I’ve made one friend so far, my across-the-street neighbor Leah, who has a daughter in the same kindergarten class as Cole. We bonded this summer, baking in the D.C. heat at the neighborhood pool, while our kids splashed around. Our running joke was that we were living in a zombie apocalypse, the only remaining moms thanks to a mass decampment for Nantucket or the Delaware shore.
Actually, I may have two friends if I count Daisy Gordon, but I believe Realtors are contractually obligated to be nice. Yes, she invited us to the party, but from the size of it, she invited the whole neighborhood.
“What else can you tell by looking at me?” I ask.
His gaze travels from my face, down to my breasts, and to my too-short skirt. Heat blooms within me. I cannot remember the last time a man examined me with such frank desire. It’s like rediscovering a slinky red dress I had forgotten about in the back of my closet that still fits. I wouldn’t trade my life with Mark and Cole for anything, but just a little taste of stranger danger won’t hurt. In fact, maybe it could spice things up a little for Mark and me. The move to D.C. hasn’t been great for our love life.
“What else? Let’s see.” Wine Guy narrows his eyes as if he’s trying to read my mind like a boardwalk psychic. “You’re not from D.C.”
I scoff. “That’s too easy. Who is?” Most of the people in this neighborhood come from around the country, around the world even, to work for the government or large international organizations such as the World Bank. Mark is a rarity in that he grew up around here.
“Fine. How about: you love Cardi B.”
“I do love Cardi B.” I keep sipping the wine, even though I know I am already buzzed. This is where tomorrow’s headache begins, but I don’t put my glass down. I’m sick of worrying about tomorrows. I want to enjoy the now. “But I can’t be the only one who does.”
“In this room?” He looks around and laughs. “You might very well be the only Cardi B fan.”
“What else?” As I ask the question, I glance at Mark. He has not moved from his perch, still surrounded by the same three guys in baggy khakis and billowing polo shirts that do little to hide their dad bods. One of them is crouched like a batter at home plate. Still talking about baseball. If sports are the universal language for men, what do we women have? Maybe our kids or our exercise habits.
“Well, how about this?” he asks. “You’d rather be at home watching the new John Wick 3 than at the annual neighborhood social.”
I laugh because I said the exact same thing to Mark this evening as we were getting ready, even going so far as to offer to break it to Susan, our sitter, that her services wouldn’t be needed. But Mark insisted we go after Daisy told him these neighborhood parties were mostly other parents. You’ll thank me later, he said. Maybe you’ll meet your new best friend.
“How did you know I love John Wick?”
“Lucky guess?”
Last week, I binge-watched the first two movies in the series while editing a tedious wedding shoot. “Have you been snooping in my Netflix queue?”
“Who, me?” His eyes widen in mock innocence, and he pushes on my collarbone with one finger. The heat from his touch radiates across my skin. I want more. This is good. I can take this home to Mark. It’s been almost two months since we’ve had sex. “You should be more trusting, Lexi.”
Lexi.
The sound of that old nickname snatches me from my fog. I’ve left Lexi far behind. “Wait, why did you call me that?”
“Me Rob.” He leans in so close that his forehead almost touches mine. “You Lexi.”
I jerk back. “I need to eat something.”
As I weave through the crowded kitchen, I rack my brain. I might be saturated with wine, but I’m sure I would have introduced myself as Allie, maybe my full name—Alexis—but not Lexi.
Never Lexi.
2
Me Rob, you Lexi.
I shake it off. It’s a common enough nickname for Alexis. It doesn’t have to mean anything. But I feel exposed. Whatever fun we were having, it’s dead now.
Too much wine, I decide, and too little food to absorb it. In search of nourishment to soak up all the alcohol, I push past a cluster of moms chatting in shorthand about swim team meets and times. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Daisy in her crisp, white button-down and door-knocker pearl earrings, waving me over. She’s been nothing but kind to me, yet I can’t tell if she is genuinely interested or if she sees me as another name to add to her LinkedIn network. Mark says I need to make more of an effort and not wait for everyone to come to me.
In a moment, Daisy is enveloping me in a cloud of cotton candy perfume.
“I’m so glad you and Mark came. The Eastbrook parties are where all the cool kids hang.” She winks, hard. “And I’m not just saying that because I’m the president of the neighborhood association. Now, let me introduce you to some people!” Hand on my elbow, she guides me from the kitchen through the brightly lit foyer, which is wallpapered with gold loons preening their long necks against a black-and-white seascape. A modern glass chandelier resembling an illuminated octopus drips from the two-story ceiling.
“That’s an authentic Chihuly.” Daisy points to the chandelier as she whispers in my ear, her breath warm and gin-infused. “One of Trip’s clients gave it to him. I think it’s hideous, but I don’t have the heart to tell him.” She giggles like a schoolgirl and steers me past a yellow lacquered chest, so shiny that I can see our reflection in it.
