“Let’s just say goodnight for now. I’ll call you in the morning, okay? I promise.”
He kissed me good-bye, less urgent and more tender. Then he reached across the seat and opened the door. I watched the cab pull away, heading west toward the park. I shivered and pulled my coat tighter around me.
When I lay in bed that night, next to an already sleeping Evan, I was aware of something. After Jake Fletcher, I had been racked with guilt. It had happened the summer before freshman year of college, while we were on Nantucket with our families. Rob was my boyfriend at the time. I didn’t have to face him for another two weeks afterward, which gave me time to collect myself, to replay the memory—Jake and I, high and drunk, sneaking down to the nighttime beach, him tugging down my shorts, me not wanting him to stop, so helpless in the face of his attention—over and over and over, until eventually it became something that happened to a different version of me. I decided, on the ferry ride home, letting the wind tangle my hair and the salt spray sting my eyes, that I didn’t have to tell Rob. It was a stupid mistake, but it was just sex. As soon as it was over, when Jake rolled away from me and I was aware again of the cold sand sticking to the back of my legs, I realized that it was never going to happen again. The guilt formed a high wall in my mind, and the memory lived behind it, drying and shriveling with age. Sometimes I almost managed to forget it entirely.
But this, with Adam. The feeling that washed over me as I lay there next to Evan—it wasn’t guilt. It was more like a beginning than an ending. A book cracked open to the very first page. How could I feel guilty about something that was so clearly meant to happen?
Part 2
Chapter 7
Evan
In mid-November, Michael stopped by my desk.
“You’re coming with me and the rest of the team to the conference in Vegas. The flight is at five. Go home and get your stuff and take a car to the airport, terminal four. Travel is e-mailing your ticket now.”
I glanced at my watch—2:34 p.m.—and started shoving things into my bag. “So I’ll see you—” I started to say to Roger, but he had his headphones in and refused to meet my eyes. Uptown, I packed as fast as I could, then sprinted down the stairs to the waiting town car. I called Julia from the car and told her I wouldn’t be able to make dinner—it was her birthday that night, but she seemed to understand, which was a relief. They were calling my name on the PA when I ran up to the gate.
“Right over there, Mr. Peck,” a chirpy flight attendant said, pointing at the remaining empty seat in the business-class cabin, next to Roger.
“Too bad,” Roger said without looking up from his BlackBerry. “Thought this train was going to leave the station without you.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Sir?” the flight attendant said, offering a tray with a flute of Champagne. “Just let me know if I can get you anything else. We’ll be taking off shortly.”
The flight attendant was cute and perky and available, exactly Roger’s type, and I expected him to make some crack about it. But he kept his eyes locked on his phone, his mouth shut. Roger had been bragging about this for weeks. Spire was sending a small team to a global investing conference in Las Vegas, and Steve, the head of our macro group, had been so impressed with Roger’s work that he invited him along, too. A first-year analyst had never gone to one of these conferences before. You didn’t get to jump the line like this, not unless you were exceptional. My stomach had churned at the thought. Well, I was working on a deal that would dwarf a trip to Vegas soon enough. Let Roger brag all he wanted.
But there I was. Ruining Roger’s week, to boot. I counted six people from Spire, scattered through the cabin: Steve, Brad, and Chuck, all from Spire’s macro group, plus Roger, Michael, and myself. This had nothing to do with my work, but I supposed that Michael would fill me in eventually. I finished my Champagne, settled in, and closed my eyes. Business class. I could get used to this.
A hand on my shoulder shook me awake, and Brad’s face came into focus. I’d only spoken to him in passing before. He was Korean American, in his thirties, had a PhD in applied mathematics from MIT, a mind like a thousand-horsepower engine. He’d made the company an enormous amount of money over the years.
“So here’s the deal,” Brad said, addressing me and Roger while he scanned his phone screen. “Travel tried to get new rooms, but the hotel is sold out because of the conference. So Evan, you’re going to be in Roger’s room.”
“The hell?” Roger snarled. “Are you serious?”
“Suck it up, sweetheart. Chuck and I have to share a suite, too. Michael took Steve’s suite, and Steve is taking mine.”
“There better be separate beds,” Roger said. When Brad left, Roger finally snapped. “What the fuck, Peck? Why are you even here?”
“I don’t know. You heard it. Michael only told me a few hours ago.”
Roger looked like he wanted to punch me in the face. The plane’s engines hummed in the background. “Whatever it is y’all are up to,” he said, clenching his fists on his armrests, “you sure have a way of pissing other people off.”
* * *
More than a month earlier, as the market panic was reaching its climax, I’d put the final touches on the WestCorp deal. The numbers were dazzling. Michael had said it right: this was a check just waiting to be cashed. Early one October morning, after working straight through the night, I was finally done. The very last piece was in place. This was the deal that would permanently cement Spire’s dominance, during the most volatile moment of our lifetime—and I was right in the middle of it. I left the folder on Michael’s chair and went for a walk in the cool dawn, stopping at a bench in an empty Times Square with a coffee and Danish in hand, watching the city wake, the taxis and pedestrians flowing up and down the streets, the conclusion vibrating through me like a note struck on a piano.
Back in the office that morning, I shaved and changed into the spare shirt I kept in my desk drawer. I sat, calmly, waiting for the call from Michael. But morning passed, then afternoon, without a word from him. I went past his office around 8:00 p.m., but his door was closed.
Nothing the following day, either. Or the day after that. When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I went by his office. He ignored me while I hovered in the doorway. I cleared my throat. “Michael. Just checking—what’s the latest on the WestCorp deal?”
That got his attention. He turned to look at me.
“Something’s come up,” he said. “It’s on hold until I iron out a few more details.”
“Oh. Okay. So—”
“So I’ll let you know.” He turned back to his computer.
Panic rose as I walked back to my desk. What did he mean? Iron what out? But there had been a finality in his tone. I was just a low-level analyst, after all. He didn’t owe me any explanation. These kinds of things happened. Deals were called off all the time, for all sorts of reasons.
But it made me feel sick, physically sick, the thought of so many days and nights disappearing with nothing to show for it. Who was I? What was I doing there? I’d always had an answer before. I was a boy from British Columbia. A student. A hockey player, most of all. When graduation erased that, I found a new scaffolding. I was an analyst at Spire Management; that was the life I was building for myself. Everything else that was fading into the background—Julia, my friends—was made bearable by this. The sureness of my work and the nearness of success. Without that, I started to come loose.
My solution: I’d keep busy, so busy I wouldn’t have time to think. I jumped at every assignment, tried to fill the hours, insurance against the worst outcome. Roger and the other analysts must have sensed the change—my constant volunteering, joining them for lunch when before I’d been too busy. Julia could sense it, too. She was cooler and quieter than ever in the moments we overlapped at home. She sat there looking at me, but her mind was somewhere else. It was like she could tell how desperately I was faking my way through it, and it disgusted her.<
br />
Until just a few days before the trip to Las Vegas, when something had changed. I got home early and found Julia standing at the stove. Stirring a pot, flipping through a magazine, one bare foot lifted to scratch the back of her calf. “It smells amazing,” I said. When she turned, it was the old Julia who was looking at me: the spill of blond hair over her shoulder, her eyes crinkled at the corners from her smile. “There’ll be enough for both of us,” she offered. After we ate, I led her into the bedroom. The sex was good, not the best ever, but it was what I had needed: the two of us, finally in the same place again. It was so sad that this tiny moment of tenderness was even worth remarking on.
The next night, I stopped by McGuigan’s with the guys after work. Just for a drink, one drink. It was a weeknight, and I wanted to get home early again. To get things back on track with Julia. I sat at the bar, waiting for Maria. I was going to end this flirtation, or whatever it was, before it went any further. I’d slip in a mention of my girlfriend, which would do the trick. A clean break.
Maria came over and drew a pint of Guinness without needing to ask. Part of me wished that we’d gotten our chance—that I’d made a move one of those late nights, saying good-bye on the sidewalk outside the bar, a one-time slip that could be forgiven. I sipped my beer, feeling nostalgic. I’d finish the drink before I said anything.
Another man came into the bar and sat a few stools down, a tanned guy in a leather jacket. Maria said something to him, then poured him a generous whiskey. I lifted my glass to get her attention. She came back over and placed another pint of Guinness on the bar, then said,
“This is it for me tonight. Cathy’ll take care of your tab.”
“Where are you going? Actually, I wanted to talk to you about—”
“I’m off early,” she said. “I’ve got plans.”
A minute later, she emerged from the back with her coat on. The guy in the leather jacket stood and gestured at her to go ahead. They passed me on their way out, and as an afterthought, Maria turned on her heel.
“Oops. I should introduce you. Evan, this is Wyeth. Wyeth, Evan.”
I was used to towering over other people, but Wyeth was the same height as me. “Hey. Maria’s favorite customer,” I said, extending a hand and forcing a smile.
“Hey. Maria’s boyfriend,” he said.
Maria smiled, then tugged on Wyeth’s sleeve. “See you later, Evan,” she called over her shoulder. Through the window, I watched them pause on the sidewalk. Maria stood on her toes and kissed him, for a long time.
I sat back down, disoriented. Cathy, the other bartender, came over a few minutes later. “Another?” she said, pointing at my empty pint glass. I shook my head. “I’ll have a Scotch. Straight up.” The other analysts were going out to a club in the Meatpacking District where Roger knew the promoter, and I went along. We got a table and ordered bottle service. A group of lithe, glittery women floated toward us. I poured myself a vodka on the rocks, one after another. This feeling could only be scoured out by something strong. Music—deep house with a thumping beat—vibrated through every pore. After a while I looked up and realized a petite Asian girl was sitting on my lap. She leaned in and said something inaudible. “What?” I shouted back, over the music. She leaned in again and this time licked the edge of my earlobe, and finally—finally—my mind went empty. We wound up pressed against a wall at the edge of the room. Her tongue in my mouth, her tiny body, my hands sliding up her sequined miniskirt, it was all I was aware of. I wanted this nameless girl more than anything I’d wanted before. I’d fuck her right there in public if I had to.
The next day, I got up from my desk several times to go retch in the bathroom. You asshole, I thought, staring at my sweaty and sallow reflection under the fluorescent lights. I’d managed to tear myself away from the girl and get a cab before any of my coworkers noticed. I passed out on the futon at home. At an early morning hour, I dragged myself to the sink for a glass of water and took a scalding shower. Eventually I crawled into bed next to Julia, my hair wet, feeling like a teenager sneaking in after curfew.
* * *
Two black town cars were waiting for us at McCarran. They whisked us straight to the expensive steak-and-red-wine restaurant in the hotel, our luggage sent up to our rooms without us. A private room in the back of the restaurant was walled in by ceiling-high racks of wine bottles. Chuck and Brad and Roger started getting drunk and rowdy. Steve was supervising in a bemused way, and I was just trying to roll with it. I drank my wine slowly, still feeling my bender from a few days earlier. Michael was distracted, answering e-mails, stepping out to take calls. When he left the room to take his third call of the night, Chuck rolled his eyes and said, “Why the hell is he even here?”
Roger shot me an accusatory look.
“I mean,” Chuck continued, looking at Steve for an answer, “doesn’t he have better things to be doing? Like running the company?”
Steve shrugged. “He’s the boss. He can do what he wants.”
“Probably just wants to get laid,” Brad said sullenly. Chuck hooted in laughter, and Roger joined in. Chuck was slightly older, had a fiancée, owned rather than rented, but in every other way, he and Roger were practically twins. They were, of course, hitting it off.
Michael walked back in, eyes still glued to his screen. In that moment, between songs on the restaurant speakers, the clicking of Michael’s BlackBerry keys was the only sound to be heard. Chuck, in a fit of flushed boldness, balled up his napkin and lobbed it across the table at Michael’s shoulder.
Michael looked up, as surprised as the rest of us.
“Hey, Michael,” Chuck said. “I know you’re the CEO, but you’re in Vegas, man. Drink up. We’re going out tonight.”
Michael stared at him. “What did you say?”
“I said, ‘Drink up.’”
Silence. Then Michael broke out in a smug grin. “You’re right,” he said finally. “Someone get me a real drink.”
Chuck hooted again, calling for the waitress to bring a bottle of their best Scotch, and I relaxed a little. Michael drank a double in one smooth swig, then another after that. A limo was idling outside, waiting to take us to a high-end nightclub where Chuck had reserved a table. In the limo, I sat next to Michael, who kept refilling my glass and clapping me on the knee when I downed my Scotch straight, in one macho gulp.
Liquid courage helped. I was careful to keep my tone light, not ruining the mood. “Michael,” I said. “I just wanted to ask, before everything starts tomorrow—what’s, uh, what’s the agenda for this weekend?”
“Oh, you know. Keynotes and panels, networking, the usual. Most of it will be interminably dull. These things always are.”
“Right. So I’ve heard.” I nodded. “But the focus is on global macro, isn’t it? I’m just wondering if there’s anything you wanted me to—or what the angle…or I guess takeaway, you could call it—”
Michael clapped me on the knee again, refilling my glass. “Evan, don’t worry. You’re asking why I invited you, aren’t you? Just watch and listen, and you’ll see. You could learn a lot these next few days.”
We pulled up at the entrance of another hotel-casino monolith. Chuck led the way down the long, plushly carpeted hallway toward the club. The Scotch in the limo had been too much for me. The night began to blur and spin when we entered the club. The whole room seemed to rattle from the collective frenzy: drinking, dancing, snorting, vibrating. Women in thongs and pasties shimmied on platforms around the dance floor. High up in his booth, the DJ lifted his arms, and the crowd responded with a deafening roar. Smoke and confetti poured from the ceiling. Our waitress was wearing a tight scoop-neck minidress that displayed her cleavage, which bounced vigorously whenever she mixed a drink in the cocktail shaker. I had shot after shot handed to me. I was drunker than I’d been in months, drunker even than a few nights ago in Meatpacking. I had long slipped past the point of enjoyment. What time was it? Would this night ever end? Nothing seemed to exist except for
this club, the gyrations of the people around me. A slow-motion orgy: Michael getting closer and closer to a blond woman on the banquette, Chuck kissing a woman—then two at once—sitting on his lap. Steve had turned in earlier, his wedding ring glinting in the strobe lights. Brad had his hand at the small of our waitress’s back, his eyes traveling toward her chest. Roger was off somewhere else.
Our limo driver was, miraculously, still outside when I got up to leave. I pulled the hotel-room key card out of my pocket, where the room number had been written on the card’s paper envelope: 3605. Back in the hotel, I stumbled toward the elevator bank and leaned my forehead against the cool marble wall while I waited. It felt so good. I could have fallen asleep there. I found myself wandering down a long hallway, red carpets and golden wallpaper. Such a long hallway. How had I gotten there? I studied the paper envelope again: 3605. I looked up, and there I was—our room at last.
I swiped my card, and the light turned green, but the door banged abruptly and wouldn’t open more than an inch. I pulled the door closed and tried again. The light turned green, and I pushed the door open, but again it banged up against something. I squinted, trying to right my vision, and saw that the security flip bar had been latched into place.
I propped the door open with my foot and shouted through the opening, “Roger. Roger! Come on, it’s me.”
Silence at first, and then came the sounds of female giggling. “Ocupado, amigo,” Roger said from within the room.
The door closed with a bang, and I slumped against the wall, my legs splayed out across the floor. Sexiled. I needed some kind of plan. Focus. I closed my eyes. My head jerked up—had I fallen asleep?—and I slapped my forehead several times. I hated being this drunk. I couldn’t stay out in the hallway. Everyone from Spire was staying on this floor. I couldn’t let them see me like this. No way.
The Futures Page 12
