Page 7 of Best Offer Wins
Ian rakes his fingers back through his hair, the tell that he’s on edge. I flag down the server for extra napkins to mop up my drink.
“Yeah, yeah, much better,” Ian says. “We’ve got a lot more latitude. We’re going after a pretty big fish right now—one you’ve definitely heard of—for dumping chemicals into a major river.”
“Oh yeah? Who is it? Sounds like pharma.”
“No way, man. The general counsel’s probably in your foursome at Burning Tree tomorrow.”
“Yikes, shots fired!” Heath grabs at his chest. Was he always such a douchebag? “Seriously, though, I still can’t believe you’ve stuck it out there.”
Erika and I look at each other. This booth is starting to feel like a holding cell. Everyone is quiet while our server sets down the next round. I ask about their son, Luca, and make a half-hearted effort to seem interested in the animal sounds he knows how to make now. But we all know the night has gone terminal.
“This has been so much fun,” I say. “We can’t wait this long without getting together again.”
“I know, it’s been way too long,” Erika agrees. “Too bad the sitter can’t stay. Otherwise, we could do dinner.”
“Next time,” I say.
On the walk home, Ian reminds me of one of the crunched-up White Claw cans littering the sidewalk. Hands jammed in his pockets. Hunched into himself. Brow hardened into a scowl. Normally, I’d roll my eyes at him being such a baby, but tonight, I get it. “We don’t have to do that again,” I tell him.
Once we’re through the door of the apartment, he grabs me bythe waist and pulls me against him. I search his face, genuinely surprised. I can’t remember the last time we had a spontaneous fuck.
“Come on,” he whispers. “I just want to feel something else.”
I let him take us to the bedroom. He finishes fast on top, then makes me come with his fingers. More an act of efficiency than one of passion.
4
The first class on the Saturday schedule at Power + Grace Yoga starts at nine a.m., which means I’m in the parking lot by eight thirty. Ian thinks I’m meeting with a potential client, so I left the apartment in a sheath dress over a sports bra. Once I was out of the city, I pulled behind a gas station and wriggled into yoga pants.
Now I watch and wait for the olive-green Audi.
Eight fifty-five and still no sign of it. I am at least thankful that Jack Lombardi doesn’t drive a black Range Rover. There appears to be an infestation of those here. I, on the other hand, occupy the only dinged-up, decade-old Prius. A collector’s item, really.
At a little after nine, one more Range Rover tears into the parking lot, followed by a BMW. Two blond ponytails bounce into the studio. Still no Audis.
The classes here are fifty minutes long and start every hour, on the hour, until two o’clock. I packed a sandwich and plenty of water, and scouted a convenient public restroom at the Starbucks in this same complex. But judging by how put together Jack was yesterday, I’m guessing he’s a morning-class guy. For now, I’m way down the rabbit hole of Zoe Estelle’s Instagram, scrolling through before-and-afters.This woman is a genius, presumably an obscenely expensive one. Fuck Erika.
As the first round of students begins to trickle back out, I see a flash of olive green pull into a spot by the entrance. Jack emerges, mat under his arm, in red short-shorts and a tight gray tank top, white sweatshirt draped effortlessly over his shoulders. All these housewives must worship him.
I wait a couple minutes so he can get settled; then I scramble inside. The girl up front makes me fill out a form and takes my credit card. The classroom is through a glass door to the left. I lean back from the desk to look for Jack. He’s in the second row, an open spot still beside him.
As soon as I have my card back, I kick off my Birkenstocks and hustle through the door. Hundred-degree heat blasts me like bad breath. How did I miss that this washotyoga? And, shit, my water bottle is still in the car. But if I go back for it, someone else will swipe my place.
I hike up my leggings, tucking the soft part around my midsection into the high-rise before I make my approach.
“Mind if I grab this spot?” I ask Jack breezily, as if my skin doesn’t feel like it’s fusing to Lycra.
“All yours,” he says. I catch it then—the flicker of recognition. “Have I seen you here before?”
“No, it’s my first time,” I say, unrolling my mat. “But you look familiar, too.”
He snaps his fingers. “You’re the woman from yesterday! From in front of my house.”
I laugh and bring my hands to my face, just as I practiced in the mirror. “Oh geez, how embarrassing is this? I was such a mess.”
“No, no, not at all. Did you find your way home okay?”
“I did, thank you. I can’t believe I’m running into you again! So mortifying.”
