Lucky Night

Chapter Eight

Eight

And with that…she needs to go away for a little while.

So she does.

She lowers her face into the duvet.

She stops struggling, and submits to the panic.

It beats against her, and beats against her.

Which is awful. But she deservesit.

So she’ll takeit.

And she does.

For a long time.

How long? Hard to say.

But eventually, she senses a change. Her heart stops racing. The awful sick falling sensation in her stomach recedes. Her hands relax their death grip on the duvet.

She comes back into herself, into the room.

She keeps her face buried in the soft linen but takes a few deep, steady breaths. She’s never felt anything like that before. And now, does she…?

Yes. She feels better.

Well, calmer, let’s say. The fear battered her, wore her down to a smooth little nub, but that’s okay. Being a smooth, quiet little nub is okay.

There’s a distant crash. A muffled curse.

She lifts her head. The bed is empty.

She hears the toilet flush.

Should she check the news? It might disturb this fragile peace, and yet…she feels around in the duvet and finds her phone. Her heart kicks up as she searches but…

Oh. The news is definitely not awful.

@FDNY says the fire is close to being contained.

She double-checks, triple-checks, skims various sites. The internet is in rare agreement: the situation is under control. It’s only a matter of time.

She allows herself a tiny bit of hope. They might be okay. This might be almost over.

The bathroom door slides open, and she turns away. The peaceful nub grows a few spikes. She’s still furious. She hears him sigh, the soft thumping of pillows being plumped. He must pick up his phone, because here comes the tippy-tapping again. Christ, is he drafting his last will and testament?

No. He’s certain that’s not necessary.

The fool.

Well, he’s not the only fool in this room, is he? This situation, this nightmare, is ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-nine percent his fault, for sure—the insistence on a whole night, the choice of this particular deathtrap-beg-pardon hotel, his withholding of information and of course his arguments why they should heed the intercom voice, not her gut or common sense, and stay.

But who allowed herself to be prevailed upon and persuaded? Who allowed their time to be frittered away with idle talk of brainwashing and phantom jizz?

She glances at him. He’s sitting up against the headboard, shoes off, frowning at his phone. He’s aging well. Six years older than she is, but doesn’t look it. He’s holding on to his hair. It’s started going gray, which suits him. He keeps it cut too short, though.

She rarely gets to observe him from a distance like this. The sharp jaw, sharp chin, he’s all edges and corners. Still slim. In better shape than when they started, in fact. Being a relentless tyrant must do wonders for the metabolism.

She refreshes Twitter. @nycfirewire says the FDNY is beginning smoke remediation efforts, aiming to clear the building’s stairwells within the hour.

She considers his hands. They’re long and slim, a little bony. Beautiful. She’s always been a hand woman. A handmaiden, ha. His are rarely still. He never shuts up and his hands never stop moving, painting his words onto the air.

What is she doing? Why is she appreciating him, and getting all florid about it? Painting his words onto the air? She’s so embarrassing. Meanwhile he’s ignoring her, sheathed in his umbrage over there, his chagrin. He’s the Chagrined King, scrutinizing his phone, lips pursed.

What’s he studying with such concentration?

Porn. It’s probably porn.

She turns away so he doesn’t happen to look up and think she’s smiling at him, because sorry, no, she still hates his guts and thinks he sucks.

She refreshes Twitter. @firechieftim, a retired battalion commander, applauds the FDNY’s rapid and effective response, noting the department’s unparalleled experience fighting high-rise fires. Couldn’t agree more, Chief Tim!

Does she really hate Nick’s guts? Should she? What’s the point of staying angry? It’s exhausting. It allows him to take up way too much space in her head. Even more than he’s occupied lo these many years.

He remembered the room key. If he hadn’t, they’d be roaming the halls right now, or hanging out in the little room with the vending machines and the icemaker. He’s organized, he has forethought—points in his favor.

The little room with the icemaker? This isn’t a HoJo, for God’s sake.

Another point in his favor? She loved him once. It’s been over for ages—lo these many years — but some tenderness lingers. Even back then she wasn’t blind to his flaws, but he was alive. Most people are dead dead dead. He had a spark, in the way he spoke and looked. His intensity and outrageous opinions. The complete truthfulness of him when he was naked. He was vital. He dazzled her.

See? Even now she can’t escape the absurdity of it, the spoony superlatives. We make so much fun of people when they carry on about falling in love, about getting swept away, because they sound so ridiculous. Love is ridiculous, from the outside. But when you’re in it…oh God, when you’re in it…

She thought it would be awful. Humiliating. And sometimes it was. But mostly, she was exalted. More absurdity, but she was. This outrageous, imprudent love, it was her thing, hers alone. She wanted without being wanted, and felt great power in it. Even in the ending of it. Not that that was easy, Jesus no, it was torture. But she didit.

It’s reassuring, actually, to know that you can fall in love with someone, and fall back out, and survive. It’s difficult, harrowing in fact, but you’ll be okay.

Now? It’s fine. Little things, like the wedding ring incident, occasionally tug at her, but mostly she’s steady. Her love was a madness, but she’s glad it happened. Once I loved someone, and he didn’t love me back, but that didn’t matter. I did it. It was mine.

And here they are now, here he is, the unwitting beneficiary of her buried tenderness. And her gratitude. She can’t forget her secret gratitude to him, for turning her into a writer. A good one, college workshop instructors be damned. She might have become who she was supposed to be without him, but she didn’t. She owes him that.

She hears a rustling. An aggrieved, slightly performative sigh. The click of his phone being placed on the nightstand. Is he…

Yes. He’s getting out of bed.

He’s coming over.

The cooling-off period has ended, apparently.

He walks across the room and pulls out the desk chair. He sits down on it, facing her across the coffee table.

He wants to talk. Good. If he apologizes, she’ll grant him a little grace. In honor of her dead love and her very live gratitude. And the fact that he was so generous earlier. Where are you, Jenny? He fucked up after that, badly, but he has tried to be kind.

He gazes at her.

She gazes back.

Did you sleep with that director? he asks.

She blinks.

He crosses his legs. Folds his hands. Looks at her like, Well?

She erupts with laughter.

She can’t helpit!

Tears spring to her eyes.

Did she…did she…

Oh my God, what?

He’s serious! Look at him, sitting there in his little interrogation chair. This— this is what he’s been thinking about over there on the bed, while she’s been melting down about the fire and her boys, Jewish mothers and him—how she loved him once. How she burned.

For this guy!

Wow. She wipes her tears away. Thanks. I needed that.

Happy to help. Will you answer the question?

Sorry, she says. I have no idea who you’re talking about.

Jenny.

If you could give me a name, maybe I could help. Otherwise…

I don’t want to say his name, he says. It’s a stupid fucking name and I refuse to sayit.

Oh! She slaps her forehead. Are you talking about Juan Pablo ? Juan Pablo Torrrrrrres ? The muy guapo director of my book adaptación ?

Is there a reason why you’re unwilling to answer a simple question?

Are you actually as anxious about the fire as I am? she asks him. Are you freaking out, and this is how you cope—by distracting yourself with random questions about my sex life?

It’s not random, he says. I want to know if I’m safe.

You’re not safe, Nick. You’re trapped in a burning building.

I mean safe from disease, he says.

She takes that in. Safe from disease . You mean, a disease in my vagina.

There’s no need to get upset, he says.

Hey. She holds up her hands. Who’s upset?

I just want information. You said he hit on you. You didn’t say whether he was successful.

Whether I fucked him, you mean. Whether I fucked another man, contracted an STI from him, then came here and passed it to you. That’s what you want to talk about? Now?

Why not? I assume you’ve seen the news. The fire is under control.

I have seen that, she says. We’ll be out of here soon. In the meantime, you want information? So do I. Let’s lay it all out. Be completely honest with each other before our time here comes to an end. Sound good?

Before their time here comes to an end. He hears in those words an unmistakable note of finality. He has wondered, since they got back to the room, since she blamed and attacked him, whether this might be it for them. They had a good run. Six years. But they never built the kind of bond that could survive a challenge like this.

It’s too bad. Still, given everything that’s happened tonight, maybe it’s for the best.

So they’ll have it out. All their concealments and evasions. Not that he’s concealed much, but sure. He’ll tell her whatever she wants to know. Then they can part as friends.

Complete honesty, he says. Fine byme.

Good! We’ll take turns. Why didn’t you want to use the minibar?

What?

Earlier. I wanted water, and you were all like, she puffs out her chest, wags a finger, We’re not using the minibar, woman! It’s extortionate!

I don’t sound like that. Also, this is what you want to askme?

For starters, yes.

He stands and walks over to the television. They’ve cut away from the fire to a weather report. Looks like the snow will be stopping soon.

So it’s over. Their this . Well, what did he think—it would last forever? They’d be hobbling into hotels into their seventies, eighties, rubbing their desiccated sex organs together in a desperate bid for one last watery orgasm? Jesus no. He didn’t think about it at all. Jenny was always now, an intoxicating present, in both senses of the word. But that’s over. She’s to be relegated to the past, the place where all the good things are.

He’s going to miss her.

He pokes around in the minibar and pulls out two small bottles. He returns to his seat. Bourbon or vodka?

Bourbon, please.

He cracks the cap of hers and hands it across the coffee table. He opens his own, and they each take a swig.

I feel sad after I come, he says. If I’m physically alone. It’s…an emptiness. A loneliness. It passes quickly, but I need whoever—meaning, in this context, you—to stay beside me for a few minutes. So when you leaped out of bed, I wanted you back, and apparently I decided the best way to achieve that was to act like a controlling asshole. That’s the answer.

You couldn’t ask me to stay? Explain it tome?

Jesus, no! That’s not what we do, Jenny. You’re not my therapist, or confessor. I want to come in here and leave my issues, my weaknesses and neuroses, at the door.

It doesn’t really work that way, she says.

It does, he insists. Most of the time it does. And it should. You’re not missing anything. Trust me. You’re getting the good parts.

He toasts her with his tiny bottle and finishes it off.

I didn’t sleep with Juan Pablo, she says.

It’s fine if you did. I have no right—

Oh my God, Nick, knock it off! I didn’t. I know I lie sometimes. Because…well, it doesn’t matter. I’m not lying about this.

He nods. He believes her.

She goes to the minibar and comes back with a package of peanut M&M’s.

I did lie about Juan Pablo’s come-ons, though. She smiles. They weren’t ambiguous at all.

He laughs. Why did you say they were?

I don’t know. He came up in conversation, you somehow guessed things had gotten weird…she sighs. I was embarrassed.

Most women would have bragged. Most women wouldn’t make it through the door of this room without announcing that a hot young Spaniard was desperate to bang them.

Most women wouldn’t come through the door of this room.

Jesus, Jenny, this again? Anyway, I’m not sure I agree.

She sips her bourbon. You think most people cheat?

I think many do, he says. And many more would, though they can’t admit it. Most people can’t even think about infidelity clearly. They’re too terrified ofit.

I take it you can think about it clearly.

I can. Enough to notice a contradiction, at least. Everybody agrees that cheating is wrong, it’s vile, it’s monstrous. And yet, he spreads his hands, it is also universal, persistent and indomitable. The most common crime there is, which all the social censure and moral opprobrium in the world haven’t come close to rooting out. To the point that you have to wonder: maybe it’s not the crime that’s the problem, but the prohibition.

So that’s how you do it, she says, fascinated. You reason yourself off the hook.

No way. I’m not off the hook. The prohibition may be ineffective and contrary to human nature, but for most people it’s still very real, and to escape it I’m lying. Intentionally deceiving my wife. Maybe we should all reconsider whether it’s so awful to want to sleep with people other than your spouse, but lying is unquestionably, categorically wrong, and the fact that I’ve chosen to do it is on me. What I won’t do, though, is excuse it, or explain it away, or somehow delude myself about what I’m doing. I may be lying, but I won’t lie to myself.

So you do feel bad? she says. Because the way you’re acknowledging what you’re doing, and just kind of accepting it…don’t you feel guilty?

I do. But I limit it. By limiting this. There’s my life, right? Ordinary life, which is one thing, you know, one big thing, then there’s this. You and me. Completely separate.

Firm boundaries, she says. Even in your head?

Especially in my head. They have to be. It’s like what they say about the Titanic. It wasn’t the iceberg that sank it. It was the bad bulkheads.

The bad what?

Bulkheads, he says. They’re the walls between compartments in the hull of a ship. On the Titanic, the bulkheads didn’t reach the ceilings of the lower decks. So when the ship hit the iceberg, water spilled over from compartment to compartment, rather than being limited to the site of the breach. It couldn’t contain the damage. That’s why it sank.

She stares at him.

It’s a good analogy, he says.

If you’re the Titanic, what does that make me? she says. The iceberg?

Okay, forget the analogy. The pointis—

Never mind. What was your great disappointment in life?

Pass, he says.

She throws an M&M at him. You can’t pass!

Says who?

Fine. Why did you insist we spend a full night together?

He sighs. Jenny, can we not—

You kept bringing it up, she says, even though we’ve never done this before. You pushed me to add a day to my trip, you changed the date of your deposition so we’d overlap. Why?

He rises and moves to the window. Then the door. He returns and grips the back of the chair with both hands, looking down at her. She’s still wrapped in her duvet, cheeks rosy from the bourbon.

Let’s be done with this, okay? This true-confessions bullshit? It’s making my skin crawl. You want to know how I avoid feeling guilty? By not thinking—not talking—about shit like this. I’m a man, okay, a typical man, keeping it all locked up, and that’s worked really well for me for forty-six years. So can we please stop with all the talk about feelings?

Sure, she says. Right after you tell me why you wanted a whole night.

Jesus Christ!

Fine. He sits down. When was the last time we saw each other?

She frowns, thinking. The Spencers’ Christmas party?

The last time we saw each other saw each other, he says. Just the two of us. In a place like this.

Oh. Right. Was it…mid-November? I know it’s been a long time.

It was early October, he says. October third.

That long? Wow. I guess we were both busy, there were the holidays—

No, Jenny. It was all you.

What? No.

I offered you half-a-dozen dates, but you were out of town, or had a reading, or the kids were sick. Every time.

They’re always sick in the winter, Nick, I’m sorry—

I’m not blaming you. They were legitimate reasons, but their cumulative effect was such that…

Listen to him. Going all lawyerly. Their cumulative effect was such that. He needs to move. He stands and circles the room. He’s going to break out in hives. But now that he’s started, he might as well finish.

He stops in front of her.

It felt like you weren’t trying as hard to see me as you used to. I wasn’t important— as important, not that I was or ever could be important-important, I get that—but important in the very limited way in which I was once important, or thought myself to be…goddammit, I’ve completely lost the thread of what I was saying.

He’s all worked up, running his hands through his hair, pacing again.

He stops, spreads his hands.

I thought I was losing you, okay?

Oh, Nick,no!

Let me finish, please, without the oh Nick s and the protestations and so forth—you wanted me to spill my guts, so I am. That’s why I pushed for a whole night. To reassure myself. You could say I was testing my hypothesis, but I wasn’t trying to trick you or trap you. I wanted to see you, it had been so long—

I wanted to see you, too!

He holds up a hand. Jenny, please. I wanted to see you, but part of me also needed some proof that the, whatever the hell we have here, the connection, is still in good working order. Your life has changed, you’ve become this—phenomenon. You’re writing, you’re watching movies be filmed of your work. You’re a celebrity. Who am I? Some dickhead who came on to you in the weirdest possible way in a neighbor’s kitchen one night! What we have, what we do? I know it’s not supposed to be a big deal. But it is a deal. It’s important to me. To you? I wasn’t sure. Maybe you were ready to move on, and you decided to let me down easy, with a gradual fade-out. That’s what I feared. And if I was misreading anything, well, a nice long night together might remind us why we do this.

She nods, not saying anything, just listening.

He sits beside her on the sofa and takes her hands.

And it worked, he says. You didn’t cancel. And it was so good, as it always is. At least, I thought it was, until I found out you didn’t come. You faked coming, in fact, which made me feel useless and confirmed—please, Jenny, let me finish—confirmed my worst fears about my value to you. Then we heard another alarm, and you were ready to fly out of here. Next, you mentioned this Juan Pablo clown, and I thought, well, that’s it. I can’t make her come, here’s this hot young guy who probably can, maybe even has. Later, after we fought, I started fixating on him, and I…well, you should see what I’ve been googling the last little while. It’s profoundly embarrassing.

The point is, I let myself get all worked up until I couldn’t stand it anymore, at which point I marched over here and demanded you answer that utterly shitty question.

He’s still holding her hands. He looks down at them.

I don’t care if you slept with him, he says. You said you didn’t and I believe you, but I truly don’t care. As long as you don’t stop sleeping withme.

He looks up now, into her eyes. That’s it. My long-winded explanation for why I wanted a whole night, and why I didn’t want to leave. The idea of losing time together, when we hadn’t had time in so long? I couldn’t bear it. I’m a greedy bastard. We should have left,we—

I came, she says.

What?

I came. Before. I said I hadn’t, I faked it. But I didn’t.

He releases her hands, sits back.

It was a mistake, she says. A momentary…I can explain if you want. Why I didit.

He stands. He walks away, then turns back.

You didn’t fake it? he says. You had an orgasm?

She nods.

When I…we both came?

Yes.

He is still staring at her, like an idiot no doubt, because he feels like an idiot. He has been made into an idiot, by her. Reduced to repeating, once more, idiotically:

You came?

She nods again.

You…faked fakingit?

Yes, she says.

At which point he completely loses his mind.

What the fuck is wrong with you?

Nick!

What is this, Jenny? You’re playing games withme?

Of course not!

You are! he shouts. I just laid my heart bare for you, and you respond by informing me that you’ve been mocking me all night?

No, I…that’s not why I told you, I told you because—

Who acts like this? He throws his hands in the air. I have no idea where I stand with you! You pretend not to be scared about the fire when you are. You knew a man was hitting on you but claimed you weren’t sure. And you flat-out lie to me, all the time. Apparently you even lie about lying!

Oh, so I should be honest? she says, jumping up, chucking away her empty bottle. I should be honest, but you don’t have tobe?

What? I’m honest!

Come on, Nick! You made up some BS why I shouldn’t get water from the minibar—

The minibar! he wails. Jesus Christ, can we please stop talking about the fucking minibar?

—you misled me about where the fire was, you insisted we spend a full night together without telling me it was some kind of test of my loyalty—

That is, oh, Jenny, that is so unfair, do not manipulate what I confided in you, do not—

Manipulate? she cries. You manipulate, you—you’re the worst! You’re always making fun of me, you make fun of my books, which you don’t even bother to read—

Do not change the subject, he says. We are talking about your orgasm right now! Nothing else!

She stares at him. Will you listen to yourself?

He is listening. And he is hearing himself be ridiculous. He laid himself bare—only in part, true, and a relatively minor part, but does she know how hard even that is for him?—he handed her a small soft piece of himself. I thought I was losing you. He trusted her. And she responded by announcing that she’d lied, a lie whose only purpose could be to make him feel failed and weak.

She took his offering and threw it against the wall.

And now? They’re fighting about a fake fake orgasm. An inane argument that only compounds his humiliation.

Afraid he was losing her? He never had her.

Have you always faked your orgasms?

Jesus, Nick, what a…of course not! Never.

Okay, he says. Okay. Then why did you say you faked one tonight?

She hesitates.

You know what? he says, hands up. Doesn’t matter. I can’t…I think we’re done.

What?

This is not why we come here, Jenny. To bicker, and poke at each other, and play mind games.

You’re breaking up with me? She’s shaking her head, uncomprehending.

It’s been great, he says. But tonight has revealed some things…maybe my instinct that something had changed these last few months…maybe this thing has run its course.

Should he be saying this? How can he not? She has hurt him. Seemingly on purpose. And hurting each other is definitely not what this is supposed to be about.

Fine, she says. Whatever you say. We’re done.

You said our time here is coming to an end, he points out. Isn’t that what you meant? That tonight has been too much for us, it’s shown that we’re not—

He is interrupted by a violent hammering.

She gasps.

He starts.

They both turn.

There it is again.

Sudden and explosive. Coming from the hallway.

Someone is at the door.