Ryan wondered if whistleblowers ever became friends with their FBI handlers, or if Logan secretly agreed with Ryan’s assessment of himself. In the cab on the way home he texted his assistant. Floral arrangement suitable for bereavement to—
He took a minute to find the stationery store in the West Village. The owner’s photograph showed a woman with striking cheekbones, gray eyes, and sleek black curls. Matilda Davies, not Matilda Logan. Lots of women kept their maiden name professionally, especially when they’d built a business on their own. Simone would. The Demarchelier name meant more than Harrison.
Jesus, he needed some sleep. Like she’d go out with him, let alone marry him.
He finished the text to his assistant. Matilda Davies at West Village Stationery. Card: Sorry for your loss. No sig.
The reply came in less than two minutes, at five o’clock in the morning. Done.
He’d have to do something for his assistant, make sure she landed on her feet as unscathed from this as possible, and soon. In the meantime, he had to tell someone about this, however obliquely. Trust no one, that was the message Logan hammered home every time they met. Tell no one, trust no one, give away nothing. He wouldn’t violate that agreement, but he had to let off steam somehow, or the acid in his stomach would eat through the lining and seep into his abdominal cavity. He had to talk to someone about what he was doing to himself, someone who would listen, someone who anchored him in the stormy, churned mess of his life.
That someone was Simone.
***
He went home and slept until after noon, but when he woke up, the urge to see Simone hadn’t dissipated. So he went for a run, because maybe exercise would help.
It didn’t. He showered, dressed. Ate some dry toast, drank some water. His monklike life only reminded him of the power of confession, so he dug out a pair of shoes from the back of his closet and went for a walk.
Stopping at a bodega to pick up some Saint Rieul Triple was just hedging his bets.
As he swiped his credit card through the reader, an odd thought occurred to him. He’d gotten closer to Simone through one erotically charged conversation than he ever had to Jade, who was absolutely transparent, or to Daria, who was equally opaque. Why?
Because with her, you could let down the walls, let her see inside. With her, you could remember who you used to be. Who you could be again.
He used to be the kind of guy who sat on stoops and drank beer with pretty girls. He used to be real, not a parody of a human being. If anything was going to get him through the next few months, not to mention the trial and the publicity coming afterwards, he needed to be real. The time for burying his head in the sand passed the moment he sat down at a conference room table with Daniel Logan. Time’s up. Game over.
When he rounded the corner from Sixth Avenue, he saw Simone sitting on her stoop. Her posture sharpened when she saw him, made him aware of his slow pace, not the unhurried or leisurely pace of a man satisfied with life, the city, the heat of the summer, but somehow heavy, as if he were dragging a Jersey barricade behind him. He straightened his shoulders under his open collar shirt. He wore shorts, not long, not short, just shorts, but it wasn’t the kind of outfit that would attract the daughter of a French fashion house.
You’re done pretending, remember? This is who you are.
An empty bottle of the same beer he carried dripped condensation at her hip. He stood in front of her without saying a word, waiting for some sign. Her rising gracefully to her feet and going inside. A tip of her head to indicate he should move on. Instead she looked at him, then at the six-pack he carried.
“Did you bring me beer?”
It was certainly no hothouse flower, coaxed into bloom and carried through the streets of Manhattan by a dedicated bike messenger, but at least she hadn’t asked him if he’d thought very carefully about coming to see her again. Because he hadn’t. There was no thinking in this. Just need.
He shrugged. “I bought the brand of beer you drink. I didn’t go so far as to presume that you’d drink some with me.”
“I could drink another,” she said finally.
He sat down, kicked off the boat shoes, and braced his elbows on his knees. He would follow her lead. She twisted the tops off two beers, and tapped his shoulder to indicate he should take one.
“Thanks,” he said.
She made a halfhearted little noise he interpreted to mean she had heard him, but not really. He looked at her to find her staring at his feet in the boat shoes.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she said, looking away quickly. “Things strike me oddly. Those shoes, for some reason.”
She’d noticed. He smiled, let his eyes focus on the intersection in the distance. This was a truth he could tell her, a truth he’d rediscovered when he found the shoes at the back of his closet. “Let me tell you a story—”