Same Time Next Week Read online

  Table of Contents

  Synopsis

  By the Author

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  About the Author

  Books Available From Bold Strokes Books

  Synopsis

  Is it really ever too late to be happy? That’s what young

  attorney Alex Harris finds herself asking while married to her

  bartender wife, Beth. For several years, Alex has resigned

  herself to a mediocre relationship, feeling doomed by the

  marriage vows she’s already taken. But everything changes

  when she walks into a small café one afternoon and meets

  Michelle Masters. As their friendship flourishes, Alex’s

  marriage crumbles around her, and she’s forced to question the

  only life she’s ever known. Will those vows be enough to keep

  her, no matter the consequences? Or will she finally take a

  chance at happily ever after?

  Same Time Next Week

  Brought to you by

  eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com

  eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or

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  work.

  Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.

  Same Time Next Week

  © 2015 By Emily Smith. All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-389-9

  This Electronic Book is published by

  Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

  P.O. Box 249

  Valley Falls, New York 12185

  First Edition: May 2015

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and

  incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are

  used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or

  dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely

  coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form

  without permission.

  Credits

  Editor: Shelley Thrasher

  Production Design: Stacia Seaman

  Cover Design By Gabrielle Pendergrast

  By the Author

  Searching for Forever

  Same Time Next Week

  To Jillian—thanks for being my happily-ever-after

  PROLOGUE

  I’m a cliché, sitting in a coffee shop surrounded by dykes,

  reading stories from The Best Lesbian Romance, still in

  tattered paperback while I’m immersed in a sea of e-readers

  and computers. The women here are all cooler than me, each

  emanating her own sort of hipster vibe, complete with thick-

  rimmed glasses and wool caps that have nothing to do with the

  warm spring air outside. They’re cooler, yes, and at almost

  thirty, they also seem to be about a century younger than I am

  as well. I haven’t been here since I broke up with Tory—also

  known as the most insignificant relationship in the history of

  the lesbian world. And not since Beth and I have been married,

  either.

  Married—what a ridiculous concept. I didn’t feel married.

  No. I still feel very much the same twenty-three-year-old

  bachelor who used to break hearts left and right when I was

  bored or ready to move on to the next endeavor. And yet, I’m

  not breaking hearts anymore. At least not yet.

  What I remember most about my wedding to Beth is the

  heat. It was ninety-five degrees on the shores of the gay mecca

  of Provincetown, and the sea breeze was doing absolutely

  nothing to relieve the film of sweat forming under my white

  dress shirt. I waited with my “groomsmen,” a bunch of

  butches in black Dockers, trying to keep my heart rate from

  taking off. And, as I stood in front of Beth, all my focus went

  into staying conscious. Your wedding day should be about

  fantasy and romance and happily-ever-after. And maybe ours

  was. But somehow, over the years, “happily-ever-after” has

  turned to “for as long as we can stand it.”

  But it’s becoming harder and harder to stand it. I’m getting

  restless, and at a rate much faster than I’d ever imagined.

  When I proposed, on Christmas Day, Beth and I had only been

  dating for about eight months. Her mother, who loved me, was

  thrilled that we’d decided to settle down, and even more

  thrilled that I’d picked her daughter. Her father, a rough-and-

  tumble blue-collar type, had his share of reservations. But

  when I broke out the tiny, half-caret ring, and she said yes, and

  I cried, none of that mattered. I cried big sloppy tears. Tears

  that seemed to say, “You’re doing the right thing, Alex.” Tears

  don’t mean shit.

  When she walks in, I’m three pages deep into a story about

  a carpenter who seduces a single mother. She’s tall, with long,

  flowing chestnut hair that bounces against her back as she

  makes her way toward the table for two I’m occupying.

  “Do you mind?” she asks, plainly, gesturing to the empty

  seat across from me. “It’s pretty full in here.”

  “Of course not.” I stare at her for at least thirty awkward

  seconds before she eyes the cover of my open book. “I’m a

  lawyer,” I say, defensively, as if that should somehow excuse

  the pleasure reading on my table.

  “I’m Michelle.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  When I interviewed for law school, almost seven years ago

  now, the dean of the university asked me to tell him about the

  moment I knew I wanted to be a lawyer. I gave some practiced

  answer about legal injustice in Syria I’d loosely based on a

  Dateline episode, but the truth of it was, I’d had no such

  moment. Life is so rarely defined in single days or events we

  can pinpoint—those aha moments that are supposed to change

  everything. But that day—the day I met Michelle—that was

  one of them.

  *

  I found myself back in the town’s dyke-run coffee shop for

  the second time that week. It was Saturday, and I’d told my

  wife, Beth, I needed to get some work done on a case

  involving an old lady who’d slipped on some Red Bull in a

  Walmart. If I didn’t, I told her, I’d never make partner. We

  both knew the only partnership I’d be making anytime soon

  was the one I formed with the barista at the Starbucks who

  filled the office coffee or
ders for me. Besides, this place was

  full of loud, teenage (well, teenage to me) hipster lesbians who

  chatted wildly about dates and parties and feminism while they

  sipped mochaccinos by the pool tables. I didn’t know exactly

  what I was doing there again. But working on Eleanor Cohen’s

  Red Bull case certainly wasn’t it.

  I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the girl from

  earlier in the week. It was true, it definitely wasn’t the first

  time I’d occupied myself by contemplating the way someone

  else’s hips swung or lips moved. More often than I liked to

  admit, those were the things that got me through my marriage.

  But this one, Michelle, she stayed with me, offering more than

  just a momentary distraction from my blistering relationship.

  Michelle walked in at 2:15 p.m., wearing a flowing purple

  blouse I couldn’t help but notice fell just below the top of her

  breasts. A wool pencil skirt hugged her curvy hips and straight

  waist, and a pair of black pumps made her even taller than the

  last time I’d seen her, which was really also the first time I’d

  seen her. She must have caught my stare, because she offered a

  small smile and made her way through the crowd and toward

  my table for two.

  “No book today?” She pulled out the mismatched red chair

  across from me.

  “Not today,” I said with a smile, hoping to regain just a

  modicum of the charisma I knew I’d had only a few years ago.

  Back then, I could charm my way into just about anyone’s

  pants. I had all the right lines, the right moves. Then again, I

  was also a complete jackass. I guess I’d traded some of my

  machismo in for just a hint of chivalry. “I’m working today.”

  “Working on a Saturday?” Without asking, she grabbed the

  manila folder in front of me marked CONFIDENTIAL and opened

  it.

  “That’s um…”

  “Confidential? Yes, I can read too.” She peeked over the

  folder at me, her eyes bright and confident, and something

  inside me woke up.

  *

  I went back on Tuesday, biking the four blocks from the

  firm in hopes of running into her again.

  Michelle was later than she had been on Saturday, and I

  looked for her every minute after 2:15, as if her stylish Banana

  Republic attire had to mean she was the kind of girl to keep a

  strict coffee schedule. What made me think she’d even be

  back? Hell, even I could count the number of times I’d been

  there on one hand. For all I knew about her, she was an out-of-

  towner, visiting a sister or cousin, accidentally stumbling into

  the gayest Northwood establishment in search of a decent cup

  of coffee. Stupid. And what would I do if she did come back,

  anyway? The ring on my left hand was the heavy anchor that

  kept me from going too far out to sea. Things with Beth had

  been rough for longer than I could remember. Maybe I was

  just lonely.

  I was already halfway through my designated lunch break,

  chewing mindlessly at the last bite of my bagel as I stared at

  the door, when she finally entered. This time, she was draped

  in hospital scrubs, a purple stethoscope swinging from her

  neck.

  I fought the almost visceral urge to jump out of my seat

  and wave like an idiot, but she was already making her way to

  me.

  “You aren’t going to pull my chair out for me? Huh. I took

  you for a gentleman,” she said, sitting down next to me.

  “I…uh…”

  “Oh, Alex. You know you’re awfully cute when you’re

  nervous.”

  Flirting. For the last few years, I wasn’t even sure I’d have

  recognized it, never mind known what to do with it. But there

  it was. As blatant as the dumbfounded grin that took over my

  face when she said my name. For twenty-eight years I’d been

  Alex, or Al, or Allie Wallie (that one was Mom and her bridge

  buddies), but never once had I heard my name sound quite like

  that. When Michelle used it, especially that first time, it was

  like hearing a new language. One reserved only for me. One

  that made my cheeks burn and my palms sweat.

  “So, you’re a lawyer?” Okay, let’s see if the third attempt to

  answer her is a charm.

  “Yes. Well…technically.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning,” I said, regaining some version of the

  confidence that usually came readily to me, “I’m sort of a

  paralegal right now. I passed the bar and everything. But the

  job market…”

  “Don’t worry about it. I have a friend who passed the bar

  and is selling perfume at Macy’s. You’re young. Plenty of

  time.”

  “How young do you think I am?”

  “Young enough that it’s completely acceptable you’re still

  doing sandwich runs for middle-aged men with comb-overs.”

  She flashed her beautiful white teeth at me. Beth’s teeth were

  always a little crooked. “But old enough to be married.” She

  ran her thumb across the gold wedding band on my hand. The

  anchor.

  “Debatable,” I mumbled.

  My marriage wasn’t something I usually enjoyed

  discussing with complete strangers. Or at all, actually. Even if

  this one did make a pair of scrub pants look like a patient’s wet

  dream.

  “Oh, please. You butch lesbians are all alike. Can’t commit

  even when there’s a ring on your finger.”

  “That’s an awful big generalization, seeing as you hardly

  know me.” But there was nothing cold in my tone.

  “Do you love her?” Even her tactlessness was sort of

  adorable.

  “I married her, didn’t I?”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  *

  “Beth? I’m home.” Our dreary apartment was exactly that

  —dreary. Three days’ worth of dirty dishes were stacked in

  and around the kitchen sink, so many you wouldn’t believe

  just the two of us lived there. The overhead light fixture was

  too dim, several of the bulbs needing to be replaced. The tiled

  floor had collected more than a few weeks’ worth of dirt and

  dust balls and a clutter of unopened junk mail, and empty

  cereal boxes took over the counter.

  Jed, Beth’s Maine Coon, met me at the door like he did

  every day, purring and rubbing his massive frame against my

  shins.

  “Hey, Big Guy.” I reached down to scratch the spot right at

  the base of his tail, where he loved to be touched so much.

  “Hi.” Beth emerged from the bedroom, dressed in the same

  oversized UCLA sweatshirt, my UCLA sweatshirt, and yoga

  pants she always wore, looking very much like every day of

  my life. We had so many nights like this. So many evenings

  where I came through that same door into that same dreary

  kitchen, with the same overweight cat rubbing against my

  shins, and the same wife, in the same UCLA sweatshirt. Three

  years into married life, and everything was the same.

  “Hey.” She walked casually to me and put her arms around

  m
y neck. I could smell her perfume—the same one she’d worn

  for the last four years. It was the same perfume that had set me

  on fire when we first got together. I don’t remember a lot of

  depth or substance with Beth in the beginning, but I do

  remember a lot of heat. More than once, we had to sneak off to

  a bathroom or a dark corner just to get at each other. But that

  didn’t last long either. It became the same perfume that, a year

  in, comforted me, offering me solace and friendship and a rock

  to rest on when I couldn’t stand on my own. And it was the

  same perfume, now, that made me cringe, just slightly, a

  reminder of slowly being crushed under the weight of my own

  choices.

  “What do you want for dinner?” I obliged her by putting

  my hands on her hips, but it had been a long time since

  touching Beth had felt good. We went through the motions,

  like always, but the passion behind them had begun to slip

  away.

  “Anything.”

  “I’ll put together some tacos.” I was no cook, that was for

  sure. All through college, I’d survived on food from the

  university dining hall, the late-night frozen yogurt stand down

  the street, and whatever girl I was dating who was somehow

  able, and willing, to feed me. My wife, however, was not one

  of those girls. Her culinary expertise fell somewhere between

  boxed macaroni and cheese and scrambled eggs, and more

  often than not, we found ourselves eating whatever leftovers

  she’d brought back from the bar the night before.

  Three years ago, when I slipped that chintzy wedding band

  on Beth’s left hand, I didn’t know what married life would

  look like. I knew I’d have a lot to learn. What I never

  imagined, though, was feeling so much like a couple of kids

  playing house.

  CHAPTER TWO

  On Saturday, I biked down Lincoln, the spring thaw biting

  my nose. Michelle was already inside, sitting at the counter

  this time. A pair of black reading glasses, not altogether

  different from those the café hipsters around us wore, rested

  on her nose as she typed furiously on a laptop in front of her.

  “Is this seat taken?” I asked quietly, edging closer to her

  but never touching.

  “You’re so cheesy.” Michelle looked up from her work, her

  perfect cheekbones just slightly more pink than I’d seen them