July 17

After what happened with Jack a few days ago, I decide that staying away from my house is a wise move. I make sure to be down by the water early, with a glass of iced coffee, my phone and the newspaper, so I haven’t had to see him when he gets here. I listen outside until I hear a power tool and then sneak in for a food or bathroom break, so I can be reasonably sure he won’t come downstairs. I don’t eat inside the house; I either grab a piece of fruit and bottled water or walk to the lobster pound down by the public beach, and I wait till I see his truck pull out (usually around 4:30) before I head back in.

So that I won’t come across as a complete lunatic or total bitch, I left a sticky note yesterday for him on the front door: Fresh strawberries and blueberries in the fridge. Lemonade, too—help yourself! I added a little smiley face to show him that I don’t want to be mean, but surely he could understand that his mouth and the intensity of the kissing and in large part (so to speak), the shock of how his penis felt against me have all contributed to some overwhelming feelings, and I’m just not ready for all of this.

It was a pretty loaded smiley face.

I’m sure he has an idea of what this is about, and I know I can’t hide forever, but I need this time and space to get my shit together. I’m almost glad my vacation will be over soon, because then I’ll be at work instead of making up excuses not to be in my house.

Today, I’m doing some retail therapy in downtown Bar Harbor. Usually, I get a little irritated with the swarm of tourists and their Bermudas and high dark socks, the selfies taken right in the middle of the sidewalk with no regard to other people, the loud and whiny kids jostling each other and me, but this time, I’m grateful for the distractions.

Mum calls around noon to tell me everything went well with Daddy’s surgery. She seems pleased to hear I’m shopping and says she hopes I have other fun things planned on a regular basis.

That woman is persistent; I’ll give her that. And like most mothers...she’s usually right.

I escape the simmering sidewalk to go into the rock shop, browsing the jagged chunks of pink quartz and the displays of watermelon tourmaline—burgundy and rosy-colored centers, edged with different shades of green. “State mineral,” the shop owner tells me. I smile and nod. Being a native, I already know this, but I’m playing tourist today.

I stop at Purrfectly Pampered to pick up a catnip moose for Murphy (guilt gift to make up for not being at home when I should be), get a very mandatory double scoop of Heavenly Hash in a waffle cone at Butterfingers, and decide I’ll head in the direction of Cottage Street to Nathaniel Hall Winery. A bottle of wine or four might be just what I need.

The shop is invitingly cool, with smooth jazz music and rustic charm—exposed beams, tables made of polished wooden slabs for tops and old wine barrels for bases, painted antique stools. I taste several different wines and settle on one bottle each of Cherryfield Blues and Cranberry Isle.

As I’m handing my debit card to the smiling cashier, I look in the direction of the opening door. And oh my fucking fuck.

It’s him.

My ex. And the woman he left me for.

I am trapped. The cashier still has my debit card, completely oblivious to how much I want it back, and I am curling my toes as the f-word goes on repeat in my brain.

Paul Randall, former co-president of Maine Coastal Realty, reigning champion of Cheaters Unlimited, current CEO of Lying Sacks of Shit.com, staring at me like he’s shell-shocked.

Yes, it’s me, I want to yell. Still living, still breathing, although what you did nearly killed me. But here I am.

His partner in crime catches on to what he’s looking at, her frosted pink lips drawing together like two thin worms. She’d been a client and came away with not only a closing on a gorgeous lakefront chalet, but my husband.

Hard to believe that all that was almost two years ago, when this unexpected run-in makes it feel so raw. I’ve been fortunate, if you can label anything about this fortunate, that I’ve only seen them one other time since the divorce, and that was when I was significantly inebriated at an outdoor concert with Delaney, so between the Bud Lights and the shielding from my best friend, it was less intense than in a quiet store by myself.

Thankfully, the transaction goes through without a hitch. I take my card, receipt and the bag with the wine, and I even manage a smile at the cashier like my two least favorite people on the planet are not within spitting distance. They’ve moved over to a display of berry wines, but I can tell that Worm Lips is watching me. I also can tell that while her lips are thin, the rest of her is not so much. This cheers me enough to be able to look at my ex-husband as I leave, like this is some sort of victory for me. And that’s actually what it feels like, because to my surprise, he looks...defeated. I have to admit, grudgingly, that his face is still as handsome, but it’s so unhappy. His brown eyes search mine almost pleadingly, and this is so unexpected and unnerving that I exit the store like it’s on fire.

The summer air outside is stifling and not conducive to taking deep breaths, which is what I need to do. I’m walking fast, and sweating, but the more distance I put between what used to be my life and me, the calmer I feel. By the time I reach the shade of a maple tree at the end of Cottage Street, I’m okay, and pull out my phone to check the time. There is a text, sent about fifteen minutes ago.

I don’t bite, you know.

There’s no name, just a number, but I know who it is. Jack and I had texted each other a few days before he came to do his estimate. I haven’t put him in my contacts. Yet.

I’m thinking of how to respond, or even if I’ll respond (while trying to ignore my annoying burst of pleasure that he texted), when I get another message:

Unless you want me to.

Son of a bitch. How dare he, and goddamn that I am now smiling. Not wanting to be one of those people who annoy the shit out of everyone because they text while walking, I find the nearest bench and sit, placing my bags on the ground in front of me.

Game on, Mr. Decker. I’m holding back a giggle as I reply: Who is this?

I wait. No response. And then…

Jack Decker

Oh, God, this is priceless! Bursting into laughter, I text back. I know. I was teasing. Serves you right.

Madeline...I want you

I’m no longer laughing. Arousal, fringed with anxiety, begins to flicker inside my belly. I both want and don’t want to hear this. Jesus, why does he insist on going down that road when he knows I need to get out of the car?

I take a deep breath, my thumbs trembling as I text back. I am flattered to hear this, but I really would appreciate if we tried to keep things professional. I don’t feel ready for anything more and hope you understand.

There. That should get the message across. I tap “send” and almost instantaneously, I receive another text from him.

To tell me where you’d like me to put your outlets.

Oh. My. God.

My cheeks erupt in flames at my utter stupidity for assuming. I’m staring down at my phone, wondering how to reply, when…

Gotcha ;).

Jesus, this man! I shake my head, looking up to the sky with my mouth quivering from the effort of keeping in a laugh. No one has ever made me experience such a range of emotions in such a short period of time, and I’ve never felt like I’ve had to fight what I’m feeling so hard. Fighting to keep from laughing, fighting to keep from gasping, moaning, screaming his name, fighting to keep my face expressionless, my hands from roving all over his body…

Maybe I should stop fighting. Wave the white flag. Maybe I’m taking myself, and this, way too seriously. Jack is clearly having fun with it. Maybe I can learn to do that, too. Paul moved on, without me, and I’ve basically been in limbo for the past two years.

And it would make my mother happy.

I look down at my phone again, feeling a peculiar sense of calm. I’m guessing it’s coming from feeling like—for right now—I’m in charge of me.

Smart-ass. I’ll be home in about half an hour.

Fantastic. Your cat misses you. A pause, and then another text from him: And he’s not the only one.

This time, I don’t even try to fight it. I smile.