The air outside is blanket heavy. It presses on my shoulders, adding to the weight of my embarrassment. I let myself forget that Tyler was only accompanying me because he felt sorry for me. I allowed myself to hope.
We walk in silence toward our apartment buildings, crossing busy Twelfth Avenue, where the lights are too bright and the noises too loud, heading toward the river. The park is dark save for a few streetlamps along the promenade. Laughter sounds from somewhere on the lawn. Music wafts from the party boats over yonder on the Hudson. A couple pushes a baby carriage. Everywhere, life is being lived. Shared. But I am headed to an empty bedroom. The idea is so disheartening that I suddenly can’t stand being out in the open. I want to get home, crawl beneath the covers, hide from Tyler’s well-intentioned pity. Sleep for days.
“My building is right up there.” I extend my hand. “Thank you.”
“It’s late. I’m happy to walk you home.”
The offer makes me even more pathetic. I’m a suicide risk who may not make it back to her apartment. Frustrated tears well in my eyes. I stare at the sky to keep them from falling. Clouds glow in the dark, reflecting the brightness of the New York skyline. They look lit by lightning.
“That’s okay. I’m so close.” My attempt at a smile forces a tear from my eye. I recall my outstretched hand to wipe it away. “Thank you again. It was really nice of you to keep me company.”
Tyler rubs the back of his neck. “Hey, Beth, Listen. I know there might be a temptation, given what you’re going through, to see tonight as a rejection. But please don’t. You’re a—”
“Postpartum wife whose husband sleeps around while she’s at home with an infant.” I laugh. “I get it. Don’t worry. I’m a real catch.”
His hand brushes my exposed arm. “You can’t let your husband’s actions determine your self-worth. I meant it when I said it’s about him. Not you.”
“Everyone always says that. If I’m so desirable, then what’s stopping you?”
His eyes go wide. He gestures with an open palm, one of those shrink-wrapped nonthreatening motions. “My license, for number one. You’re my patient.”
“Not anymore.” I extend my arm for a handshake. “You didn’t have to take the time to build me up tonight, though it was nice of you.”
He takes my hand, shaking his head. “I wish you believed me.”
His grip is so firm. I want to feel this hand on my body. I want to see those brown eyes look at me with something other than sympathy. I want, more than anything, not to go back to my apartment, alone, feeling sorry for myself. “Make me believe.”
He pulls me into him. Full lips land on my own. My mouth invites his tongue inside. He kisses better than Jake. He tastes better than Jake. Right now, I want him more than Jake.
Tyler grabs my hand and takes me into his building. As we pass the doorman and head into the elevator, he explains that he lives eight floors up from his office. “Easy commute.”
That’s the last thing he says. We make out as the car rises to the ninth floor, entering his apartment as a unit, tangled together, his arms encircling my waist, my hands wrapped around his neck. I catch glimpses of bookcases and a black leather couch. A king-sized bed is visible to the left of the living room.
He peels off my dress and then devours the exposed parts of my body. I can’t undo the button on his jeans fast enough. We fall onto the bed. His mouth travels from my clavicle to my chest to my stomach and then to my thighs. Suddenly, he’s on top of me and I’m moaning. Screaming. The bed frame is banging against the wall and he’s telling me I’m beautiful. God, if I could only see. I’m beautiful.
LIZA
Writing about sex is tricky. Readers want details to stoke their own erotic fantasies, but they don’t want to be in the imagined room listening to each moan, witnessing every awkward position change. Intercourse, even for the most liberated observer, is embarrassing. Porn is rife with examples. People say uncalled-for, dirty things. They obviously fake orgasms. They scream words more suited to the hook in a Daft Punk song. Harder. Better. Faster. Stronger.
To pen a love scene without verging into comedy, I have to close my eyes and imagine not what my characters are doing in bed but what they want deep down. Are they using sex to achieve greater emotional intimacy? Is it an opportunity to dominate someone or to be dominated? A chance to procreate? Sex is never about getting off. It’s a physical form of communication, stripped of the linguistic armor inside of which people cloak their true feelings. A person cannot have a sarcastic orgasm.
After I finish writing, I feel hot and bothered. Itchy. I fire off an e-mail to myself with the latest version of my story attached and then stare at the photo of David and me on my home screen. I’m looking up at him, adoringly. He’s mugging for the cameraman. In my head, Beth says he’s handsome, but he’s no Tyler.
I can’t be in the room alone with her and my thoughts.
*
The hotel bar is the Moulin Rouge gone modern. Black velvet chairs surround tufted ottoman-style coffee tables topped with mirrored drink trays. A sanguine light shines on the seating areas, emphasizing the bordello decor and the fact that most of the patrons are too buttoned up for this kind of establishment. The space is noisy. Though there’s no music, a myriad of half-sober conversations create a sound cloud. Bits of discussion splatter my ears as I head toward the far end of the room where a glowing amber wall illuminates shelves of liquor bottles. The left side of my head still feels held in a vice, but the bar isn’t spinning.
I spot my editor. He sits on a barstool, elbows on an onyx counter, underlit to highlight the brown veins in the golden surface. Trevor’s face shines in the glow. Pickney flanks him, along with Harrison Mance, whom I’ve met twice before. Harrison is a decorated detective turned best-selling author who publishes with my house’s biggest competitor. He inked a movie deal for his latest book. Trevor is getting his woo on.
Pickney sees me hovering. He waves me over with a broad smile that I, and everyone else pretending not to watch his every move, can’t help but notice. I approach, still feeling dazed from my marathon writing session. Imagined details seep into my present. Are the silk threads in Trevor’s cobalt suit catching the light or is my subconscious supplying a halo? Is he really that handsome?
I glance at my reflection in an antique wall mirror beside the bar. My eyes are lined in kohl and painted with extra mascara. My lips are scarlet. I look ready for something. Anything.
Trevor stops midsentence to remind his famous friends of my much less well-known byline. “Brad, you remember Liza.” He turns to Harrison. “This is one of our authors, Liza Cole.”
I half-hug Pickney first. He leans forward to receive my back pat, too cool to rise yet sufficiently generous to allow some familiarity. “Brad, it’s been awhile. Congratulations on your latest.” Since I wrote through the awards ceremony, I’m guessing that he won Master of Suspense. It’s an educated assumption. He’s accepted the award for three straight years. And even if he didn’t get it, there’s never a dearth of reasons to praise Pickney on his latest novel.
Pickney accepts my compliment with practiced humility. He congratulates me on my newest book without saying anything more about it. I’m sure he hasn’t read it. Given the reviews, I’m almost thankful.
Trevor asks if I’d like a drink, saving me from sharing any details about my bland addition to the larger canon. Before I respond, he calls over the bartender and orders a gimlet, my go-to cocktail at every conference. I’m flattered that he remembers.