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  After the movie everyone went out for pizza and beer and Chris lingered near me, making conversation and asking if I needed anything. He drove me home that night. “Can I have your number?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I said, digging a business card out of my purse and scribbling my home number on the back in case he didn’t want to call me at work. I thought he might try to kiss me, but he pocketed the card and made sure I was safely inside before he walked back to his car. I would have let him. Even back then there was something solid, trustworthy, comforting about him. Or maybe I just liked the way he looked.

  He called the very next day and invited me to another movie the following Saturday, a matinee this time. “I thought we could have lunch first,” he said.

  “That would be great,” I said.

  He picked me up and thus began one of the best dates I ever had. It was one of those idyllic summer days where the humidity seemed to vanish and the temperature hovered at a perfect seventy-five degrees, so we sat at a sidewalk table at a small bistro and ordered Bloody Marys with our lunch. I didn’t often drink alcohol, but there were times when a drink sounded good and that day was one of them. I remember the way the vodka made me feel even more relaxed and carefree than I already did. Chris told me he hated olives and since I love them he laughed and popped his into my mouth, and all I could think about was the feel of his fingers as they touched my lips. When our food came we shared our entrees, feeding each other bites off our forks. To the casual observer, we probably looked like we’d been dating for a while. There were no awkward moments, and I felt instantly comfortable with him. We were having such a good time that we arrived at the movie—Saving Private Ryan—late, missing the previews and sliding into our seats just in time for the main feature.

  When the house lights came up Chris asked, “Do you want to get some dinner? You’re probably getting tired of me, but I’m hungry again and I thought you might be, too.”

  I looked at my watch. I didn’t wear an insulin pump back then, and I needed to check my blood sugar and give myself a shot before I could eat anything else. “Maybe some other time,” I said. He tried to hide it, but the surprise at being turned down when we were clearly having a great first date showed on his face. “It’s just that I have to go home,” I said. We walked silently to his car and he opened the door for me. When we reached my apartment and he walked me to the door, he made no move to leave. I unlocked it and he followed me down the short hallway and into the kitchen. I walked to the refrigerator and after I pulled out the bottle of insulin I filled a syringe, pulled up the hem of my skirt to expose my upper thigh, and plunged the needle in. Normally I hated giving myself a shot in front of anyone. People seemed to freak out about needles and it didn’t help that Logan used to refer to it as “Claire shooting up.” Chris watched, silently, his eyes lingering on the tan skin of my leg. I capped the syringe and threw it away, then looked up at him.

  “I have diabetes.”

  He was leaning against the counter, arms crossed. “I see that.” He looked confused, as if he couldn’t figure out why I was being so secretive. “Now what?” he asked.

  “Now I can go to dinner with you.”

  He smiled, his features instantly softening. “Then let’s go.”

  He took my hand, lacing his fingers with mine as we walked to a nearby diner. “Wouldn’t it have just been easier to tell me?” he gently chided.

  “I didn’t want it to matter.” I told him about Logan and how I’d always felt that my diabetes bothered him. Like it was a burden. And even though it was way too early for what I was about to say, I said it anyway. “My disease has lifelong implications. Not everyone can handle that. Especially guys.”

  “Logan sounds like a tool. Taking care of you should have been his top priority.”

  I smiled at him, feeling sudden, inexplicable tears that I blinked back. “I can take care of myself,” I said, because I didn’t want him to think I was incapable of it. That I was some damsel in distress that needed rescuing. I just wanted him to know what he was up against.

  “I have no doubt that you can,” he said.

  And this time, after we finished dinner and he walked me home, he waited until I unlocked the front door. Then he leaned in and cupped my face in his hands and kissed me. His lips were soft but there was something commanding about his kiss, something that told me that underneath his good manners and respectful demeanor I would find a guy who liked to be in charge. Who might not be so polite when we were alone in a way that I would very much enjoy. I could have stood in the doorway with him forever on that perfect summer night as he pressed the length of his body firmly against mine. I remember thinking as I lay in bed that night that Chris was the kind of guy you could plan a future with.

  I went out with him three more times and the more time we spent together, the more I discovered I was right about that prediction. He had goals and dreams, and I’d never met anyone who had his life so mapped out. The girlfriend he’d had through most of college wasn’t remotely interested in settling down. “She wanted to go backpacking in Europe. Stay in youth hostels and avoid getting a job for as long as she could. Things like that,” he told me. “That wasn’t what I wanted.”

  He was already climbing the ranks at work, selling cell phone packages for AT&T and working toward a position in management. Home ownership was next on his to-do list and he told me he hoped to buy within the next year. He spoke fondly of his parents and always treated me with respect. He didn’t play games, and if he said he’d call, he’d call. He made me laugh, he made me feel like I mattered, and he made it so very easy for me to fall for him.

  He took me out to dinner one night a week later and then we went back to his apartment. After he unlocked the door he didn’t bother turning on the light. Silently, he pulled me by the hand and guided me past the kitchen and living room and down the hallway to his bedroom. Once inside, he kissed me and then slowly pulled my T-shirt over my head, throwing it onto the floor. I kissed him back and he nudged me gently until the backs of my knees made contact with his bed. He tumbled onto it with me and we kissed with abandon, both of us breathing hard when we finally came up for air. He removed my bra and I gasped when he cupped my breasts, bent his head down, and took one of my nipples in his mouth. Logan had seldom bothered with this step, and I’d forgotten how good it felt. Chris took his time, sucking on one nipple and rubbing his thumb back and forth lightly across the other, and I made sounds I hadn’t made in a while. He brought his mouth back to mine and his kisses became urgent, unrestrained, and after a few minutes I broke away so I could take his shirt off and run my hands over his chest. The smell of his skin, a combination of soap, cologne, and his own scent, intoxicated me.

  His fingers tugged on the button of my jeans, popping it open.

  “Chris, wait. Do you have any condoms?” I should have thought of that earlier.

  Oh God, please say you do.

  Trailing kisses down my neck, sucking and almost biting the tender skin, he whispered, “Yes.”

  He slid my zipper down and took off my jeans. He listened to my quick and shallow breathing as I waited for him to touch me again. Slowly, tortuously, he finally reached out and slipped his fingers under the elastic waistband of my underwear and pulled them off. Grabbing both of my wrists, he extended my arms over my head and used one of his hands to hold them firmly in place. With the other he eased my knees apart and put his hand between my legs. The sun was setting but there was still enough light coming in through his bedroom window for me to see him touching me and to know that he was watching his fingers moving inside me. He added the gentle pressure of his thumb rubbing in a circle. It felt incredible, and I came embarrassingly fast, shuddering and crying out, but I didn’t care, because Logan had never once taken the time to do that to me.

  Chris brushed the hair back from my face and kissed me. “You are so beautiful.” Then the mattress shifte
d as he rolled away and stood. He unzipped his jeans, and his belt buckle hit the floor with a clink. I heard the crinkle of a condom wrapper and Chris’s body covered mine. He raised himself on his forearms and looked into my eyes when he entered me, his breathing as ragged as mine had been; we fit together perfectly. And after he came, when he was holding me in his arms, he whispered, “Claire Jones. I am falling in love with you.”

  Nine months later he got down on one knee and asked me to be his wife, and six months after that we stood up in front of our friends and family and promised to love and obey and cherish each other for as long as we both shall live.

  I turn my focus back to the present when I realize the previews have ended and the main feature has started. I focus on the film and lose myself in the romantic comedy. It isn’t so bad seeing a movie alone. I even manage to laugh spontaneously a few times.

  When the lights go up I stand and follow the couples out of the theater and drive home, suddenly feeling very alone.

  10

  chris

  I throw my key card on the dresser of my hotel room, shrug out of my suit jacket, and sink into a chair. I have a headache because I skipped lunch, and my voice is hoarse from talking all day.

  I’ve discovered that my boss, Jim, is a giant asshole. He has two sides: the one I saw during the endless rounds of interviews they put me through for this job, and the side he shows his sales managers when he doesn’t think they’re performing up to standards. The other day I watched him tear my counterpart to shreds in front of a packed conference room of his peers. He was condescending, short-tempered, and rude. It’s unsettling, working for him. Like he could flick a switch and morph into that other guy on a dime if there’s a hint of failure on my part. I’m grateful to be employed, so I don’t even like having these thoughts; I’d never say them out loud to anyone. Not even Claire.

  I’ve been with the company for two months, and I’ve closed every deal they’ve given me to close. I spend hours entering information into spreadsheets, to justify and quantify what I’m doing, and still it isn’t enough. As soon as I meet my goal, it changes. Gets bigger. I’m expected to do the job of two people because the lingering effects of the recession require that companies operate as lean as they can. I get that, and I’d much rather be here in this hotel room in Denver, employed, than be without a job. Actually, I’d rather be employed and at home with my family, but it didn’t work out that way.

  I loosen my tie, turn on my laptop, and get to work.

  11

  claire

  I walk into Elisa’s house on the Fourth of July and find her in the kitchen talking on the phone. She motions toward the refrigerator. There’s a pitcher of iced tea, so I grab a glass from the cupboard and help myself. I take a drink. It’s icy cold with a hint of lemon, just the way I like it.

  When Elisa hangs up she says, “Claire! You look so pretty.” She takes in my white sleeveless top and knee-length, flowing white skirt and sandals. As soon as I’m reunited with my children I’ll be wearing parade dirt and sticky handprints, but for now I’m pristine. I got my hair blown out this afternoon when I went in for a trim, and it lays shiny and straight to the middle of my back. A floppy, wide-brimmed sun hat and an armful of silver bangles complete my outfit.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I felt like mixing it up a bit.” What will probably happen is that I’ll be back in shorts and a tank top by tomorrow, but it’s been a long time since I was even remotely dressed up, so here I am.

  I take another sip of tea and sit down on a bar stool. The kids are marching in our town’s yearly Fourth of July parade, Josh and Travis with their Cub Scout troop, and Jordan with her dance studio. Chris is home for the holiday and he and Skip volunteered to drop off the kids and will follow the parade on foot and meet up with us when it’s over. A carnival has been set up in the park directly across from the end of the parade route, and the kids are beyond excited about riding the Ferris wheel and Tilt-A-Whirl.

  Elisa grabs a glass from the cupboard, pours some wine from an open bottle of sauvignon blanc that she pulls out of the fridge, and takes a drink.

  “Did you take a test?” I ask when she plunks herself down on a stool next to me.

  She shakes her head. “I didn’t have to. I got my period a day early.”

  There’s no medical reason Elisa can’t get pregnant, so every month she holds out hope. Determined to have another child, she’s tried everything from in vitro to acupuncture to meditation. Skip tries to convince her not to stress about it and has suggested more than once that maybe this is God’s way of saying their family is complete. His words fall on deaf ears. If she’s lucky enough to get pregnant, she says she won’t care if it’s a boy or a girl, only that the baby is healthy, but her desire for a daughter is almost tangible, like you could reach out and touch it if you wanted. Feel the solid weight of it in your palm.

  After we finish our drinks we drive to the park, setting up our chairs in the front row at the end of the parade route so we can collect the kids when they’re done marching. It’s hot, but not unbearably so, and there isn’t a cloud in the sky. Perfect parade weather.

  Not much is happening, at least not yet. Two toddlers waving flags sit with their mothers on a blanket and a group of preteen girls walk by, their cheeks displaying temporary tattoos of red, white, and blue stars. The thumping music from the nearby carnival rides reach my ears, as does the smell of freshly popped popcorn.

  Two police officers are leaning up against a squad car, talking. The tall, dark-haired one looks familiar. “Remember the police officer that pulled me over for that taillight last month?” I ask.

  “The ridiculously good-looking one?” Elisa says.

  “Yes,” I say. “I’m pretty sure that’s him over there. The one with the dark hair.”

  She shields her eyes from the late afternoon sun and looks in their direction. “Wow, you weren’t kidding. He’s easy on the eyes.”

  “I know. I can’t even imagine how many propositions he must field during a normal workday,” I say.

  “I’m sure he’s heard it all.”

  Maybe I’m mistaken, but the dark-haired officer appears to be looking over at us, squinting slightly as though he’s trying to place our faces.

  “Who did you talk to at the police station when you called about the speed limit sign?” Elisa asks.

  “I don’t know. The dispatcher, maybe?”

  I’d called the police department about getting a speed limit sign after Bridget and I encountered a speeding car while we were on one of our walks. We’d barely made it onto the sidewalk when a car roared down the street, startling us both.

  “Jesus,” Bridget yelled at the driver. “Slow down!”

  The teenage boy behind the wheel flipped her off and we returned the salute, each of us jabbing the air with both of our middle fingers for emphasis.

  “Well,” Bridget said, chuckling, “we showed him.” Rolling her eyes at the sheer absurdity and ineffectiveness of our actions, she said, “One of the kids is going to get hit crossing the street and then no one will be laughing.”

  It was a sobering thought. “I told Elisa that we need one of those speed limit signs,” I replied. “I’ll make a few calls and see what we need to do.”

  “They have one in my sister’s neighborhood,” Bridget said. “She says it helps.”

  When I called the police department I found out that we weren’t the only ones who wanted one. Apparently there’s a bigger demand than they’re able to supply and we have to wait our turn. Who knows how long it will be before we get one?

  “Do you think it would help if we talked to someone directly?” Elisa asks, motioning toward the officers. “Explain how bad the speeding is? Maybe they could bump us up a few spots on the list.”

  “Maybe,” I say. “It can’t hurt to ask.”

  I follow Elisa over to where they’re standin
g, and they stop talking as we approach. The dark-haired one smiles; he’s definitely the officer who pulled me over.

  Elisa thrusts her hand out. “Hi. I’m Elisa Sager.”

  He shakes it. “Daniel Rush.”

  Elisa introduces me. “This is my neighbor Claire Canton.”

  I shake his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  The officer standing with Daniel looks near retirement age, with nondescript features and strawberry-blond hair that’s thinning all over. Freckles—or maybe they’re age spots—dot his skin. “This is Officer Eric Spinner,” Daniel says.

  “It’s a pleasure,” he says, shaking our hands. The sound of shouting reaches us and both officers look toward a group of rowdy teenage boys. Two of them are trading insults and their language is enough to make me wince. Daniel pauses, listening, and takes a step forward. “I’ve got it,” Officer Spinner says, and I watch as he walks toward them.