3. Dreams Become Nightmares
DREAMS BECOME NIGHTMARES
I’m weightless. The water around me is calm—cool and dark and mysterious.
I roll my head to the right, already knowing what I’ll see.
Lev holds the knife to my throat for a few more seconds, the sharp steel blade the same temperature as the water.
Without warning, he releases his grip on the handle.
The weapon sinks slowly, steadily shrinking beneath the smooth surface.
I have time to grab it, but I don’t. I watch until the blade is nothing but a speck of silver far below before shifting my gaze back to him. The danger isn’t gone.
We stare at each other, floating side by side like twin buoys.
“You should be careful who you trust.”
“I don’t trust anyone.”
He nods, satisfied, then turns his face away, gazing overhead.
I don’t know what’s up there. My eyes remain on Lev until the wet silk I’m wearing drags me down to the lost knife.
I wake with a gasp, bound in place. Panic suffocates me as I’m held frozen despite repeated attempts to move. My surroundings are black and quiet, the only sound my strangled gasps. I manage to free one hand, yanking desperately at the ropes immobilizing me.
Not ropes, I realize. Sheets.
I reach up, fingers hitting headboard. Blindly feel the way over to the table beside the bed, then to the lamp I dimly recall being there. The bulb’s filaments flicker to life a few seconds later, illuminating the luxurious room.
I sit up straight, pulling and twisting until I’m freed from the white cotton prison. My pulse continues to pound rapidly, echoing in my ears, but the crush of fear has receded.
I reach for my phone, set on the table by the lamp, tapping the screen to check the time. It’s five fifteen a.m.
No Lev.
No note.
Neither surprises me. The only time he’s spent the night was when he was physically incapable of leaving.
The suite was bare when I entered, bereft of any luggage or personal belongings. The space feels even emptier now, only me in a huge bed. Wherever Lev actually sleeps during his trips to Chicago, I’ve never seen. Never will.
I flop back onto the soft mattress with a sigh, replaying moments from last night in my mind.
I dread the aftermath of these evenings as much as I look forward to their start.
I know they’ll end like this—him gone and me alone.
I’m so tired of being alone. I think about the stretch of separation ahead during the limited time we’re together, anticipating the inevitable outcome, like maybe that’ll make its arrival hurt less.
It never does.
And yet I don’t alter any part of the pattern. I do the same thing over and over again. The definition of insanity. The behavior of a masochist.
I drag myself out of bed when light starts to sneak through a gap in the curtains, making a half-hearted attempt to straighten the sheets before continuing into the bathroom.
I wipe under my eyes with a tissue, swish some complimentary mouthwash, use the toilet, swipe the travel hand soap after smelling it, and then go in search of my clothes.
My dress, rather. I find it in the first place I look—hung neatly in the closet beside my wool coat.
My heels are lined up beneath, tights tucked inside the left one.
My underwear is missing.
I blush, recalling Lev shoving the black thong into his pants pocket.
He’s never once suggested I’m more than a reliable lay to him.
Can you fuck someone for eleven years without forming any attachment?
Does a man steal your thong as some souvenir simply because the sex is good?
Is it possible to fall in love and live a full life without that person?
I’m choosing to believe the answers I want to be true because the alternatives are too unfortunate to contemplate. Because I don’t have anyone to ask for input or to speculate the truth with.
I pull on my dress, zip it as high as I can reach, cover it with my coat, and step into my heels after stuffing the tights in my pocket.
Grab my phone and pick up the plastic room key.
Ghost my finger along the edge as I survey the messy bed and spotless room, wondering if the trace of smoke in the air is real or my imagination.
I pick up the glass next to the lamp, peering at the thin layer of vodka coating the clear bottom.
Lift it and drain the final drops, the sweet, sharp taste mixing with the mint flavor lingering on my tongue.
I set the glass down and sigh, scanning the room one final time before walking toward the door.
Slip into the silent hallway. Not even the cleaning staff is around this early.
The elevator is empty when it arrives. So is the luxurious lobby. This is one of Chicago’s fanciest hotels, somewhere I could never afford to stay on my salary.
I deliver the extra room key to the yawning clerk behind the front desk, then tighten the belt of my coat and head outside.
The air is frigid, February’s chill exacerbated by limited light as the sun slowly rises.
Downtown office buildings block most of its ascent.
It must have been even colder when Lev left.
I’ve never woken before him, the intoxicating combination of orgasms and liquor more powerful than any sleeping pill.
I flag a cab and relay my address, staring listlessly out the smudged window at the gray snow piled on the side of the street. A record amount has fallen this winter.
It was snowing again when I arrived at the hotel last night. Overnight plows already cleared the streets, the asphalt a few shades darker than the frozen sludge on either side.
An unpleasant surprise waits outside my apartment building. Jude—I can tell it’s him from the bump in his nose, especially obvious when looking at his profile, not to mention the omniscient Cubs cap—is pressing repeatedly on the buzzer.
I almost face-plant into a filthy snowbank; I’m so anxious to hustle to him after paying the driver.
“Jude!”
He glances my way, thumb finally lifting from the button.
I jog closer, nearly losing my balance on the salted sidewalk. I hardly ever wear heels, and running is even more unusual. When exercise sounds appealing, I swim.
Jude appears pleased to see me for approximately two seconds. Then he registers what I’m wearing and immediately frowns.
“What are you doing here?” I ask breathlessly, reaching him.
I tighten the belt of my coat again, but it doesn’t matter that he can’t see my sultry dress. The heels and the coat that he knows I reserve for special occasions—not to mention my arriving home at this hour—suggest plenty.
“What are you doing?” Jude sounds hurt, not angry, which is worse. “You only waited two weeks to move on?”
I don’t know how best to answer that, so I don’t.
It’s not just Jude. All of my past relationships share a pattern of ending whenever Lev visits Chicago.
Jude scoffs in response to my silence, shoving his hands into his pockets. Waiting for an explanation—exactly what I don’t want him to do. I want him to leave so I can sneak upstairs before Isabella wakes and asks where I was all night.
I yank my belt a third time, wincing as the wind nips at my bare legs, waiting too. For him to give up, for him to go home. I was honest when we ended; I just withheld one (major) reason why.
For a long time, I thought I was a decent person.
I hold my arm out when someone’s rushing to the elevator.
I coordinate extra practices with my fellow violinists to ensure everyone performs at their best. I donate a large portion of my income to charitable organizations that need it more than I do.
I’m starting to think I might be a terrible human being. At the very least, I inherited more damaging traits from my father than I thought.
Like hurting those who don’t deserve it.
“Did you sleep with someone else?” Jude asks.
I hate the audible hope in his voice, encouraging a negative answer.
Hate my utter lack of regret even more. I am terrible, I decide, as I nod.
His face falls.
“I’m sorry,” I say, which feels like a false truth. Or a limited lie.
I am sorry I hurt him. I should have broken up with Jude the same day Lev messaged. I waited longer to end it than I had before. I checked the store’s return policy when I bought this dress. I tried to convince myself I could be the type of person who changed patterns.
But I am not sorry I stayed the same. I don’t regret any part of last night.
“Great. You’re sorry. That’s—that really helps.” Jude clicks his tongue. Shakes his head.
“We broke up,” I remind him because he’s sort of acting like he forgot.
“Two weeks ago! Where did you even meet this guy?” Jude demands.
I sigh. “Nowhere. I—I’ve known him a long time.”
“How long?”
“Twelve years.”
Jude’s open mouth snaps shut, whatever he was planning to say no longer applicable. “You never mentioned a serious ex,” he finally says.
I’m not sure I should have mentioned it just now.
I never discuss Lev with anyone. Of all the secrets I keep, he’s the most closely guarded.
But Jude is an assistant mathematics professor from Wisconsin who reads books on obscure theorems for fun and spends his spare time strategizing about obtaining tenure.
If I shared more details about Lev than how long I’d known him, Jude would certainly think I was kidding.
“I thought it was over.” A total lie this time.
But I can’t say you never asked because Jude did.
He comes from a large, loving family, one I would have happily been welcomed into if I’d made different decisions.
Jude never understood why I avoided talking about my parents.
He doesn’t know I have three brothers. And he definitely isn’t aware of the reason my family situation is so complicated.
“So, you dated me as—as what? A consolation prize?”
I dated Jude because he was normal. Because it staved off some loneliness. Because going out with the cute, bespectacled academic who came to three performances in a row before asking me to dinner seemed like what Carina Carson would do.
If only I were her for real, not only on forged documents.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “Goodbye, Jude.”
He doesn’t reply as I pass him and enter my building’s lobby.
I’m living a lie, and relationships are best built around honesty.
But the real reason my love life remains a series of failures?
Is somewhere in this city.
And impossibly far away in every way that matters.