Dating the Devil

by Lia Romeo

  It’s printed in a pink and orange and red pattern, covered with tiny unicorns and elephants and birds which are cavorting across the silk landscape and intertwining with branches and flowers. I reach down to touch it, and the silk slips through my fingers like water.

  Beneath the corner of the scarf is a card in a small white envelope. I open it. I miss you, it says.

  “Well?” Linda says from the inner office. “What is it?”

  I pick up the scarf by the corners and go to stand in the doorway of her office. She whistles. Linda isn’t exactly a fashionista, but it’s impossible not to see how gorgeous the scarf is. “Put it on,” she says.

  I fold the scarf over a couple of times, then knot it casually around my neck. I’m wearing a simple cream-colored sweater, a black skirt and black heels. I look down at myself. Even without a mirror, I can tell that the scarf takes the outfit from boring to fabulous.

  I have to send it back. I can’t keep it. I definitely can’t keep it.

  I look down at myself again, admiring the way the colors complement each other. Maybe I can keep it?

  “So is this from that handsome guy who’s been coming by to take you to lunch?” Linda asks.

  “Um. Yeah.”

  “Lucky girl,” she says. “He’s a keeper.”

  I try to smile.

  AFTER A TRIP to the bathroom to admire the scarf in the mirror (it brings a rosy glow to my cheeks and makes my outfit look effortlessly stylish . . . would it send completely the wrong message if I were to keep it?) and another two hours spent digging out my desk, I finally turn on my computer and check my email.

  To: ILoveLucy32345@yahoo.com

  From: Lewis.Mephisto@gmail.com

  5:14 am

  [No Subject]

  Lucy,

  This has happened before. Every time I meet a woman I really enjoy spending time with, she finds out the truth eventually, and then she can’t handle it. I thought—I hoped—that maybe you were different, that maybe you could accept me for who I am.

  —Lewis

  I minimize my email and work on a press release for forty-five minutes, and then Linda goes out to lunch with Abdul and I pull the email back up and begin composing a reply.

  To: Lewis.Mephisto@gmail.com

  From: ILoveLucy32345@yahoo.com

  11:54 a.m.

  Re: [No Subject]

  Lewis,

  I know that you’re just trying to convince me to start spending time with you again so that you can keep trying to talk me into doing something horrible. But it’s not going to work. I can see through your lies, and no matter how many expensive gifts you send me, it’s not going to change that.

  I stop typing and hit the backspace button until the text of the email disappears. Too angry. Too hurt. I try again.

  Lewis,

  This has happened to me before, too. Every time I get involved with a guy who seems perfect, it turns out he’s been lying to me about something incredibly important . . . like he’s been cheating on me with one of his coworkers . . . or he likes to watch gay porn . . . or he’s SATAN.

  I stop typing and start hitting the backspace button again. I need something that sounds indifferent. Firm, but indifferent.

  Lewis,

  I don’t want to talk to you. Or hear from you. Please do not try to contact me again.

  —Lucy

  P.S. Thanks for the scarf.

  I’m not sure about the P.S., but it seems too ungracious not to thank him, since—if I’m being honest with myself—there’s no way I’m not going to keep it. I hit the send button quickly, before I can second-guess myself again. I need to stop thinking about Lewis and concentrate on work.

  Of course, this proves impossible for the rest of the afternoon, as I can’t stop checking my email to see if he’s ignored my request and written me back. By six-fifteen, when I leave for the day, he hasn’t. By six-thirty-six, when I get home and log in on my laptop, he still hasn’t. By eight-oh-two, he still hasn’t, and that’s when I decide that the only thing that’s going to keep me from checking my email every five minutes for the rest of the night is to go out again. Mel has already staggered through the door, kicked off her heels, and passed out in her bedroom, but when I call Nat she’s more than game. She tells me to meet her at the Blind Tiger in forty-five minutes.

  Three hours and three microbrews later, I’m having sex with a lawyer. His name is Jason—or possibly James. My name, for tonight at least, is Clarissa. Jason or possibly James has turned out to be an excellent kisser, and even better with his tongue below the belt, and Clarissa is enjoying herself more than she’d expected. It’s still nothing like being with Lewis, but Clarissa doesn’t want to think about being with Lewis, which is why she’s having sex with Jason or possibly James.

  Jason or possibly James lives in a loft in Soho with a huge plate glass window, and while they’re having sex on his couch, Clarissa is looking over his shoulder and wondering whether looking out at the city lights while having sex with someone whose name she doesn’t even know is more or less lonely than looking out at the city lights alone. She can’t decide, but by the time Jason or possibly James gives her twenty dollars for cab fare and a kiss goodnight, she’s too exhausted to keep thinking about it, and when she gets home she falls immediately asleep.

  – 12 –

  WEDNESDAY AND Thursday nights, I stay in. I’ve done the one night stand thing—twice—and it hasn’t made me stop thinking about Lewis. In fact, I’m thinking about him more than ever.

  It doesn’t help that the universe seems to be conspiring to remind me of him at every turn. I hear “Devil in a Blue Dress” playing when I stop into H&M on the way home from work, and “Hell’s Bells” blasting from the window of a car going by as I buy a pretzel from a street vendor. A wild-haired homeless woman on the corner of Sixth Avenue holds up a cardboard sign that proclaims: “Satan Is Everywhere!” I want to tell her I’m pretty sure he’s actually just down in the financial district. When I’m flipping channels Thursday night, I come across The Witches of Eastwick. Jack Nicholson makes a handsome devil, but I can’t help thinking that he’s got nothing on the real thing.

  I’m not sure how to stop thinking incessantly about Lewis, but clearly sleeping with strangers is not the answer. So I figure I’ll stay in Friday night, too . . . it’s been a long day at work, it’s raining, and spending the evening on the couch watching Casablanca, which arrived from Netflix three weeks ago and has been sitting on the kitchen counter ever since, sounds more appealing than squeezing myself into an uncomfortable shirt and even more uncomfortable shoes and hitting the town.

  But of course, Natalie’s having none of it. As soon as I walk in the door she jumps up off the couch and hands me a shot glass full of tequila. Another is waiting on the coffee table for Mel.

  “It’s really good,” she says. “Ron went to Mexico last week, and he brought this back for me.”

  “Ron.” I search through my mental files. “Is he the pilot, or the engineer?”

  “Neither one,” she says. “He’s the psychologist.”

  “You’re sleeping with your psychologist?”

  “No!” she exclaims, and takes a swallow of tequila straight from the tiny, bright blue bottle. Halfway through, she puts up her finger as if she’s just remembered something. “Wait, yes. I did once. But it was a long time ago.”

  “Natalie!”

  “What?” she says innocently. “Sex can be very therapeutic. Anyway, Ron’s not my psychologist. He’s a different psychologist. We met at a party a couple of weeks ago, and we did it in the bathroom, and he’s been calling me non-stop ever since, which is annoying. But this tequila almost makes up for it.” She grabs the bottle and takes another gulp. “Try some.”

  The smell of the tequila is faintly nauseating, and I set my full shot glass back down. “I don’t think so,” I tell her. “I’m going to stay in tonight.”

  “Nooooo!” Nat wails. “You can’t! There’s like six amazing parti
es we have to go to!”

  Just then, Mel comes in the door, dropping her heavy black bag on the kitchen counter. I’ve hardly seen her all week. But I figure she’s just been working late—that or staying over at Brandon’s. She comes into the living room, and sees the shot glasses sitting on the coffee table. “Tequila?”

  “Awesome tequila,” Nat says.

  “Awesome.” Mel grabs her glass, tosses it back, then grabs mine and drinks that one too. “So where are we going tonight?”

  “Everywhere,” Nat says. “Except Lucy is being a loser and saying she doesn’t want to come.”

  “Come on!” Mel says. “You have to go out on Friday night!”

  “Pleeeeeaaaaase,” Nat wheedles. “I’ll let you carry my baby Gucci.”

  Nat’s “baby Gucci” is a tiny black sequined clutch, barely large enough to hold a lipstick and a credit card, which cost two thousand dollars. I covet it desperately.

  “And I’ll do your makeup,” Mel says. “I’ll give you really smoky eyes.”

  “Fine,” I tell them. “I’ll go out. But I’m not drinking any tequila.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Nat says. “It’s almost gone anyhow.” She pours the dregs of the tiny bottle into two of the shot glasses, and she and Mel toss the shots back.

  “Wait!” Mel says. “I’ve got something even better.” She goes into the kitchen, rummages in the back of the fridge, and comes out with a bottle of Dom Perignon.

  “Wait a minute,” I say, “isn’t that the bottle you and Brandon are saving for your engagement party?” They got engaged in August, but they want to have the party at Le Cirque, and the first date they could book it was in December.

  “It’s all right,” she says. “We can buy another one or something.”

  She pops the cork and it goes flying across the living room, narrowly missing Natalie’s head. Nat shrieks, and champagne begins spilling out of the bottle onto the carpet. Quickly, Mel tips the bottle back into her mouth and drinks until it stops fizzing. “Whew!” she exclaims. “Glasses?”

  Nat runs into the kitchen and grabs three champagne flutes. “Um. Are you sure you want to drink your engagement champagne tonight?” I ask Mel.

  “Well, it’s open, so now we have to,” she replies cheerfully, and pours it into the glasses. I don’t know much about champagne, but even I can tell this is delicious—fizzy and tart, each bubble seeming to pop individually on the tongue.

  An hour later, smoky eye makeup applied and Nat’s baby Gucci clutched firmly in hand, I’m sitting at the bar at Vinoteca. We’ve decided to stop in here to get a bite to eat before we hit the town. I’m still (mostly) sober, having had only a glass of champagne at the house and half a glass of wine at the bar, when a guy in a suit comes over to invite Natalie—“and your friends”—to join him and his friends at their table.

  There are three of them—all stockbrokers, all wearing suits—and they have a few plates of appetizers and a couple of bottles of chianti. The one closest to me has short brown hair and blue eyes and reminds me a little of Lewis, which is probably why I smile and bat my eyes at him when he offers me a glass of wine. I make it through about half the glass, laughing and flirting with the brown-haired stockbroker, and then . . . well, and then I don’t remember anything for the rest of the night.

  Mel and Nat tell me the next day that they feel terrible for not realizing what was happening. They tell me I grabbed the stockbroker and told him to dance with me, but since there were too many tables and chairs in the way (it being, after all, a wine bar and not a disco), I climbed up on top of one of the tables and started dancing on it. And then I took off my shirt and started whipping it in circles around my head . . . which was the point at which management politely asked me to leave.

  They tell me they tried to take me home, but I literally beat them off with my fists, insisting I was going home with the stockbroker. They asked me a couple of times if I was sure that was what I wanted to do, and when I said yes, they made sure he got me into a cab, then went back inside to finish off the bottle of chianti.

  As for me . . . the next morning, I wake up in a bed that I immediately realize is not my own. For one thing, it’s a king, and my closet can only accommodate a full. For another thing, the sheets are black, not white. And also, there’s a half-naked, brown-haired man sleeping next to me. He’s turned away, so I can’t see his face, but I figure it’s got to be the guy I vaguely remember flirting with at the wine bar last night. But why can’t I remember anything else that happened?

  And then he rolls over, still sleeping, and I see that it’s not the stockbroker from the wine bar. It’s Lewis.

  – 13 –

  AS SOON AS I see him, the rest of his bedroom comes into focus—black sheets, teak bedposts, giant plate glass window with a view of lower Manhattan—and I wonder why I didn’t recognize it before. I’ve certainly woken up here enough times . . . though I have no idea how I came to do so on this particular morning.

  Maybe I called him when I was drunk last night? But I’d deleted his number, and no matter how drunk I was (extremely, judging by my complete lack of recollection, though I can’t remember having more than two drinks), I couldn’t quite believe I would have done that.

  Maybe we ran into each other at a bar and ended up going home together? That seems more plausible. But did we have sex? I look down at myself—I’m wearing the sequined silver top I went out in last night, though some of the sequins have fallen off in the bed. My jeans are nowhere to be seen, but I still have my thong on . . . and my bra, I verify with a quick check. So maybe we didn’t.

  Well, whatever happened, it was a mistake . . . a big mistake . . . and I need to get out of here before Lewis wakes up. I sit up, carefully swinging my legs over the edge of the bed to the floor. I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck . . . and I look like it, I realize when I look in the mirror over the matching teak dresser. My smoky eye makeup has ended up smudged all over my face, my hair is tangled, and my skin has a sickly undertone of green. I really need to get out of here before Lewis wakes up.

  My jeans, it turns out, are neatly folded in the corner, and Nat’s baby Gucci (thank God I didn’t lose it!) is sitting on top of them, along with one—only one—of my black heels. The other one must have ended up in a bar or a gutter somewhere. I squeeze on my jeans, button them, pick up the purse and the heel, and gently ease open the bedroom door.

  “Lucy, wait,” Lewis says from behind me.

  Shit. I take a second to rub at the smears of mascara under my eyes and run my hands through my tangled hair, then turn around. He’s sitting up in bed, shirtless, looking at me. “What do you want?”

  “I just—” he says, and pauses, searching for words. “I’m not going to ask you to stay—or talk—or anything like that. I just want to ask you to be more careful.”

  More careful?

  “If I hadn’t been there last night . . .” he continues.

  What happened last night? I want to ask, but I don’t want to admit that I was too drunk to remember.

  “I—” He pauses, briefly at a loss for words again, then shrugs. “I don’t want to see you get hurt,” he says, sounding almost surprised himself by the admission.

  “Why would you care?” The bitter words are out before I can stop them. I don’t want to get in a fight, I just want to leave . . . except that my mouth evidently thinks otherwise. “It’s not like you care about me. It’s not like you ever did.”

  “How can you even think that?” he asks, sounding genuinely hurt. “If I hadn’t been there—what that guy would have done—”

  “What guy?” I ask. “Are you talking about the stockbroker?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  “I, um—” I look down, biting my lip. “I must have had too much to drink.”

  “You didn’t drink too much,” he says. “You were roofied.”

  “What?” But I suddenly realize it makes a lot of sense. It would explain the fact that I’d apparently be
en blackout drunk, though all I could remember drinking was a glass of champagne and a glass of wine. I’d never been too drunk to remember anything. “How do you know?” I ask him.

  “I saw it.”

  “What? You were there?”

  “No. It’s a—a kind of power I have. I can see when people are about to do certain things . . . bad things . . . the kind of things that will send them to Hell.”

  “So you could see that he was about to . . .”

  “Rape you.” Lewis’ jaw is clenched. “And I could go and stop him.”

  “You did that?” Lewis nods. “How?”

  “Well, I went to his apartment—”

  “He let you in?”

  “No.” He gives me a small, almost embarrassed smile. “I broke the door down. And then I picked you up and put you over my shoulder and carried you out of there.”

  I’m silent for a minute, trying to take all of this in. He could be lying, of course, but what he’s saying makes sense. But there’s still one big unanswered question. “Why?”

  “Because I care about you,” he says. He smiles again, and there’s a hint of mischief in it this time. “You told me you care about me too, by the way.”

  “I . . . told you?”

  “Last night. You were unconscious, but you woke up for a minute when I was putting you to bed.”

  Oh, no. “And I . . . said something?”

  “You said Hi,” he says.

  “Oh.” I’m relieved. “That’s it?”

  “And then I told you to go to sleep, and you rolled over and you said ‘Okay. Goodnight.’ And then you, uh . . . you said that you loved me.”

  “I did?” Lewis nods. He looks like he’s enjoying watching me squirm with embarrassment. “Well—I don’t. Thanks for . . . whatever you did. I have to go.” I start to open the door again, and his voice, sharp as a command, stops me.