Covet

  28

  daniel

  I watch Claire drive away.

  I can’t believe I asked her to go for a ride with me. It was easily the most impulsive thing I’ve done in a long time, and the words came out before I could stop them.

  I’m never impulsive. Cops rarely are. We think things through, look at the situation from all angles before we proceed. We don’t charge into the unknown. Doing that will get you killed.

  She sounded lonely. That’s the only reason I can come up with for why I asked her if she wanted to go for a ride with me.

  It’s also the only reason I can come up with for why she said yes.

  It doesn’t matter if I think she’s sweet. That she’s easy to talk to. That I’ve always thought that there’s nothing prettier than a brown-eyed blonde.

  The most we could ever be is friends, because it’s definitely not my style to mess with another man’s wife.

  Especially since he never seems to be around.

  29

  claire

  I’m sitting in the backyard with Bridget almost a week later, watching the kids run around after dinner. Chris flew to Atlanta on Monday, and I’ve had my hands full with work and the kids’ after-school activities. It feels good to just sit for a while. Let my mind wander. When my phone rings and I see Daniel’s name on the screen, I silence the ringer and let it go to voice mail. I’m curious about what he wants, but I don’t want to have a conversation with him in front of Bridget.

  I probably shouldn’t be having a conversation with him at all.

  “Claire. Did you hear me?” Bridget asks, giving me a poke.

  “No, sorry. What did you say?”

  “I was wondering if you could run Gage and Griffin to soccer practice tomorrow. Sebastian and Finn have a football game and they really want me to be there. Sam has an all-day offsite meeting in Kansas City and won’t be home until late. I hate to ask you, but I haven’t figured out how to clone myself yet.”

  “It’s no problem, Bridget,” I say, nodding. “I can help you.”

  “Thanks. I don’t know what I’d do without you and Elisa sometimes.”

  “You’ve helped Elisa and me out plenty of times,” I say.

  “Not nearly as much as you’ve both helped me,” she says.

  I smile and say, “You’ve got more kids than we do. You’re entitled.”

  Later, when Josh and Jordan are in bed, I listen to his voice mail. “Hey, Claire. It’s Daniel. I’m off tomorrow and I’m taking the bike out. Let me know if you want to come with me.”

  It’s been five days since I went to Daniel’s house, and the guilt I felt about enjoying his company has faded a bit, like the colors of an old photograph. Or maybe I’ve just rationalized it away: Nothing happened. He was just being friendly.

  He’s a nice guy and I have no reason to believe that his intentions are anything less than honorable. But agreeing to see him again is going to send a mixed signal, and at thirty-four I’m way too old to be a tease. I take the easy way out and text him my response. I’m sorry. I can’t. Thank you for asking though. Best, Claire.

  He responds thirty seconds later. No problem. Thanks, Daniel.

  His reply tells me that he got the message loud and clear.

  It’s too bad, because I would have really liked to go for another ride.

  I get into bed, turn on the TV, and flip aimlessly through the channels, trying to find something to watch. There’s a book on my nightstand, and I read a few pages, but that doesn’t hold my attention either. I turn off the TV and lie there in the dark.

  And remind myself that I made the right choice.

  • • •

  I’m sitting at a stoplight in front of the credit union at eleven thirty the next morning. A man who looks a lot like Bridget’s husband, Sam, is walking up the sidewalk in front of the building. I’m just far enough away that I can’t be sure. He has the same stocky build and dark hair as Sam, but he’s wearing jeans and a gray sweatshirt. The driver behind me honks his horn and I look up and see that the light has turned green.

  Later that day, when I’m driving Gage and Griffin to soccer practice I decide I must have been mistaken. The man walking into the credit union couldn’t have been Sam. The whole reason I’m helping Bridget out is because Sam’s at an all-day meeting downtown. Instead of jeans he’s probably wearing a three-piece suit and trying to one-up his peers.

  It sure looked like him, though.

  30

  claire

  I’m weaving through the late-afternoon traffic, trying to make it home before the kids are dropped off by their respective carpools. The thumping starts as I’m mentally reviewing my to-do list and thinking about what to make for dinner. I quickly look in the rearview mirror to make sure I haven’t run over something, but the pavement is clear and it takes only a few additional seconds before my brain processes that the thumping is coming from one of my tires. I pull off onto the shoulder and turn on my hazard lights, then reach for my cell phone, hoping that Elisa will answer. She picks up on the fourth ring and I exhale.

  “Hi, Claire,” she says. “What’s up?”

  “I’ve got a flat tire,” I say. “Josh and Jordan will be home in twenty minutes. Can you meet them and take them to your house?”

  “Sure, no problem. What are you going to do about the tire?”

  “I don’t know yet.” In the past I’d called AAA, but that was one of the things I canceled when I was going through our expenses, eliminating everything I thought we could live without, no matter how little it cost. When I told Chris he was livid. “What if you and the kids get stuck on the side of the road? Jesus, Claire. I don’t think AAA is going to break the bank.” I give silent thanks that the kids aren’t with me and mentally reprimand myself; we really didn’t save that much by dropping the service, and perhaps I was a bit militant in my efforts to save us from financial ruin.

  “Skip will be back in an hour,” Elisa says. “I can send him.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll try my dad first.” I call my parents but the phone rings and rings. They should be sitting in the kitchen eating dinner, within arm’s reach of the phone that hangs on the wall, because they are, if nothing else, creatures of habit and five thirty is dinnertime in their household. It always has been. I’d call their cell phones, but they both keep them in their glove boxes, turned off. They have no time for such gadgets, except in an emergency, and the only reason they agreed to them at all was because I insisted. My frustration and anger at myself grows.

  I don’t want to try to change the tire myself. My inner feminist chafes, but the truth is that dusk is fast approaching and my skills are rudimentary at best. I know how to change a tire, of course, know the basics of how to work the jack and remove the lug nuts. But my fear is that knowing how and executing the job successfully are two very different things. The cars whiz by outside my window; I’m probably not pulled over far enough for this to be remotely safe. I call the toll-free number on my insurance card, but the person I speak with informs me that I have to call my own tow truck and then submit a claim to be reimbursed for the cost. Using the Internet browser on my phone, I search for a nearby service station, but when I call, the man who answers says that their truck is already out assisting another motorist. They can send someone but they can’t tell me how long it will be. I hang up and think about searching for another service station but then an idea pops into my head. It’s been a little more than a week since I turned down his offer to go for a ride, and if I call him it’s as good as admitting that I do want to see him again. I’ll be opening a door that I told myself I’d be better off keeping closed.

  I know I should keep it closed.

  But I’m not so sure I want to keep it closed.

  I scroll through my phone until I find his number, crossing my fingers that he’s off duty.

  He answers right a
way, sounding surprised. “Claire?” So either he recognizes my number or he’s saved my contact information in his phone.

  “Hi. I’m really sorry to bother you, but I’ve got a flat tire. Chris is out of town and I can’t get a hold of my dad. The service station I called said they didn’t know how long it would be before they can send someone.”

  “Where are you?” I give him my location.

  “Stay in the car,” he says. “I’ll be right there.”

  He pulls in behind me fifteen minutes later, and I get out of the car and walk toward him. He’s dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt and he’s wearing a beat-up baseball cap. He looks rugged, like the kind of man who could change a flat tire with ease. He’s smiling at me but his smile fades when he says, “This is not a safe situation for you to be in.”

  “I have my phone,” I say, holding it up.

  “You should have a towing service,” he says, gently chastising me.

  “I did,” I admit. “I’ll call tomorrow and renew.”

  The flat tire is on the driver’s side and Daniel glances at the swiftly moving traffic. “Pull over a little farther, okay?”

  “Okay.” I get back in the car and pull over as far as I can. When I park and get out Daniel says, “Go sit in my car.”

  “You don’t want me to help you?” I ask as he opens the back of my vehicle and starts rooting around for the jack.

  “No, I’ve got it.”

  Daniel drives a sporty black two-door Toyota. Wildly impractical compared to my kid-hauling SUV or Chris’s roomy Lexus sedan, but Daniel apparently doesn’t need space for booster seats, sports equipment, and all the other paraphernalia children require. Unlike my vehicle, littered with empty juice boxes and smelling faintly of McDonald’s French fries, his spotless interior smells like leather and citrus.

  I settle into the passenger seat and text Elisa. Police changing tire. Home soon. Thank you.

  She texts back right away. Kids are playing with Travis. I’ll feed them dinner. Take your time.

  Fifteen minutes later Daniel opens the driver’s-side door and gets in, wiping his hands on his jeans. A smudge of grease remains on his thumb and I stare at it, transfixed. “Are you cold?” he asks. The daytime temperatures are still in the high seventies, but once the sun starts to go down it gets chilly fast.

  “Just a little.” Daniel starts the car and turns the heat on low. He reaches over and hits the button for my seat warmer. “Thanks again,” I say. “I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything.”

  “You weren’t,” he says, smiling at me.

  I smile, too. “I seem to always be asking for your help.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Claire,” he says. “It’s not like you’ve asked for one of my kidneys.” He grins and we both laugh.

  “Maybe I’ll ask for one of those next,” I say. It takes all the willpower I have not to reach out and touch him. I tell myself it’s a physical manifestation of my gratitude, but that’s utter crap. I’m drawn to him, pure and simple, and I’d have to be pretty unobservant not to notice that my presence seems to be doing something to him, too. It’s the way he looks at me, the warm tone of his voice, not to mention the classic knight-in-shining-armor scenario that’s just been played out. I think for a moment what it would be like to trail my fingers along his jaw and feel the stubble there, and instantly feel ashamed. I have never had so much as a thought about anyone other than Chris. It’s heady stuff, but I come to my senses and pull back.

  What I’m about to say next will feel awkward, but I take a deep breath and proceed anyway. “The other day, when you left a message about going for a ride? I wanted to go. I only said no because I didn’t want to give you the wrong idea.”

  “Okay,” he says, slowly, turning toward me. His tone tells me he’s not one hundred percent sure where I’m going with this.

  “I don’t know what you’re looking for.” I hesitate and he looks at me as if he’s trying to decipher my meaning, which is probably difficult because I’m not being very clear. “I can’t read you,” I finally blurt.

  “I know you’re married, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he says.

  “Not worried,” I say. “Just curious.”

  “What do you want to know?” he asks.

  “Why did you ask me to go on that motorcycle ride? The first time, I mean.”

  He shrugs slightly, looking pensive. “I thought you might say yes. You seemed lonely.”

  “Am I transmitting?”

  “What?” he asks, clearly confused by my question.

  “Nothing. Never mind.”

  “Why did you say yes?” he asks.

  “Because I am lonely.” It’s almost fully dark, which makes this conversation slightly less uncomfortable. I can still see his face, in the weak glow of the dashboard light, but it’s easier somehow with nightfall all around us. “But I’m not looking for anything other than friendship.”

  “You seem really nice, Claire. I thought we hit it off and that you might like getting together again sometime. But I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

  “You aren’t. I just needed to know your intentions. Make sure I hadn’t given you the wrong idea.” It seems like such a strange, unnecessary conversation, but it isn’t, really. Deep down I know we need to draw the boundaries if there’s any chance of us spending more time together.

  I tell him about Chris losing his job. “Things were pretty bad for a while. He found a new job and now he’s never home. He’s a great dad, he gives everything he has to the kids, but he just . . .” I look away and shake my head. “He just doesn’t have a lot of time for me right now.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  “It’s okay. It’s just the way things are.” I fiddle with the zipper on my jacket. “Have you ever been married?” I ask.

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  He shakes his head. “It just didn’t work out.”

  “Any kids?”

  An expression I can’t read clouds his features. “No.”

  We sit in silence for a minute, but surprisingly it doesn’t feel weird. Finally I say, “I better go pick up the kids. Elisa has them.”

  “Okay,” he says.

  “I’d like to go for another ride sometime.”

  He smiles at me. “Sure. I’ll text you,” he says.

  “Thanks again for changing the tire.”

  “You’re welcome. Have a good night.”

  “You, too.” I get out of Daniel’s car and slide behind the wheel of mine. When the traffic clears I pull away from the shoulder, watching in my rearview mirror as Daniel pulls out after me and heads in the opposite direction.

  31

  daniel

  I watch Claire pull away from the side of the road. I’m glad she called, because I really didn’t think I’d ever hear from her again. I understand why she shot me down when I called her: She’s got a husband, a family. It’s probably not a bad idea that she set some parameters, asked me my intentions. Now we both know what to expect.

  Maybe I should have my head examined for even thinking I can spend time with her platonically, but it’s not as if I’m some hormonal sixteen-year-old who can’t think with his brain. I’m thirty-seven, and staying in control is seldom a problem. Then again, I don’t know that I’ve ever been friends with a woman without wanting her, at least a little bit.

  I tell myself that a friendship with Claire is the next best thing, and I tell myself that it’s enough.

  32

  claire

  In the days that follow, Daniel sends me a text to make sure I swapped out the spare tire for a new one. I respond and let him know that I did. He follows up with a voice mail a day later, letting me know that there’s a big accident on the parkway and cautioning me to take a different route so I don’t get stuck in
the gridlock in case I’m headed that way. The e-mail he sends a few days after that, with the funny video that’s gone viral, brings a smile to my face.

  His last text, which came in at midnight when I was already in bed, says, I pulled over a guy who wasn’t wearing pants tonight. He told me he knew he’d forgotten something, but couldn’t figure out what it was. But no worries because he had underwear on. Women’s underwear, but still.

  I laugh and type out a response while I’m drinking my coffee. You are a lucky, lucky man.

  The guilt I once felt about Daniel has been slowly replaced with anticipation: When will he call next? When I check my phone will there be a text from him? It’s subtle yet omnipresent, weaving its way through the minutiae of my ordinary life. Lifting it up. Making it more exciting. The rationalizing has already started: I’m not doing anything wrong. I speak to clients on the phone all the time, and I’ve become very friendly with many of them over the years. It’s no big deal.

  Daniel texts me a week later. I’m off tomorrow. Do you want to go for a ride? There won’t be very many nice days left.

  It’s early October and the weather isn’t going to hold out much longer. Soon I’ll be bundling the kids into warmer coats and buying their new winter boots.

  Sure. What time?

  Noon?

  Okay. See you then.

  • • •

  The sound of thunder wakes me the next morning and when I go downstairs to start the coffee, I open the blinds and watch the raindrops hit the window. I feel a wave of disappointment, but when I check my phone there’s a text from Daniel and it says, Come anyway. I text him back and say Okay.

  After I get the kids off to school I shower and then stand in the middle of my closet, trying to decide what to wear. We’re not going for a motorcycle ride, that much is clear, but I don’t know what Daniel has planned for an alternative. I choose my favorite pair of jeans and a simple, white T-shirt, worn untucked to hide my pump, which is clipped to my belt. I put on my favorite burnt-orange cardigan, that one that I dig out every fall, and pull on my well-worn brown leather boots. Silver hoop earrings and my wedding ring are my only jewelry. I spritz on perfume and apply mascara and blush. The humidity wreaks havoc with my hair, so I let it air-dry and leave it alone, not daring to even finger-comb the waves in order to avoid the frizz.