Chapter 22 #2
I laugh as I slip off the stool onto my aching feet. “Someone’s gotta do it. I’ll see you at the choir picnic in July. Peter, I hope you and Michelle will bring the baby.”
Rob holds out his elbow and leads me through the busy bar as I say my goodbyes. Outside, in the balmy June night, the Lower East Side is buzzing with people out for the evening. Rob hails a taxi as it turns the corner from 2nd Avenue.
“So, you liked the duet best, then?” I ask him, inside the dark of the cab.
He pauses. “I thought it was the best performance. You guys were very convincing. Your voices sounded fantastic together. But I can’t say it was my favorite.”
“Oh. Well, I guess I couldn’t compete with a Bond theme, could I?” I say, surprised by his tone.
“I don’t like the message of that song. I’ve been listening to you practice, and the lyrics bug me.
It’s all about this crazy passion, like that’s the best kind of love, so superior to everyday, committed love — like growing old together is boring.
It bothers me. Watching movies, going for walks, growing old, that’s real. That’s what I want.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“Plus, I have to admit it’s kind of tough watching you perform this passionate song with another guy.
You were both so into it. I know I have nothing to worry about, that it’s me you love, and you’re just acting, but it doesn’t seem like you.
It’s another version of you. A version who’s with someone else.
It threw me, with everything we’ve been going through. ”
The driver’s eyes flick to his rearview mirror. He’s eavesdropping, but I don’t care. I’m sure he’s heard a lot worse.
“Okay.” There’s a knot in my stomach. “I can see that. I’m sorry it made you uncomfortable. It really is acting. I mean, Peter is a friend, and he’s with someone and having a baby.
“There’s nothing to worry about with him.
Or any man. You realize that, right? You’re my world.
Any passion I exuded, it’s because I’m singing it about you.
You’re that crazy, passionate love, for me.
The one that keeps me up at night — that’s you.
Literally. This love we have, it’s the kind of love they write these songs about. ”
Rob looks out at the city rushing by.
“Don’t you see, Josie? That’s the problem.
Right there. I don’t want you to be awake all night and exhausted in the day.
You think I don’t know how little you’ve been sleeping?
And you don’t seem happy at work. You have this .
. . chronic dissatisfaction. Even though you have everything, even though I’m doing everything to make you happy.
I know you love me, I even know you’re crazy about me, but I don’t want crazy.
I want happy. I’d settle for content. Why does it all have to be so . . . dramatic?”
The driver’s interest is now intense. He’s barely keeping his eyes on the road.
“You know why,” I reply, in a quieter tone.
“I understand you want real life. But for me, this isn’t my real life.
What do you want from me? I surrendered to this life, because I fell in love with you.
I gave up hope of ever seeing my brother again, for you.
But yes, it’s driving me crazy, because this life . . . it doesn’t feel like me.
“I found you, and you’re the best man I ever met, but who am I, in all this?
I’m haunted by the feeling I’ve betrayed my own self — for love, for luxury, for this life.
My life now is one giant guilty pleasure.
My glamorous but superficial job. Our incredible home.
My beautiful clothes, the restaurants, parties, TV shows, luxury real estate, private jets, champagne.
So much fucking champagne. So much pleasure, and so much guilt.
” I shake my head. “I feel like I’m gorging on you, on this life, like a .
. . bulimic or something. I close my eyes at night, and I see everything other people don’t have, that I shouldn’t have. I can’t stand the guilt.”
Rob says nothing, but he’s biting the inside of his mouth. I lay my hand over his on the seat between us, but his hand lies unresponsive. As the cab pulls into the porte-cochère of Cavendish House, Rob pays up quickly and gets out. He’s already at the entrance when Ed opens my door.
“Evening, sir, ma’am. How was the concert?” He glances at Rob as he holds open the large glass entrance door for me, following me inside.
“Good, thanks, Ed.” I force a smile, wobbling in my heels across the marble. “Thank you.”
“Thanks, Ed,” Rob mutters, striding into the open elevator.
Inside, we stand side by side, silent. I can’t think of a thing to say that would resolve this fight. On our floor, Rob marches ahead to open the door. I follow, kicking my shoes off my pained feet.
He’s already in the dressing room, pulling his shirt off. The night is warm and a sheen of sweat glistens on his light brown skin. I stand at the doorway, watching him.
“Rob. I’m sorry.”
He looks up across at me, undoing the belt on his jeans with one hand, pulling off his socks with the other hand.
“Gorging? Like a bulimic? That’s what I am to you? Something guilty to consume, and then . . . what? Throw up when you’re done?”
He’s furious.
“Baby, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. Of course not. I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m so tired . . . I’m so sorry.” I step around the plush ottoman, now strewn with his shirt and jeans, and reach out. “I love you. Come here.”
His dark eyes are glittering with a fire I haven’t seen before. He glares at me. “Fuck, Josie! You’re sabotaging this, you realize that?”
He pushes past me into the bathroom, slamming the door.