8. Janet
JANET
Icall Mike after a conference meeting.
Not right away.
I shut my office door.
I catch myself picking at the edge of my thumbnail and stop. I hate when I do that. It makes me feel twelve years old.
"Good to hear from you," he says.
"I keep my promises."
My voice comes out steadier than my hand feels.
"Good to know."
Something shifts on his end. A door closing maybe. Or him moving somewhere private.
I turn away from my own closed door, like someone might still see my face through it.
"So, how's dinner on Friday?"
"That works. I'll make a reservation. I'll pick you up."
"No, I'll meet you there. I'll probably come straight from work."
There's the smallest pause.
"How's Gramercy Tavern?"
"Can you get a reservation this late?"
"I'll see what I can do."
I don't ask how.
"See you," I hang up.
I look down and realize I'm picking at my thumbnail again.
I bring lunch to Rosemary's desk. Shut her door. "What's up?"
"I called him."
"And…"
"We're having dinner."
"Good for you."
"This is crazy."
"What's crazy, you're a thirty-six-year-old woman in New York going on a date? That's insanity?"
"Well, when you put it that way."
"That's the way it is. It doesn't have to be more than that. You're having fun and you deserve a little fun."
"I do."
Rosemary grins like she's won something.
"I'm going to keep it casual. But I don’t think he does casual.”
"Don't worry about him. Satisfy your own desires."
I don't argue with her.
I ask about her because I don't want to talk about him anymore. None of her prospects from her night at Nocturne have panned out. The guy she met only wants to talk about how much more money he's making than his friends.
On Friday I stand in front of my closet. Black dress. Not the black dress. The black dress.
I put it on.
At lunch I go for a manicure. I don't wear nail polish in court but for tonight I wanted to.
I pick the same red I always pick, until the woman holds up a dark purple polish with a little shimmer, called Good Girl Gone Bad.
"Fine," I say. "Different."
She doesn't ask what's different about today. I don't tell her.
Mike is already at the table when I get there, jacket off, sleeves pushed up, like he's been waiting long enough to get comfortable.
Gramercy Tavern glows around him. Warm wood. Low light. Flowers arranged like somebody cared but didn't need applause for it. The room has that steady New York hum — silverware, quiet laughter, waiters moving through narrow spaces without ever looking rushed.
He stands when he sees me.
Doesn't kiss me. Doesn't reach for me.
"You came straight from work."
"Told you I would."
I sit next to him.
"You wore that to work?"
"I didn't have court today."
"And the guys in your office aren't all over you?"
"There are rules against that."
"I'd risk it."
I laugh before I can stop myself.
The waiter appears like he's been waiting for the exact second we need him. Mike orders wine without looking at the list, and the waiter nods like he already knew what Mike would say before he said it.
"I'm impressed you got a table."
"I know people. Same business."
"You come here a lot?" I say.
"Not really. I usually cook. I'm a homebody."
"Who owns a lounge."
"I'll cook for you next time."
I look at him over the rim of my water glass.
He smiles.
We talk easier than the first time. Less performance. Less sparring. Or maybe the sparring feels better now.
Around us, the restaurant keeps moving in that quiet, polished way expensive places do. Plates come down softly. Wine catches the light. A woman at the next table laughs into her husband's shoulder like they've been married long enough to know the punchline before it comes.
Mike tells me about his business plans. A chain of lounges in the major cities. New York first, Miami, Chicago, Vegas. He has an idea for a nightclub-style gym where people can work out, shower, eat and drink without feeling like they've left the night behind.
It sounds like a lot.
It also sounds like him.
I tell him I want the DA job before I'm forty. Saying it out loud should embarrass me, but it doesn't. Not with him. After that, I don't know. Mayor feels too public. Too exposed. Too many hands reaching for too many pieces of you.
At some point, his hand settles on my thigh.
Not high.
Not careless.
Warm through the fabric of my dress.
It unnerves me, but I don't move it.
I keep talking like nothing has changed, even though everything under my skin has.
The waiter passes again. The candle between us flickers once.
We go through a second bottle of wine.
Outside, the air has that early-night chill to it. Mike raises a hand for a cab without asking which way I'm headed.
"Take me home," I say. "My place."
He looks at me for a second. Doesn't ask why. Opens the door and lets me slide in first.
The cab ride is quiet. His hand finds mine on the seat between us, fingers laced through mine, and neither of us says anything the whole way uptown.
His thumb moves slow over my knuckles, back and forth, like he's not even thinking about it.
I am. I watch the city blur past the window and try to figure out what I'm doing, and the whole time I'm aware of nothing except that one point of contact, warm and steady, undoing me one knuckle at a time.
At my building, he walks me to the door. "I had a good night."
"Me too."
"This is it for the night?"
"I think so. I had a great night. It was perfect."
"I'll take that."
He steps in close, one hand at my jaw, and kisses me like he's got nowhere else to be. Slow at first. My back finds the door and his other hand slides to my waist, and for a second I forget I told the cab driver an address with no plan past it.
I'm the one who breaks it.
A man I recognize comes out walking his dog, gives us a look that lingers half a second too long, and keeps going.
"Goodnight, Mike."
He doesn't push. Rests his forehead against mine for a moment, breathing harder than he probably wants me to notice.
"Goodnight, Janet."
I let myself inside and stand against the closed door for a long minute before I move.
I get undressed slowly, like taking off the clothes might take the night with them.
It doesn't.
My dress falls over the chair. My bra goes on top of it. I stand there in the quiet of my bedroom, skin still warm from wine and his hand on my thigh and the way he looked at me across the table like he was trying not to ask for too much.
I pull on a thin tank top and climb into bed.
The sheets are cool.
Too cool.
I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling, wide awake, imagining him here. His weight beside me. His hand sliding over my waist. His mouth at my neck. The whole room changing because he's in it.
I turn onto my side.
Onto my back again.
My phone is on the nightstand.
I don't touch it.
Then I do.
I put it down.
Pick it up again.
Midnight glows at the top of the screen, accusing me.
This is ridiculous.
I call him anyway.
He answers like he was already holding the phone.
"You miss me, don't you?"
I close my eyes.
"I do. I like you Mike. But I need to go slow."
For a second, all I hear is him breathing.
"Is it wrong that I want to make love to you again?"
The words loosen something in me I didn't know I was holding.
"No."
I pull the sheet higher, like he can see me.
"We can do something during the day tomorrow."
"Anything in mind?" he says.
"Surprise me."