The steak knife trembles slightly in my hand as I watch Sabrina cut into the medium-rare ribeye I've spent the last hour perfecting. Six o'clock and I'm already on edge, counting down the minutes until our lives potentially implode. Or explode. I'm not sure which would be worse.
"God, Leo, this is incredible," Sabrina moans around her first bite, eyes fluttering closed in appreciation. "You've outdone yourself."
I force a smile, setting down my knife to reach for the wine. The Cabernet breathes in crystal glasses I've polished three times today, catching the soft glow from our dining room chandelier. Everything perfect. Everything normal. As if in sixty minutes one of my old clients won't be walking through our front door to fuck me while my wife watches.
"Thanks," I say, taking a sip that does nothing to calm my nerves. "Figured protein was important, like you said."
Sabrina's eyes meet mine across the candlelit table, that familiar hunger darkening her blue irises. She's been like this all day, practically vibrating with anticipation, checking her phone obsessively, touching me whenever I'm within reach. It's like living with a live wire.
"Are you nervous?" she asks, cutting another perfect bite of steak.
"A little," I admit, trying to downplay the tornado of anxiety ripping through my gut. "It's just... strange, you know? Seeing her again after everything."
I'm about to say more when the doorbell rings, the sound slicing through our carefully constructed domestic tableau like a gunshot. My heart lurches painfully against my ribs.
"That can't be..." I check my phone, confusion momentarily overriding panic. "It's only six-fifteen."
I push my chair back, instinctively rising to answer the door, but Sabrina's eyes narrow instantly, her hand shooting out to stop me.
"Let me," she says, her tone leaving no room for argument.
I sink back into my chair, watching Sabrina stride purposefully toward our front door, her shoulders squared with a tension I recognize all too well. From my seat at the dining table, I have a clear view of the entryway, and when the door swings open, time seems to fracture around me.
Tara stands on our threshold, silhouetted by the golden evening light, somehow more imposing than I remembered. Her long black hair cascades over her shoulders, those strong red eyes finding mine immediately, looking past Sabrina like she's nothing more than an inconvenient doorstop.
"You're an hour early," Sabrina says, irritation evident in her clipped tone.
I can't just sit here like some prize to be haggled over. Rising from my chair, I move toward the entryway, my legs feeling strangely disconnected from my body.
"I figured we could all use a drink, don't you think?" Tara holds up a handle of Captain Morgan's rum, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "To take the edge off."
My stomach twists with recognition. Captain Morgan's, my drink of choice back when we were together. The rum I'd sip between clients to numb the edges of reality, the same brand she'd pour for me after particularly rough nights.
Tara's eyes soften as they lock with mine, something gentle and intimate flickering in their depths. "Unless Leo's quit drinking? I noticed you look a lot healthier, and I'm not trying to get in the way of your sobriety."
The concern in her voice sounds so genuine it makes my chest ache. As if the seven years between us have evaporated, as if she still worries about me.
"I only quit drugs," I say, my voice steadier than I expected. "Alcohol was never the problem."
Sabrina sighs beside me, her shoulders dropping slightly in resignation. "Alright, come in," she says, stepping aside to let Tara enter our home.
Tara strides into our home with the confidence of someone who already owns the place, her shoes clicking rhythmically against our hardwood floors. She doesn't wait for an invitation before making her way to the dining table, rum bottle swinging casually at her side.
"Something smells amazing," she purrs, those red eyes scanning our carefully prepared dinner. Without hesitation, she slides into the chair directly adjacent to mine, not across from me, but close enough that our knees would touch if I sat down.
I retreat to the kitchen, grateful for the momentary escape as I search for glasses. My hands shake slightly as I reach for the cabinet. Via the pass-through, I can see Tara leaning over my plate, her long fingers delicately plucking a piece of my untouched ribeye. She pops it into her mouth, humming with appreciation as her eyes close briefly.
"Help yourself," Sabrina mutters, the sarcasm thick in her voice as she reclaims her own seat.
Tara ignores her completely, selecting another morsel from my plate. The casual entitlement of the gesture throws me. This isn't the Tara I remember, the woman who always asked before touching anything of mine, who treated me with an almost reverent gentleness when we were alone together.
I return with three crystal tumblers, setting them on the table with more force than necessary. The dissonance between my memories and this new, brazenly territorial Tara is jarring.
"I see your manners were just an act back then," I say, unable to keep the edge from my voice as I twist the cap off the rum bottle. "Or did good behavior only apply when you were paying for it?"
Tara's expression shifts instantly, the predatory gleam in her eyes replaced by something softer. Her shoulders slump slightly, and a frown tugs at her lips.
"You're right," she says, setting down the piece of steak she'd been about to take. "I'm sorry, Leo. That was rude of me."
The apology catches me off guard. I expected deflection, maybe even mockery, but not this immediate contrition. Her voice holds none of the sharpness she'd directed at Sabrina just moments ago.
I settle into my chair, studying Tara's face as I pour the rum into each glass. The amber liquid catches the light, glinting like topaz as it rises. The familiar smell brings back memories I've tried hard to forget, late nights in her apartment, the weight of her hand in my hair, the gentle way she'd clean my track marks after a binge.
"So," I say, sliding a glass toward her, "how have you been, Tara?"
She gives me a genuine smile.
"Well, I'm VP of Sales now at work," she says, taking a small sip of rum. Her eyes never leave mine, as if Sabrina isn't even in the room.
"Wow," I reply, genuinely impressed. "You've made it really far in seven years."
"Indeed I have," she agrees, her voice carrying a hint of pride. She sets down her glass, leaning slightly closer. "And you quit drugs. I'm really proud of you, Leo. I remember desperately begging you to stop."
Heat rises to my cheeks at the memory, Tara holding me as I shook through withdrawals, only to watch me relapse days later. The disappointment in her eyes when she'd find new needle marks. The way she never gave up trying.
"I just wasn't ready at that time, I guess," I mumble, staring into my rum instead of meeting her gaze.
Sabrina clears her throat loudly, the sound clearly manufactured. "I guess he just needed a strong womanly touch to help him," she says, her voice tight with something between jealousy and pride.
The tension in the room thickens immediately. Tara's eyes flick to Sabrina, something dangerous flashing in their red depths before she controls it, returning her attention to me.
"Perhaps," Tara concedes, though her tone suggests otherwise. She takes another sip of rum, longer this time. "Or perhaps he just needed to hit rock bottom before he could climb back up. That's how recovery works sometimes."
I find myself reaching for the rum, the familiar burn a welcome distraction from the tension crackling between the two women. The glass is cool against my palm as I knock back the contents in one long gulp. This was my entire life once. The muscle memory is still there. Tilt, swallow, exhale through the burn.
"Whoa there," Tara says, her eyebrows lifting slightly as I reach for the bottle again. "Still hitting it hard, I see."
I pour another generous serving, acutely aware of both women watching me. Sabrina's eyes narrow slightly, concern flickering across her features before that hungry look returns. Tara just looks amused, maybe even a little impressed.
"Some habits die hard," I mutter, taking a smaller sip this time. "Besides, this isn't exactly a low-stress situation."
The alcohol works its magic quickly, melting the rigid line of my shoulders, softening the sharp edges of my anxiety. By the third glass, the violent thudding of my heart has settled to something more manageable, and I find myself actually relaxing into my chair.
"Should we move to the living room?" Sabrina suggests, her plate long since cleared. "Might be more comfortable."
We migrate to the couch, the bottle coming with us. As the level of rum drops steadily, so does the hostility in the room. The alcohol has created a buffer zone, a neutral territory where we can pretend this whole arrangement isn't completely fucked up.
"So your Roomba just... flips itself over?" Sabrina asks, leaning forward with genuine curiosity. "How is that even possible?"
Tara laughs, the sound unexpectedly light and musical. "I swear to god, I'll set it to clean while I'm at work, and I'll come home to find it upside down like a helpless turtle. It's the weirdest thing."
I can't help but smile at the absurdity of it all, my wife and my ex-client-slash-almost-savior bonding over the struggles of robotic vacuum cleaners. The rum has worked its magic, transforming what should have been an unbearably tense evening into something almost... pleasant. Sabrina's cheeks are flushed pink, her posture more relaxed than it's been all day. She's curled up beside me on the couch, one hand resting possessively on my thigh.
"You know what I've been wondering lately?" Sabrina says suddenly, her words slightly slurred. She leans forward, looking directly at Tara. "How exactly did you two meet? Like, the very first time."
My heart stops, but not for the reason most people would expect. It's not shame about my past profession that sends ice through my veins, it's the memory of what I actually said to Tara during our first encounter.
"Tara, don't," I warn, my voice coming out sharper than intended.
Tara's eyes meet mine across the coffee table, a drunken smile playing at her lips. "We can't lie to your wife, can we?" There's a mischievous glint in her eyes that I recognize all too well.
"It's horrible though," I protest, running a hand through my hair. "I was a different man back then."
Sabrina squeezes my thigh reassuringly. "Baby, I know you were a hooker. That's not news."
"That's not what I mean," I mutter, reaching for my rum.
Tara settles deeper into the armchair, clearly enjoying my discomfort. "Well," she begins, swirling the amber liquid in her glass, "when I met Leo, he was an escort on this random website. And I remember taking him to this fancy restaurant in Boston.
Sabrina nods eagerly.
"But I was so nervous," Tara continues, "and I was having trouble making small talk until…"
"Tara, please," I groan, covering my face with my hands.
"No, no, I want to hear this," Sabrina insists, practically bouncing with excitement beside me.
Tara tries to hold in her laughter, her shoulders shaking with the effort. "Leo looks at me like he's some idiot kid and says, 'Hey, would you rather find out your future husband was secretly a Nazi or secretly drew werewolf-on-human-woman porn where it had a pregnant naked woman with an x-ray of her stomach and inside the stomach was a litter of puppies?'"
Tara erupts into uncontrollable laughter, doubling over in her chair, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. The rum sloshes dangerously in her glass as her whole body shakes with mirth. Sabrina's mouth drops open, her eyes wide with shock.
"Leo, that's seriously fucked up," Sabrina says, staring at me like she's seeing a stranger. "That was your opening line?"
I feel heat rushing to my face, the embarrassment making me want to sink between the couch cushions and disappear. The rum's warmth in my system isn't enough to shield me from this mortification.
"I always had a lot on my mind back then," I mumble, rubbing the back of my neck. "It just... came out."
Tara wipes tears from her eyes, still fighting to regain her composure. "I honestly don't know which of those options is worse, though," she says, her voice breaking with residual giggles.
Sabrina tilts her head thoughtfully, swirling her rum. "I mean, you can't be with a Nazi obviously..." she begins, her brow furrowed in genuine consideration. "But at least with a Nazi, you're not going to be surprised by their behavior. You know exactly what you're getting."
"For real," Tara nods emphatically, leaning forward. "I feel like the fucking guy drawing psycho werewolf porn far more chaotic. There's an unpredictability factor there that's honestly potentially scarier."
"I begrudgingly think I'd have to choose the dog guy," Sabrina admits after a moment, and Tara nods in solemn agreement.
"Nazis are just a bad look," Tara concludes, raising her glass in a mock toast. "It's really a no-win situation."
"Can we please talk about anything else?"