What if he’d stayed home for his daughter, Chloe’s, sweet sixteen party, helped his wife wrap presents, made his “famous” nachos loaded with chipotles, grilled corn, and pepper jack.
What if he’d sought a different funding source for his pediatric cancer research center. My labor of love, he called it.
What if he’d taken a breath before accepting Sy’s invitation to jet down to his private Caribbean island to discuss an investment for Mel’s new venture, palm trees rustling, Mai Tais flowing.
What if Mel had realized that a stake in the lab was the least of what was on Sy’s mind.
What if he hadn’t succumbed to that blue-white desire when Sy arranged for Mindy—one of his girls—to give Mel an extra special massage under a tent, the cyan sea licking the shore at his feet.
What if he’d hit pause when he noticed the tiny cluster of pimples on the masseuse’s chin peeping through her makeup—the same place Chloe always got them.
What if he’d considered what that shy, quiet girl might have felt when he reached up to stroke her soft, wavy hair and the sheet slid off, and she knew exactly what was expected.
What if Mel had been there when Chloe raged through their empty house, pounding the walls with her fists, wailing to the dog about her fucking pedo Chem teacher, how she’d needed the grade, didn’t want to disappoint mom and dad.
But when Mindy slathered Mel with argan and coconut oil and his body responded in a way that felt perfectly natural, he saw only himself reflected in her Ray Bans.
