Besides, putting all of my woes aside, I had planned to watch Max for the two weeks Fiona and Ethan would be gone way before Ansel and I broke up and I moved back to Chicago. I was flying here to stay at her house. If I could handle it then, I could handle it now.
"His words, not mine," Fiona states. "And you said you wouldn't be mad."
"I'm not mad, Fi, but you don't think it's a little late to start second guessing the person you both entrusted to take care of your son in the event of your death? His Godmother. His guardian," I remind her.
"That's what I told him," she whisper yells.
"And?"
"He said he's having cold feet."
I slam the steering wheel. "That's bullshit. He's going on a vacation, not getting married again. He's just using me as an excuse to get out of it for his own reasons, and that is completely unacceptable. Now how about you get Max out of the tub, dry that hot little bikini of yours, and get packed. You are going on your honeymoon tomorrow as planned."
She sighs yet again. "Tess, I don't think I can change Ethan's mind this time. He seems determined to postpone this trip."
Switching lanes, I prepare to make a U-turn. The offices of Fitz, Graham, and Wheeler are only minutes away, and I am going to pay Ethan Miller a visit. "Fi, you might not be able to persuade him, but I guarantee I can."
"Tess, what are you going to do?" she asks hesitantly.
My wheels skid on the black ice as I make the illegal turn. "Why, Fi, what all unstable, broken-hearted women like me do. Put him in his place."
And that I say with a smile.
Tess
THE PRESTON SCHOOL in Lincoln Park is where Max spends three afternoons a week. Even though Fiona stays home, her and Ethan felt Max needed the socialization skills that accompanied attending preschool.
I don't disagree that Max should attend preschool. My reason though is completely different-Fiona needs that time for herself.
Don't get me wrong, the school is the best of the best, and besides, Max does need to be around other children his age.
But Fiona is having a hard time adjusting to staying home, still.
She's lonely.
I know she misses her career, but there's more to it. Something is missing from her life. Excitement. Fun. And I think she also misses the attention of a man. The attention of her husband.
Yes, she loves Max with all her heart, but the fact that her husband works all the time isn't making her happy. His political aspirations that take even more of his time from her aren't making her happy. Their non-existent sex life isn't making her happy. Her battery-operated vibrator isn't keeping her satisfied. She really wants this vacation for them. A little me time and we time with her husband to reignite their passion and get their relationship back on track.
And that is what I told Ethan.
To man up and take care of his wife's needs.
I laid it all out on the table. He needed to know. Know his wife was feeling neglected, and not in a selfish way. She just wants a little bit of his attention. And she deserves it.
Those words of wisdom, along with my slightly exaggerated, entirely put together plan to open the café, to prove my mental state was more than stable, was how I convinced my best friend's husband to take his wife on her dream honeymoon.
And it is nothing but the truth.
How could the want-to-be senator argue with that bit of sanity?
They left this afternoon for Fiji to drink fruity cocktails and have lots of sex for the next two weeks.
Today is Wednesday. And on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, Max spends his afternoons with eleven other preschoolers learning his colors, letters, and even how to speak French.
Crazy, right?
It's no joke.
Very soon my godson might be able to speak better French than me, and I dated a Frenchman for six years. Of course, my Frenchman only liked to talk to me in French when he'd had too much to drink and was extremely horny. That's when the dirty French talk emerged. I didn't care, I found it sexy as hell.
Still, my knowledge of the language is limited to things like, "Je veux ta bouche sur ma bite," or, "I want your mouth on my dick."
Then there was, "Votre chatte a un goût étonnant," or, "Your pussy tastes amazing." And let's not forget the infamous, "I need to be inside you right now," which translated in French is, "J'ai besoin d'être à l'intérieur de toi maintenant." In English it doesn't sound nearly as romantic.
Drunk or not, his words always turned me on. Something about the dirty talk turned me inside out. Too bad it didn't happen that often. Not that I encourage drinking, but . . .
Anyway, don't get me wrong, Ansel liked to fuck. I did too. The problem was I only wanted to fuck him. He, on the other hand, felt compelled to fuck anything in a skirt. I just didn't know it. Shame on me for thinking I should have been enough for him.