19
claire
Bridget’s husband, Sam, hits the literal jackpot shortly before the start of the new school year. A spontaneous decision to drop a quarter in a slot machine on his way out of the casino resulted in triple 7s and a seventy-five-thousand-dollar payout. This is the kind of thing that could happen only to Sam.
Bridget appropriates a chunk of the winnings and decides to invest in a new pair of breasts, which is very un-Bridget-like and embarrasses her boys to no end, especially Sebastian—who recently turned fifteen—and his younger-by-eighteen-months-brother, Finn. “They’re the boobs I’ve always wanted,” she jokes, but I wonder if they’re really the boobs Sam’s always wanted.
I cook dinner and bring the lasagna over two days after her surgery. Bridget’s normally spotless Craftsman-style home looks like a level-five biohazard, and I trip on the giant mountain of shoes by the front door, including two pairs of mud-caked cleats. I dodge the soccer balls, baseball bats, and piles of dirty laundry that litter the hallway leading from the front door to the kitchen. The house positively reeks of adolescent boys.
I make my way into the kitchen, calling out to Bridget so she knows it’s me. The counters are covered in empty frozen food containers and someone has left out a gallon of milk, uncapped. I set down the lasagna, throw the cardboard and plastic wrap into the recycle bin in the garage, and cap the milk and put it in the fridge.
“Don’t look at my disgusting kitchen, Claire,” Bridget shouts from the living room. “Those boys are pigs!”
I laugh as I enter the room and approach the couch where Bridget’s been recuperating. She’s propped up by several throw pillows, and I can’t help but stare. The new breasts are unbelievably large, and I finally drag my eyes upward. “How do they feel?” I ask.
“Big,” Bridget says. Straining against the thin fabric of her T-shirt, they look hard and unyielding, but I don’t tell her that.
“Are they still swollen?” I ask.
“I hope so,” she says. Bridget and I are both small boned and average height. Suddenly, my B-cup breasts don’t bother me as much because her now-overflowing D cups seem so out of proportion. I don’t mention this, either.
“As soon as I recover and get this disaster area cleaned up, we’re going to have a party,” Bridget says. “Sam’s feeling very celebratory.”
“I’m sure he is,” I say. “He’s a lucky man. In more ways than one.”
I refill Bridget’s water glass and find her pain pills. She swallows one and leans back against the pillows. A door slams and the sound of many footsteps and lots of excited shouting reaches us. Bridget sighs. “I think they found the lasagna.”
I listen carefully but all I hear is the tearing of foil followed by grunting. “Wow,” I say. “They’re like a pack of wild dogs.”
“You don’t even know,” Bridget says.
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I made two pans.”
• • •
Bridget’s true to her word, and two weeks later she and Sam invite everyone over. “You don’t need to bring a thing,” she says, when she calls me on the phone. “It’s on us.”
Bridget has the meal catered by one of her and Sam’s favorite barbecue restaurants. Smoky, falling-off-the-bone ribs, rotisserie chicken, baked beans, coleslaw, macaroni and cheese, and garlic bread are laid out buffet-style on the island in the kitchen. There’s a large tub of beer on the patio and a full bar set up downstairs in the finished walk-out basement.
When the sun goes down, Bridget and Sam send their boys inside to watch a movie and Justin and Julia take their girls home to remain under the watchful eye of a babysitter. “Should we let the kids hang out inside for a while?” I ask Chris. It’s past their bedtime, but summer vacation is coming to an end and they’ll be back on their school schedule soon enough. Josh idolizes Bridget and Sam’s older boys, and always jumps at the chance to check out their video games. Elisa and Skip are letting Travis stay. Jordan hates to be left out, and if Josh and Travis get to watch the movie, she’ll want to as well.
“I’ll take them home,” Chris says. “Jordan looks tired.”
She does look tired and it’s probably for the best that they go to bed on time. It’s just that it’s been so long since Chris and I socialized with only the adults. “I’ll come with you,” I say. “We can get the kids settled and watch a movie or something.”
“No, stay,” he says. “I’m really behind. I have to get some work done.”
I can almost handle that Chris is gone all the time. It’s his job and I understand that. But what I struggle with is that even when he’s home, his time is not his own. The kids take whatever he can give them—as they should—and then there’s me, hoping to lay claim to whatever’s left. But there is never anything left, and there’s no point in protesting. “Okay, then,” I say, turning and walking away.
“Claire,” he says, catching up to me and reaching out to grab my arm. “Don’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad.” I’m lonely, which is a lot harder to see than anger.
“It’ll slow down soon. Things will get better.”
“I really don’t see how they can,” I say.
“I just need a little more time,” he says. “Please.”
I nod, feeling as if I’m out of options. “Sure.”
He calls out to the kids, tells them it’s time to go. I kiss Josh and Jordan good night and promise to make pancakes for breakfast the next morning. They leave and one by one, the lights come on in my house. I duck into the bathroom in Bridget and Sam’s basement and change into my swimsuit. I can be without my pump for a little while, so I disconnect it and leave it with my clothes.
Justin and Julia are back from taking their daughters home, so I join them, and Skip and Sam, in the hot tub, easing myself into the steaming water. Sam is puffing on one of the expensive cigars he’s so partial toward. In such close quarters, it’s hard to escape the smoke and I muffle a cough with the back of my hand.
We cheer when Bridget settles in next to Sam, her breasts filling out the top of her new swimsuit spectacularly. Justin lounges next to me, his leg pressed against the length of mine. His arm is behind me, resting on the back of the hot tub yet close enough to my shoulders that his fingers brush my skin often. He’s drinking bourbon, which never ends well for anyone, but Julia isn’t drinking anything at all, and hasn’t all night. I can’t imagine the argument that transpired after she finally emerged from her poolside alcoholic slumber. It must have been epic because I don’t remember the last time I saw her without a drink in her hand. She’s been awfully quiet tonight.
Justin is trying to convince Bridget to show off her new breasts and she’s had enough to drink that she just might do it.
Skip joins in good-naturedly. “Maybe all the women should take their tops off,” he says.
“Be quiet, Skip,” Elisa says, but she’s laughing. She decided not to get in the hot tub and she’s drinking her Coke straight. I cross my fingers that she catches some of Sam’s good luck.
Sam doesn’t seem to have a problem with his wife displaying her new assets. On the contrary, he’s fiddling with the tie on her swimsuit top. “Flaunt ’em if you’ve got ’em, honey,” he shouts. Bridget swats his hand away. Not drunk enough, after all.
Sam looks over at me. “You should tell that husband of yours that all work and no play will make Chris a dull boy,” he says, then laughs like it’s the funniest thing ever. Have I mentioned that sometimes Sam acts like a complete jackass?
Bridget glares at him and gives me a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry,” she mouths.
“It’s okay,” I mouth back. I look at Sam. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, smiling even though it’s the last thing I need someone to point out. Suddenly, I don’t want to be here. If I’m going to be lonely anyway I’d rather it be in my own home, in my own bed, instead of in this hot tub. I climb out and wrap a towel around my waist. I open the sliding glass doors to the walk-out basement and cross the room to where Bridget has set up the bar, then set my half-empty glass of Diet Coke on the counter.
The door opens and Justin comes up behind me and puts his arms on either side, pressing against my back and bracing himself on the countertop. He reaches one hand up and cups my right breast. “I like your tits better, Claire. They fit perfectly in the palm of my hand,” he whispers, his thumb rubbing my nipple through my bikini top. It hardens immediately and he groans and nuzzles my neck.
Quickly, I move his hand and duck out of his reach. “It’s never going to happen, Justin.”
He laughs. “I’ll wear you down eventually.”
“No, you won’t,” I say. I have no interest in him and he knows it; it’s just the bourbon talking. He’s only halfheartedly fishing, checking to see if I’ll bite. I turn around to face him, rolling my eyes to show him that I know he’s kidding.
He laughs and heads toward the door, passing Elisa on his way out. She walks into the basement, giving Justin a curious look. “What was that all about?” she asks.
“Bourbon,” I say.
“I’m sorry about Sam,” she says. “That man has no filter.”
“It’s not just him,” I say. “I guess I’m not feeling very social tonight after all.” She hugs me good-bye and I slip away after thanking Bridget and Sam for their hospitality.
Entering the dark house through the garage, I notice the light showing through the crack at the bottom of the office door when I walk by. My husband is in there; I can hear his fingers tapping on the computer keys. I think about asking him how much longer he’ll be working, but then I just keep on walking. I check on the kids and after I take a quick shower, I scoop a sleeping Tucker off the floor by the foot of the bed and slide between my sheets. I stroke his soft fur, happy that I have something warm-blooded to cuddle with, and he settles into the space behind my knees when I turn onto my side and close my eyes.