about five long seconds to recognize the man as my former fiancé. He looks like a Mad Man-era hot dad in his slim red swim trunks, or a vampire principal from a CW show (you know, the kind that can go out in broad daylight). He is frowning and wrinkling his forehead as he approaches, straining to see me in the sun and also probably formulating a strategy for how to deal with me.
The woman reaches for the towel on the chair next to mine, turning her toned backside to me as she dries off.
I realize my mouth is hanging open. Time has slowed down and I am not aware of anything else in the world except this woman who’s standing next to me.
I have had this image of Sadie the nanny in my mind. There, she is blonde, blue-eyed, buxom, with creamy skin and she smells like strawberries. A sexed-up Julie Andrews. Essentially, the opposite of me (a not sexed-up Julie Andrews)—although I do sometimes smell like strawberries.
The real Sadie is indeed blonde, bleached with hot pink streaks in her hair, a lean lithe yet somehow also curvy body, and an elaborate lower back tattoo that basically looks like an exposed black lace thong. I mean. I could see why guys would find that attractive. But why not just wear a black lace thong? They always end up creeping out of the top of jeans anyway. Wouldn’t it look dumb if she wore patterned boy shorts one day and then the tattoo peeked out behind that? And then I realize: she doesn’t wear underwear. Of course. Why would twenty-two year-old blonde tattooed Sadie wear underwear? Therein lies the main difference between Sadie and me. You take one look at her and start obsessing about her underpants situation, you take one look at me and you think: “I bet she’s really good at reading Captain Underpants books out loud.”
I feel sick. It’s not a judgment on Sadie, it’s the insidious realization that the two men that I’ve most recently had sex with have also recently had sex with this super sexy sexbot. I had somehow managed not to think about it for thirty glorious seconds and now I can’t imagine ever not thinking about it. I don’t have self-esteem issues, but let’s get real here: I could totally understand why a man would want to procreate with me, because obviously I will be an amazing mom, but why would anyone want to have recreational sex with me after doing it with her? That must be like going from snorting cocaine to drinking a warm can of Coke. There’s no way Vince wanted to have sex with me for any reason other than revenge. It doesn’t make sense.
As he towels off, Russell says, as casually as if he were greeting a stranger: “Hello, Nina.”
Sadie turns her head to look at me just as Vince raises himself up on one elbow, shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand.
“Vince?” Her voice is deep and Slavic. Also not what I expected. “What the fuck?”
“Shit,” he says, under his breath. He sits up and reaches for my hand.
