“Yeah, well. I know I’m not blameless. It was my choice to keep sleeping with you. I knew you were with Diana.”
“So you’re letting me off the hook?”
“What hook? There was never a hook with us.”
“Maybe that’s true. I’ve just always been so attracted to you.” He sighed, blowing a stream of smoke into the air.
“I know. I was so attracted to you, too. It was ridiculous.”
“It was a little ridiculous.” He laughed. “I don’t know what it is about you. About you and me.”
You and me.
“That school is a shit show,” he continued. “It wasn’t always good for me. I think I had to graduate for my own sanity. I’ll miss it like hell, but I couldn’t do another year.”
“I know what you mean. It’s not a lifestyle.”
“No way. It’s fun as fuck, but, at a certain point . . .”
“It becomes unsustainable.”
“Yeah,” he said. “It changed me. All the messed-up shit . . . A lot of people probably look back and laugh about their college years and what they did, think of it as this stuff they got out of their systems, but I’m not proud of it. It’s one of the reasons I wanted to see you. There are things I need to tell you.”
I leaned back into the seat, suctioned, feeling too high. I wanted to sober up so I could appreciate this night in all its perfection.
“Yeah?” I laughed. “I’m high. But tell me.”
“I’m high, too.” He smiled, laughing, his eyes shiny. “But I mean every word of this, okay? For the record. Don’t listen to me when I’m drunk, but when I’m stoned I actually make more sense.”
“Okay. Tell me.”
The Kiss Me Kate bobbed in the water. I was so happy I thought my joy might lift me right up out of the seat and fly me over Long Island Sound.
“Lucy.” Stephen took my hand in his. “I really liked you. Remember how many times I asked you out when I first met you?”
“I remember. A few times.” I smiled, stoned.
“I just . . . I had this relationship with Diana that I thought was over, and then it just wasn’t. Me going back to her wasn’t about you. I want you to know that. We’d just been together for so long. And all my friends and all her friends were always telling us we needed to ‘work it out, work it out, work it out,’ and I felt like I was supposed to work it out with her. I dunno. But I want you to know that we broke up after graduation. For good.”
My fingers were getting too hot; I removed my hand from his.
“Luce.” I could feel his eyes on me, but I suddenly couldn’t bring myself to look at him. I stared ahead at the dark sea. I knew what was going to happen, and in my blazed, paranoid state of mind, the part of me that wasn’t overjoyed was afraid. I just needed to not be high.
“I didn’t know if I would come tonight,” I said. “I almost canceled.” It was such a bad lie I wanted to laugh out loud.
“Look at me,” he said.
“I can’t.”
“Look at me.”
“Just give me a second.”
Stephen took my chin in his hand and turned it to face him. My spine went to hot glue.
“Lucy.” His mouth was centimeters from my face. “I miss you, and I really fucking mean that. I’m so sorry about everything. Can we give this another shot? Can you do that?”
There it was. Everything I had wanted to hear, lying on a silver platter. I sensed the hope that would spring back into my system as soon as the weed wore off, the possibilities of the months ahead, the attraction I could surrender to completely without feeling horrible and weak, the happiness I could have.
“Can I tell you the truth, Stephen?” Aside from making me paranoid, pot turns me into someone who needs to tell the whole stupid truth.
“Of course.”
“Sleeping with you at school was so hard for me. Sleeping with you and then seeing you with her. It killed me.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, I do. Because I know you, and I know that you wouldn’t have done that unless you really cared about it. About me. But what I’m trying to get you to understand is that I cared about you, too. I care about you. I just had the Diana shit to deal with and I’m sorry. I’ll keep apologizing if you want me to.”
“The Diana shit. That’s nice. I’m sure she’d appreciate that.”
“Oh, come on. You sound like her, you know.”
“Don’t downplay your relationship with Diana because you want me.” I stood, feeling oddly strong. Like I could say anything and not lose him.
“I’m not. I want you because I want you. It’s a separate thing.” He stood, too, his eyes locking mine from above. “I think—I’ve always thought—that I could love you, Lucy. That I could love you more than I ever loved Diana. Maybe our timing has just been fucked.”
I froze in my stance, the words branded into the foundation of each emerging thought: that I could love you . . .
His eyes were heavy on mine in the darkness. The breeze smelled like weed and brine and gasoline. The physical act of wanting him caused my chest to tilt forward, toward him, a magnetic current pulling me there.
He was a good four or five inches taller than me. I studied the contours of his face in the dark, the way his hair grew in wavy pieces, well below his ears. He was handsome, I could never say he wasn’t.
“You need a haircut,” I said.
“You in the black bikini at Lake Mead,” he started, ignoring me. “The first time we met. Do you know how often I think about that day? I remember you exactly. You had this funny expression on your face, like you thought I must be kidding, trying to talk to you.”
Consciousness was pulling me back into myself. With my next exhale the air tilted, and I felt one notch closer to the sober ground.
He stepped forward and kissed me, holding the sides of my face, and as I parted my mouth to let him I let the happiness flood in, too, and I felt whole again.
We had sex on the seat of the Kiss Me Kate, because we always had sex, no matter where we were. It was something I loved about him—his relentless attraction to me was absurd and intoxicating.
Afterward I curled my fingers through the hair at the base of his neck, just above the dip, his big palms spread over my bare back. I would’ve stayed like that forever.
“I got you something for your birthday,” he whispered. I slid off him and he reached down beside the seat and handed me the other paper bag.
The brown paper crinkled as I peeled it back. Inside was the Beatles’ “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” poster, the edges frayed. The purple and orange image was of a girl (Lucy), with long hair morphing into an image of the four Beatles.
“Where did you get this?”
“A flea market in Brooklyn. It’s a cool spot; you’d like it. We’ll go sometime.”
I ran my fingers over the imperfect surface of the poster. I looked up at him, elation filling every inch of me.
“It’s perfect. Thank you.”
He kissed me again, his hair tickling my cheeks. He pulled me back onto his lap. His body was thick and familiar, but I would never get tired of it. I wanted him even when I had him. Too much wasn’t enough. We had sex again, on the seat of the bobbing boat, under the stars, leather and salt and sweat brewing around us in the night.
28
STEPHEN
AUGUST 2012
I’d forgotten that August in Manhattan is sweltering as hell. It felt like a bonfire under my ass at all times; the heat literally rose up through my body. I’m a fairly sweaty person to begin with, but in August in New York in a suit, I may as well be a fucking snowman melting into the sidewalk—and having gone to college in Southern California, that’s saying something. The air-conditioning at work was motivation enough to get out of bed in the morning. Luke broke our AC unit and fled to Kathleen’s for arctic shelter—the bastard.
When Lucy slept over the other night she didn’t complain, but she probably
liked the heat wave since she weighs about ten pounds and is always cold. I, on the other hand, had trouble staying hard because I was so goddamn uncomfortable. It was like trying to fuck someone in a sauna. But then I fixed my eyes on Lucy on top of me, and I can always come with Lucy.
She was leaving to go back to Baird soon and was worried we weren’t spending enough time together—the quintessential girl worry. But Diana was supposed to arrive this weekend for the visit we’d planned at the beginning of the summer. I hadn’t seen her since the day after graduation, and though we weren’t technically together, the weekend was already scheduled. We had dinner reservations and her mom had even bought us tickets to see Wicked on Broadway—backing out of the Diana weekend was not an option. Plus, I was sort of excited to see her. Despite her disconnect from my new life in New York and the city in general, Diana knew me better than almost anyone; her familiarity was a comfort I missed.
I spun around in my swivel desk chair. Another monotonous Monday in the cubicle. The overcast sky drizzled humid rain outside, which I couldn’t see from my desk but knew from my walk to work that morning. I’m always the moron who forgets an umbrella and has to buy a five-dollar shit one from a Chinese man on the corner. Rain was a good sign, though. I hoped it would break the heat.
I squinted at the half-finished report. Boredom encumbered me. My eyes ached from staring at numbers on the computer screen. I glanced down at my cell. Lucy probably thought I was an asshole after our conversation. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see her before she left for California. Lucy and Diana and work ran in parallel universes; I simply didn’t have enough time for all of them, so I skipped between them, like three treadmills running side by side, giving each what I could when I could. I picked up my office phone. She liked it when I called from work—she said she liked picturing me at a desk in a crisp suit performing grown-up research analyst tasks.
Her voice was scratchy. “Mm hey.”
“Were you asleep?”
“I just got up.”
“It’s past ten.”
“So? I’m having coffee in bed.”
“Get going, lazy girl. Don’t you have Vanity Fair today?”
“My internship ended last week, remember? Stop lecturing me.”
“What are you wearing?”
“Stephen.” Lucy consistently feigned frustration with me, but I knew she liked the honed attention with its sensual nuances. I pictured her in an oversize T-shirt and underwear, her chopstick legs stretched out long under tangled sheets. Her lip dipping into hot coffee.
“Well, sorry for bothering you, Luce. I’ll leave you be.”
“Mm . . . don’t go yet.”
“Why? You want something?”
“What are you wearing?”
“A suit that is basically soaking wet because of how much I’m sweating.” I waited for her laugh, which came earnestly.
“Well, let’s do something this weekend. I’ll come in on Friday. We can go hear Lydia’s boyfriend’s band in the West Village.”
Lucy was always trying to get me to spend time with her friends, but around them I just felt uncomfortable. Like an outsider who didn’t own enough Vineyard Vines.
“The Trinity golf player is in a band?”
“Or we can just hang at yours,” she sighed. “I’ll cook.”
“You don’t cook.”
“Fine, we’ll go out.”
“Can you come in before Friday? I think I have to work this weekend.”
“I’m babysitting all week.”
“Babysitting for who?”
“Some friend of a friend of CJ’s who’s in town for the week. Her kids. I already said I’d do it and I don’t have a night off until Friday. You have to work Friday night?”
Friday night. Diana would land at six with her neon green L.L.Bean duffel and she would stay until Sunday evening. Two nights. Diana jokes and Diana hair in my drain and Diana cuddles and easy Diana talks and Diana sex.
“Well, yeah,” I said. “I have that big report due. I told you.”
“Why are you being a dick?”
“I’m not being a dick.”
She mumbled something.
“I’ll call you later. We’ll figure something out. Finish your coffee, sleepyhead.” I hung up the phone, pinching my sinuses at the predicament.
I’d genuinely enjoyed Lucy’s company all summer. We’d become a sort of couple, oddly enough. She stayed at my place some weeknights after her internship, and most Fridays and Saturdays. We’d have long, lazy weekend dinners followed by hours in bed. Twice I took her out to the beach house in Westhampton, on rare weekends when the occupancy was low.
Lucy and I squabbled so that we could fix it; the fights she picked weren’t as dramatic as Diana’s, but she liked to pick them so that she could nestle into my lap once they were resolved. Her marred interior required fresh rounds of validation. Our cat-and-mouse game was a routine we’d locked down, and the chemistry ensued.
She was a beautiful thing to have on my arm, everyone thought so, including Lucy. She undoubtedly understood the caliber of her attractiveness, evident in the skimpy clothes she often wore and the pouts she gave waiters after asking too many questions about the menu. Her behavior sometimes reminded me of Kathleen’s; it was the universal way of the pretty girl, and I’d started to find it bothersome.
The workday dragged on. Right when I thought I could leave work at a reasonable hour Gary poked his big sweaty face inside my cubicle.
“How’s that report coming along, DeMarco? I’ll need a copy on my desk before you leave today. Coolio?”
Gary was always saying moronic things like coolio and chuckling to himself.
I nodded and flashed him the fakest grin, suppressing the urge to add that it would’ve been helpful to have known the deadline earlier. Sometimes there’s just no fucking point.
The report took me five more hours to finish and when I finally left work at eleven I had two missed calls from Diana. I texted her saying that I would call when I got home. It was still too damn hot to take the subway, so I sprang for a cab. The lights were still on in the Fairway next to my apartment, so I bought a premade lasagna, the frozen kind you heat up. Maybe Luke would be hungry. He’d texted me earlier saying that he would be home that night and not doing Kathleen’s laundry for a change. He said he had news.
Unfortunately Kathleen was there when I opened the door; I could smell her perfume before I even stepped into the room—she bathed herself in the stuff. As usual, the apartment felt like a furnace. The lovebirds sat side by side on the couch, drinking rosé and watching that movie where Diane Lane wanders around vineyards in Tuscany alone and cries a lot. Luke paused the film when I entered the room, and the two of them looked at me with wild, elated expressions, as if they were on ecstasy at a rave and not sitting on the couch watching a low-rate romantic comedy produced for middle-aged divorced women.
“What?” I muttered. I didn’t intend to sound grumpy, but it had been a long motherfucking day and I was not in the mood for some Kathleen spiel about how she’d discovered a recipe for low-fat artichoke dip or had bought Luke a $500 jacket half off.
I’d barely set my briefcase down when Kathleen flung out her skinny little arm, her hand weighed down by something glistening on her finger.
My stomach cramped. No.
“We’re engaged!” Kathleen squealed. Next to her, Luke beamed like a moron.
I wanted to turn around and run out the door, but I was forced to put on my happy face. “Wow! Kath! Luke!” I leaned down and kissed her on the cheek, nearly gagging on a whiff of perfume in the process. “Congratulations, guys. Tell me how it happened.”
Kathleen didn’t spare a detail as she swung her dark glossy ponytail from me to Luke. I poured myself a strong drink and stuck the lasagna in the freezer; I was barely hungry anymore in light of this disturbing information. I understand why people get married—I’m not at all against marriage. I plan to get married in five or six years, cer
tainly. What bothered me about Luke and Kathleen, though, was the way they preached their unique need for each other, as though they’d both be miserable in their lives if they hadn’t happened to meet. Because they “complete each other.” The reality is, you just need someone to team up with. Marriage is a business deal, essentially. You save money on things like taxes and health insurance, you obtain a sense of security and social normality, and, of course, every man needs a woman to carry his children. I’ll probably just marry whoever I’m dating when I’m twenty-seven or twenty-eight and call it a day—it doesn’t really matter who the chick is, if you think about it. It’s just about taking that next step in your own life. There’s no way I’m gonna be some loner who’s still single when he’s thirty.
I drank my Scotch too quickly as I half listened to Kathleen blabber on and on about how she’d suspected Luke had bought a ring for numerous reasons, but how he’d done such a great job of hiding it from her, and how earlier that day when they’d met for lunch at her favorite restaurant, he’d knelt down and popped the question.
“He was going to do it over the weekend, but he said he couldn’t wait!” Kathleen shrieked, gazing down at the rock on her left hand.
Luke interlocked his fingers in hers and smiled. “It’s true. I couldn’t wait another second. And I wanted to make Monday better.”
I thought I might hurl. I excused myself to my room and said that I had to make a phone call, which was true.
I turned the fan in my room on full blast and stuck my face directly in front of the cold air. Diana picked up on the second ring.
“Finally.”
The familiar sound of her voice was a comfort. I glanced at my alarm clock. It was almost midnight, which meant it was just before eleven in Milwaukee. Diana was probably reading in bed. I pictured her in boxers and an old tee, a glass of seltzer fizzing on her bedside table.
“Sorry. Work was busy as hell and then right when I got home Luke told me he’s engaged.”
“Whoa. To Kathleen?”
“Who else.”
“That’s crazy.”
“I know.”
“You don’t sound happy.”
Tell Me Lies Page 22
