Maybe Never (6 page)

“I’m done with this,” Janice said now, pushing her toast aside and taking a last gulp of her tea. “But I’d love to keep talking. Want to walk me home?”

________

When he left Janice’s apartment, it was almost one-thirty. Brendan had planned to stop by Shawn and Riley’s to see his god kids but if he did that, he wouldn’t make it back home by the time he’d told Tracy he would. As it was, he was going to have to artfully avoid the subject of where he’d been all afternoon. To tell her he’d been in the apartment of an ex-girlfriend would result in a flip-out of colossal dimensions, and he couldn’t say he’d blame her this time. As a rule, Brendan didn’t lie to Tracy, and more importantly than that, didn’t do anything that would
require
him to lie. But this time, the truth was not an option.

He hailed a cab to take him back uptown, shifting uncomfortably on the vinyl seat. He needed a shower. As soon as he opened the door to the apartment, he headed straight back to the bathroom, and stripped, jumping in under the warm water, lathering up quickly and even shampooing his hair. Janice’s apartment had smelled like sage, which she burned in a stone dish at her bedside table. The strong scent had permeated his clothing by the time he left. Even his gym bag probably smelled like it.

Getting out of the shower and grabbing a towel, he noticed that Tracy—or their cleaning service—had done some work. All of the bottles of toiletries were neatly organized, the sink and bathroom mirrors cleaned, the floor sparkling. Brendan didn’t think the cleaning service was due for another week, so Tracy had probably done it herself.

“
Trace
!”

He called out, thinking she must be upstairs in the loft, in the kitchen or something. Brendan walked out to go in search of her, and found to his surprise that he was alone. It was just past two now, and it occurred to him for the first time that he hadn’t heard from her all day. Last night had been rough, but he’d written her a note when he took off, it wasn’t as though he’d just
left
or anything.

Brendan grabbed his phone and called her, suddenly disturbed by the silence. Her phone rang twice before she picked up.

“Hey,” he said. “Where are you? I got in and you weren’t here.”

“Brooklyn,” she said.

“Brooklyn,” Brendan repeated after a while. “Why?”

“No reason. I thought I’d come check on the house, do some cleaning and stuff.”

“You didn’t do enough cleaning here?” he said. “You thought you’d go do some in another borough?”

“We hardly ever stay here anymore,” Tracy said. “So I just wanted to make sure everything was . . .”

“Sweetheart, about last night . . .”

“I’ll be back in the morning, Brendan. This has nothing to do with last night. I know I sprung something on you that you weren’t expecting, so . . .”

“Wait. You’re
staying
in Brooklyn tonight?” he asked.

On the face of it, that wasn’t a big deal, but for them it kind of was. They never slept apart unless it was unavoidable. For Brendan, sleeping together every night was a preference, but for Tracy it was a
necessity
. She hated it that they even
had
separate residences.

“Yeah. May as well.”

“Huh.”

Tracy said nothing.

“But it’s not even late afternoon. Why didn’t you wait so I could . . ?”

“I went to yoga with Riley, did the grocery-shopping and then I don’t know, I just wanted to come home.”

Home
. Why did it feel like a knife in the heart when she said that? Home for her was with him. Home for her was wherever he was. Not where he was not. Not in Brooklyn.

But he didn’t tell her any of that.

“Okay,” he said instead, his voice quiet. “You sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah. I’ll call you later. I’m about to head out and grab some . . . stuff.”

Stuff.

“Okay. Later.”

He’d hurt her.
It was stupid of him not to realize how much before now. And when he left this morning to go play basketball that had probably hurt her even more.
Shit
. Brendan went down to the bedroom and dressed quickly, heading back to the kitchen only to grab a Vitamin water out of the fridge and then locking up, headed for the garage.

The drive to Brooklyn was predictably nightmarish with traffic backed up on the bridge and assorted other delays. It took Brendan almost an hour to get to the townhouse in Park Slope, but at least there was some parking available.

Out of habit, he looked around for Tracy’s Land Rover, but they’d sold it last month when Tracy admitted that it was more of a hassle and expense for them to keep two cars, especially when they only ever rode in his. And there was no way Brendan would even
consider
selling his Aston Martin. Parking it on the street always made him a little nervous, and that was one other reason they tended to spend more time in Manhattan than here. But today he’d have to take his chances.

Tracy was out. The house was quiet when he entered. Even here, things felt different, felt wrong when she wasn’t around. He kicked off his tennis shoes, heading upstairs to the bedroom. Might as well get comfortable. Alone in the quiet house, his thoughts drifted to Janice and what happened at her apartment that afternoon, and then about Tracy and her likely reaction if she ever found out. Even on a good day, Tracy had to be . . . managed when it came to him being around other women. She had gotten much better about it, but still, it was always going to be a thing for her.

Last night between tears, she’d finally told him that she thought she’d probably gotten pregnant in New Orleans. And when she said that, it had all come back to him, and fallen perfectly into place.

The Essence Music Festival.

Brendan hadn’t even wanted to go, but the label was trying to push Kenyon Taylor, their new blues singer and a young pop star-in-training named Hania. Both were young and green, and unfortunately so were much of the staff. The Essence Music Festival was huge, so without the right contacts, getting into the right parties, meeting the right people would be impossible, so Brendan got roped into taking them.

With his reputation and friends in the industry, two unproven performers from an as-yet unproven new label, just
might
have a chance of being noticed. In passing a few days before the trip, he asked Tracy if she wanted to tag along, not really thinking she would want to, but she had.

For the first couple days he’d had no time for her at all, and Brendan had come back to their suite very late each evening, finding her almost asleep. He remembered that the minute he got into bed, she turned and curled into him. On the second night, exhausted as he was, he’d slid her underwear down and over her thighs, and gently eased himself inside her and it was as though her entire body melted into him, like she could never truly be at rest without this expression of his connection to her.

The following evening he’d taken her to a party where despite his best efforts, he’d been tied up making nice with people as Tracy drew further and further away. While he was cracking jokes with recording executives and their mistresses, he watched out of the corner of his eye when Tracy escaped out onto the balcony. Brendan could feel her disquiet even from across the room, and knew precisely the reason for it. Stunningly beautiful that night, she was wearing a gauzy yellow gown that picked up on the amazing amber-hue of her eyes; and so every single man in the room had at one time or another been staring at her. But she didn’t notice, or if she did, hadn’t cared.

She didn’t care if other men noticed her because she wanted him, and only him. That knowledge, every single time, awed him.
She only wanted him
. Every single day that he woke up with her, or watched her enter a room, or when she smiled at him across the table at dinner, he was struck anew by how beautiful she was. And yet, all she wanted was him. There was something sweet and fragile, and tender and desperate about it. It made him yearn to take care of her, and shield her from hurt; and Tracy had definitely had enough hurt.

He excused himself in the middle of a conversation and went out to her, not wanting her to be alone. From the moment he touched her, he knew he’d been correct about her mood—she was tense and becoming even more so. And with Tracy, the best, the most effective pacifier was sex. Always had been. That and the fact that he was horny as hell made Brendan do something reckless. He’d taken her, right there out on the balcony, secreted in a corner, on a rocking chair, both of them perspiring in the sultry New Orleans evening. He pressed his lips against the back of her neck as he drove into her, tasting her sweet, saltiness.

It gave Brendan a rush—being buried deep inside her, Tracy pushing, pressing back against him. When he climaxed, it was as though every cell in his body had been electrified. Brendan would have bet anything that that night was when he’d made her pregnant. And if it was, it seemed only right that in that moment of pure affirmation—when Tracy had trusted him so completely she let him make love to her in a public place, without regard for her possible humiliation if they were discovered—they had created a life.

Stretching out on the bed now, Brendan had to admit to himself that he wasn’t sorry. He wasn’t sorry they’d done it and he didn’t regret that they may have been careless, nor that she was pregnant. But being without regret was not the same thing as being without trepidation.

He turned on the television and idly changed channels, wondering whether it might not be more constructive to find something to do while in Brooklyn, other than wait around for Tracy to return. Finally, he got out of bed. Not too far away there was a coffeehouse that also had a bar in the back with a large mounted television. And they also served a pretty decent jerk chicken pizza.

Stomping Grounds was a medium-sized neighborhood joint where Brendan dropped in to watch a game or have a quick bite whenever he and Tracy stayed in Brooklyn. The front was a coffeehouse and bakery, but through a pair of arches in the rear was a pub-style bar, with about six tables and a couple booths from which you could watch the flat-screen mounted on the wall, playing whatever sport was in season.

As Brendan entered now, he spotted Russell right away. Russell was one of Tracy’s best friends. One of her
only
friends next to Riley. Tall, dark as night and good-looking, Brendan remembered being somewhat threatened when he first saw Russell and Tracy standing together at some event at Shawn’s. Tracy had been looking up at him, her head tilted back so she could make eye contact, her face open and adoring, with an expression usually only reserved for Brendan himself.

And then he met Russell and realized that the brother was as gay as the day is long. And that had tempered Brendan’s sense of being threatened.
Somewhat
. Russell was still someone who had the power to command Tracy’s attention when Brendan had come to believe and expect that all of Tracy’s attention was his due.

“Whassup, man?”

Brendan walked over to the table where Russell was sipping a cappuccino, and clapped him on the back. Russell looked up, surprised then stood to shake his hand, indicating the other seat at the table.

“Hey!” he said. “Didn’t know you were around this weekend.”

“Just got here. What’s going on?”

Russell looked at him evenly and Brendan knew immediately that
he
knew.

“With what?” Russell took a delicate sip of his coffee.

“Anything at all,” Brendan shrugged. “Life. What have you been up to?”

“Nothing much. Just got back from L.A. Fashion Week. It was horrid.”

Brendan laughed. “Well, it’s no Bryant Park.”

Russell fake-shuddered. “
No
. That it is not.”

“So what do you know, Russell?” Brendan asked, cutting to the chase.

Russell grinned and shook his head. “I’ll say this: I am, bar none, the
worst
gossip you will ever meet, Brendan. But definitely not this time and definitely not about my girl.”

“I can respect that,” Brendan nodded. He waved over a waitress and ordered himself a Sam Adams then turned to Russell again. “You see her today?”

“No, but I expect to,” Russell said. “Momentarily in fact.”

Brendan glanced at the entrance. “Oh, she’s meeting you here?”

Russell nodded. “She said she had to stop in at
Carol’s Daughter
first.”

“Well when she gets here, you know I might to have to steal her from you, right?”

“You already did. Two years ago,” Russell shrugged.

Brendan looked at him but Russell smiled reassuringly. “Lord knows, I’m not complaining. She’s a happy woman with you. And that was one thing my Tracy—bless her heart—never was before.”

The weight of it, of being the person who made Tracy ‘happy’ was not a small thing, but he wasn’t prepared to relinquish it anyone else either.

Brendan took a gulp of his beer and looked up toward the door just in time to see her enter.

Tracy had pulled her hair back into a loosely-fastened ponytail, and was wearing a body-hugging long sleeved white t-shirt with palazzo khakis and a wide brown belt. Slung over her shoulder was a slouchy, soft calfskin leather bag that she’d bought when she was in Paris a couple years back.

Sometimes when he saw that bag, Brendan’s stomach clenched with remembered anguish. Her trip to Paris had come at a time when he thought they might be done, and that it might be better if they were. But that was long ago, and he’d believed himself past that. But seeing Janice today and considering the fall-out of Tracy being pregnant made him wonder whether at the time he’d ever truly contemplated the end-game. The one that seemed to be every woman’s end-game: matrimony.

Tracy’s face transformed when she saw him sitting there with Russell. It brightened for a split second and then she reined it in, controlling her instinctive reaction, not wanting him to see it.

Yeah, he’d definitely hurt her last night. Still, Brendan stood as she approached and opened his arms to her. Tracy leaned into him and accepted the embrace, but she turned so that she was giving him the half-hug that you give to a distant cousin, or someone whose pelvis you want to avoid contact with.