“I’m leaving,” she tried again while buckling her belt.
Did it matter if she said goodbye? Would Katie be upset by waking up and finding her gone?
Cassidy didn’t leave notes for girls to wake up to. Maybe she’d send a text a day or two later, but usually not even that. It was better to keep their expectations low right off the bat. But Cassidy was having trouble treating Katie like any other girl.
Shoes tied, good to go, Cassidy noticed an envelope on Katie’s dresser, some presorted piece of junk mail from Time Warner. Not far off was a ballpoint pen.
Cassidy scribbled a quick note on the back of the envelope, Sweet dreams. Talk to you tomorrow.—C, and left it on Katie’s nightstand.
No one could ever know about this.
* * *
The next day Cassidy was a rocket, propelling herself through her work with a singular purpose—to get back to Katie.
With her suit jacket hung on the back of her chair, dress shirt sleeves rolled up to her elbows, an outside observer might have thought she’d snorted a line of coke for breakfast the way she ricocheted from office to conference room to office as the head lawyer on a new deal.
On a pit stop at the printer, she encountered her nemesis.
“Whoa, where’s the fire?” Hamlin was dunk, dunk, dunking his damn Lipton tea bag in his glass mug, on his way from the office kitchen back to his desk. “Don’t you know the story about the tortoise and the hare? Slow and steady wins the race.”
DRINK COFFEE, Cassidy wanted to say to him.
“Did you get my email about that issue with Deutsche?” Hamlin asked, still dunking.
“I did,” Cassidy said. “And I emailed you back.”
“Oh, you did? Great. What did you write back?”
Cassidy homed in on the collar pin propping up Hamlin’s tie knot. YOU LOOK LIKE A WIMPY VERSION OF GORDON GEKKO, she wanted to say.
“I’m kind of in the middle of something here.” Cassidy wrested her document from the printer and stepped past him. No, not even Hamlin could bring her down today. “Maybe you can just go read the email,” she said.
Back at her desk, Cassidy kept her cell phone out where she could see it as she marked up her document, jotting notes, drawing arrows, crossing out redundant words, and slashing erroneous commas. Every text Katie sent her was fuel. Every text she returned was oxygen.
The sex last night had been good, even better than Cassidy had expected, though it was hard to say why. Cassidy had done all the doing, of course. So what made it any different from all the other times with countless other women? Cassidy reflected on this while perusing an addendum to her document. It must have been how much she wanted it. How she’d been trying to fight it. Plus, their chemistry was undeniable. Cassidy had felt that right away, and it had proved true, even with Katie’s tentativeness once they really got rolling, that split second when Katie seemed to almost panic—no, not panic, but stiffen. Cassidy signed off on the addendum. The way she’d had to ease Katie into it, adjust her touch, careful not to overwhelm her with anything unexpected, had only turned Cassidy on more. And then, how Katie had opened up to her—reimagining it now made Cassidy frantic. If she couldn’t see Katie again tonight she might spontaneously combust.
But as the hours ticked by, their plans for dinner had to be pushed back to plans for drinks. And then plans for drinks were foiled by a last-minute client request.
Of all the nights to get stuck working late, she texted Katie at ten p.m. Why???
By the time Cassidy wrestled on her overcoat and headed for the elevator, Katie had already gone to bed, and she was too exhausted by her own disappointment to even swing by the Met—and that was really saying something. There were few ailments Metropolis couldn’t soothe.
As she exited her office building, she checked her phone one last time to make sure Katie hadn’t miraculously woken up and texted a booty call.
She had missed a text—but it was from Becky. Where you at? Haven’t seen you since I made fifty bucks off your make-out sesh at the bbq.
Cassidy wrote back, Just out of work. Not making it to Met tonight.
It’s dead tonight anywayz, Becky wrote. Come to my place. I’ll cook you dinner.
Cassidy checked her watch and wrote back, It’s midnight.
A midnight snack then.
Thanks, but I’m gonna head home. Cassidy looked up and down the street for a taxi.
Come on, Becky wrote. I miss your prettyboy face. I’ll make you my special grilled cheese . . . Just went to Murray’s this afternoon . . .
Chef Becky’s grilled cheese was no joke, a week’s worth of fat and calories in one sitting, but well worth it.
I’m coming, Cassidy wrote back.
You will be when you get a load of my Gruyère . . .
Don’t make me change my mind. Cassidy found a cab and climbed in.
She hadn’t been to Becky’s in a while. Back in the day, her apartment had been a constant. Their whole crew would get wasted at the Met, pick up girls, bring them around the block in a wild parade to Becky’s. Becky would cook, games would be played—spin the bottle, strip Street Fighter—and sometimes a threesome or foursome, or fivesome, sixsome, or sevensome would ensue.
The best nights, though, the ones that really stood out in Cassidy’s memory, were when it was just the two of them hanging out, having a late-night food fest, passing the time like it would last forever.
It was a blast when Gina moved to town and started dating Becky—until they broke up. Then everything got messed up. Cassidy had decided that Gina needed her more than Becky did because Gina was the more broken one, and Becky understood that. But sometimes Cassidy missed how easy their friendship used to be, before all the complications.
Cassidy’s taxi passed the Met just before turning the corner onto Becky’s block, and she couldn’t help but glance to see who might be out front. It was a reflex. No matter what time of day it was—it could be eight in the morning—if Cassidy passed the Met, her head turned. She wasn’t looking for a familiar face. It was more just what people did when they happened upon their home en route to someplace else—and that’s basically what the Met was to Cassidy, a second home.
Out of the car and through the front gate, Cassidy pressed the worn, familiar doorbell on Becky’s building and waited to be buzzed in.
She climbed the three flights up—those same rickety wooden stairs with the same loose step that always scared her half to death—and found the apartment door open. Becky was already grating a brick of cheese into a snowy pile when she stepped inside.
“Welcome, welcome, welcome.” Becky blew her a kiss. “Make yourself at home.”
Becky’s apartment was mostly kitchen—pots and pans hanging from the ceiling, towering stacks of giant mixing bowls, industrial shelves packed with menacing appliances, and an oven she had special-ordered. Since her brief brush with fame, the place was also littered with promotional items from her season on Knife Fight.
Cassidy shrugged off her coat and approached the life-size cardboard cutout of herself that Becky had displayed in the living room. In the cutout she was wearing a white blood-smeared apron and a navy blue bandana around her head. She was standing with one foot in front of the other, one arm pointing out and the other raised alongside her head, ready to throw a giant chef’s knife.
Cassidy gave it a tap on the forehead. “Still have your own doppelgänger as your roommate, I see.”
“I’m thinking of sending her on the road to promote the new restaurant.” Becky continued to grate. “Sort of like a Flat Stanley meets Amélie’s gnome, meets Guy Fieri. How do you feel about me adding prosciutto to this?”
“Go crazy.” Cassidy untied her oxfords and kicked them off.
“Want a drink?”
“I do if this is an intervention,” Cassidy said.
“Help your
self to the good scotch.” Becky pointed with her knife toward her bar cart.
“Damn it. I knew this sandwich was going to cost me.” Cassidy trudged over to the cart to pour herself a glass of something strong. “Let me guess, you want to talk to me about Katie.”
“I like Katie,” Becky said. “I’m a big fan, in fact. She’s our age. She’s not married to a man. She’s beautiful. Smart.”
“She’s not that straight,” Cassidy interjected.
“Smart. I said smart.”
“You were going to say straight next.” Drink in hand, Cassidy plopped down on the couch across from cardboard Becky.
Becky’s pile of grated cheese was now a small mountain. “What I was going to say next was sweet. And anyway I saw her kissing you. I’m not buying it that she’s all that straight.”
“Gina doesn’t like her,” Cassidy said.
“Gina’s only trying to protect you. She can see how much you like this girl, and she doesn’t want you to get hurt. Personally, I think Katie can be good for you.” Becky sliced her way through a thick loaf of Pullman bread. “I’ve known you for what, seven years now?”
“That can’t be right.” Cassidy lay horizontally across the couch, resting her drink on her stomach.
“It is right.” Becky slapped a hunk of butter on one of the slices of bread. “You were just out of NYU when we met; you hadn’t even started law school. Now you’re thirty. I turn thirty next year. You, me, and Dahlia, now we’re like the goddamn elders. Of our original group, have you not noticed that we’re the only three left? Everyone else either aged out, coupled off, or got sober.”
“Is this supposed to make me want to kill myself?” Cassidy said. “If so, you’re doing a great job.”
Becky swirled some olive oil around her frying pan. “I’m just making the point that for years I’ve watched you fuck around with every piece of tail that stepped into that bar. I’ve seen girls throw drinks in your face, throw glasses at the wall beside your head, throw themselves at me just to spite you. And you’d just continue on, all la-di-da, barely flinching. For a while there I was convinced you were actually a sociopath.”
“Where you going with this, Chef?”
Becky covered her sizzling sandwich and took a step back from the stove. “Even the girls you dated for a few months, it was obvious it wouldn’t last. And the ones you could have had something real with, you never gave them the time of day. But Katie’s different. I can see it in the way you look at her.”
“Oh, give me a goddamn break.”
“Go ahead, pretend you’re playing it cool. Your act doesn’t work on me.” Becky flipped her sandwich and re-covered the pan. “You forget that I know what’s going on below the façade. I know how soft you are beneath there.”
“Okay, you know what?” Cassidy sat up. “Just because I cried that one time we did shrooms doesn’t mean you can see into my soul.”
“Ha. I’d forgotten about that. But you’re wrong. I did see into your soul that day.” Becky slid the sandwich out of the pan onto her cutting board. She sliced it in half with a giant knife. “We’re not so different, you and me. Sure, you’re taller, thinner, richer, and more handsome, but you’re just as messed up on the inside as I am. And deep down you know that no matter how hard you work out, how healthy you eat, how expensive your skin care regimen is, no amount of upkeep is stopping time.” Becky slid both halves of the sandwich onto a plate. “I think it’s time for both of us to start thinking about the future.”
“Is this seriously why you lured me over tonight?” Cassidy said.
Becky walked the plate over to Cassidy and set it down on the table in front of her. “Eat these carbs. I promise they’ll make you feel better.”
“I felt fine till I came here.”
“I have some bad news.” Becky grabbed the bottle of good scotch off her bar cart and then joined Cassidy on the couch.
“Oh fuck,” Cassidy said. “Who’s dead?”
Becky unscrewed the bottle and refilled Cassidy’s glass. “Nobody’s dead.”
Cassidy let her gooey sandwich sit untouched on her plate. “Whatever it is, just say it, because you’re scaring the hell out of me right now.”
“Metropolis is closing,” Becky said.
“Again?” Cassidy exhaled with relief. “Because of the board of health? How long will it be this time?”
“No. I mean permanently. Forever.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The lease is up, and the building got sold to developers. They want to convert it to a mixed-use space, retail and apartments, something like that. Dahlia said something about air rights? I don’t even know.”
“Are you making this shit up right now?”
“I wish I were.”
Cassidy’s stomach dropped. “There’s got to be something we can do.”
“I don’t think so,” Becky said. “These developers don’t want a bar there. They don’t want nightlife. They want a live/work environment for people with a lot of money and sticks up their asses. It’s kind of amazing the Met has survived this long.”
“It’s just not right.” Cassidy leaned forward, put her head in her hands. “How soon is this all happening?”
“End of the month.”
“End of the month?!” Cassidy’s head shot back up. “This month? Are you kidding?”
“Eat your sandwich,” Becky said. “It’s getting cold.”
THIRTEEN
Lying naked in Cassidy’s arms felt similar to lying naked in a man’s arms, but the feeling of Cassidy’s bare skin on Katie’s was completely different. It was softer, smoother, and Cassidy smelled cleaner than any man Katie had ever been with. This shouldn’t have been surprising given Cassidy’s elaborate grooming rituals. Katie had seen her bathroom products, her body lotions and facial moisturizers. Of course her skin was soft. Of course she smelled amazing in a way not even the gayest gay man could compete with.
Having sex with Cassidy felt similar to having sex with a man, too, but also entirely different.
After sliding Katie’s pajama bottoms down and off, Cassidy stood at the edge of the bed and undressed herself. Katie watched her unbutton her shirt and throw it to the floor, then pull what looked like a neutral-colored sports bra up and over her head. She let Katie look at her for a few seconds before stepping out of her suit pants. When she climbed back on top of Katie, her gray boxer-briefs clinging to her thighs against Katie’s own low-rise bikini underwear didn’t freak Katie out—it felt familiar. It felt sexy.
Katie was hyper aware of Cassidy’s body against her own, the curve of her chest and stomach, the angle of her hipbones. It was Cassidy’s hands that Katie lost track of, her confident hands, and her warm mouth.
It ended faster than she wanted it to. Before she even realized it was happening, she was digging her fingers into Cassidy’s back, holding her there for just a moment before pushing her away. Then she lay flat, covering her face.
“Are you okay?” Cassidy asked.
Katie nodded, staring straight up at the ceiling. “I’m not sure how this works,” she said. “Am I supposed to do you now?”
“No.” Cassidy wrapped her arm around her. “Now you just relax.”
Cassidy helped her relax by holding her close, grazing her fingers up and down Katie’s arm, inducing her into a trance state like a hypnotist dangling a watch before her eyes.
It was already the middle of the night when Katie rolled over and Cassidy was gone. She remained still for a few minutes, unsure if Cassidy had left or simply gone to the bathroom. If she heard a flush or running water, Katie decided she would close her eyes and feign sleep—play possum. Because snoozing possums never had to account for themselves—they weren’t expected to answer questions or have appropriate reactions, or not freak out for the benefit of the same-sex possum they had just hastily ma
ted with.
After a few more minutes Katie sat up, saw Cassidy’s clothes were gone from the floor, and then noticed a note on her nightstand.
Sweet dreams. Talk to you tomorrow.
Of course they would, but what would Katie say? That she didn’t know what to call this? That she wasn’t sure if it was a crazy rebound, an uncharacteristic acting-out, or a sexual awakening? Or if it was an identity crisis. Or a mistake.
This isn’t me, she might say. This isn’t who I am. But did she know who she was when no one was watching?
The next morning at work Katie kept going to the bathroom to check herself in the mirror. Was there a shine to her eyes that gave her away? Did the color in her cheeks betray her? What about her mouth? Did her lips shimmer in a new wanton way? She brought her face right up to the glass for closer examination, certain that she was somehow broadcasting a change.
Because she did feel changed somehow, like she was hiding something unclean, which was of course ridiculous.
Why should it matter that Cassidy was female? How outmoded it was to feel guilty. But when Cassidy texted to say she was stuck working late and their dinner plans would have to get pushed to after-dinner drinks, the knot that had been pulled taut in Katie’s stomach came undone. She responded with nonchalance. No problem. I know how it is. Keep me posted. But her physical relief was undeniable.
Katie stopped for groceries on her way home and bought ingredients for her mother’s lemon roasted chicken. She craved its familiarity and the smell of comfort it would fill her apartment with. It was one of the first dishes her mother had taught her to prepare, step by step.
“You’ll cook this for a boy one day,” her mother had told her. “And he’ll think you’re a knockout, because he’ll have no clue how easy it is to make.”
Of course Katie had never gotten the chance to dazzle Paul Michael with her roasting skills, because he didn’t eat meat, or butter for that matter, but it remained her go-to recipe whenever she needed to self-soothe.
Katie squeezed the juice from two lemons like everything was just as it had always been. She removed the giblets and neck from the chicken like her entire life hadn’t suddenly come into question.
When Katie Met Cassidy Page 10
