Anders’s own feelings for Cleo were a riot of contradictions. His initial reaction to the prospect of her telling Frank about them had been terror, almost repulsion. Now, in the quiet of the taxi, the thought of Cleo being his all the time, out in the open, not just for a few stolen moments, kindled a warm blush of pleasure within him. But at what cost would that pleasure come? He’d known Frank for over two decades, Cleo only a year. But being with Cleo made him feel reckless, as though he could burn his life to the ground and rebuild it anew.
He arrived at Christine’s and rang the buzzer for her apartment. He’d loved the place when he lived there, its curved walls and dusty skylights, but he’d been relieved to move back downtown when they split. He found the Upper West Side oppressive, with its unavoidable strollers and school talk. He’d always felt, perhaps delusionally, that he was too young to live there.
He stepped into the elevator and waited for it to be called up to her floor. Christine was an accountant for an architecture firm and made a good living without help from a partner, a fact she was extremely proud of. The doors opened to reveal her angular, familiar face. She pulled him in for a hug.
“Oh, Anders,” she said, rubbing her face into his neck. “You haven’t started smoking again.”
“Only socially,” he said.
“You smell like a teenager.”
“You smell the same,” he said.
He recognized the familiar scent, woody and a little spicy, of the cologne she used to steal from him.
“Jonah’s in his room getting ready,” she said. “Cities have been erected in less time.”
He followed her to the kitchen.
“There’s a chance I’ll have to run a little early.”
Frank would be landing now, he calculated. Then an hour, maybe two, to get through customs and back into the city. Would she say something the moment he walked through the door? He trusted that she would not betray him to Frank. But what would she say? Would she leave him? What if Frank suspected him anyway?
“That’s fine,” Christine said. “Have fun with Jonah, but not too much fun. He’s on my shit list at the moment. Espresso?”
Anders nodded and checked his phone. Nothing from Cleo.
“What did he do?” he asked.
“He called me a bitch because I won’t give him a credit card like all his other friends supposedly have. A credit card! He’s thirteen, for God’s sake. He should feel like a millionaire if he has fifty bucks.”
She walked to the hallway and called Jonah’s name. His name in her mouth was two long syllables, like an air raid siren.
“Woman, I’m coming!” he heard Jonah yell.
Christine rolled her eyes.
“Grows ten pubes and thinks he can call me ‘woman,’” she said. “Sometimes I worry I raised a real brat.”
“We raised,” he said. “And all kids are brats at that age.”
She smiled, then frowned. “I wasn’t.”
She turned toward the espresso machine and handed him the tiny, steaming cup.
“So, are you seeing anyone at the moment?” she asked. “Any more Russian supermodels?”
“Sasha was Ukrainian,” he said. “And no.”
“Well, well.” Christine raised her eyebrows at him. “What have you been doing with all your spare time?”
Cleo, he thought.
“Working,” he said.
Things had been going well at the magazine, despite his inattention. They were opening an LA office and, in fact, had asked him a few days prior to be head of the West Coast team. He hadn’t mentioned it to anyone yet and now realized, with a surge of pleasure, that he could tell Christine.
“Actually,” he said. “I’ve been offered editor in chief at the new LA office.”
“Oh, Anders, how wonderful.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “So, when will you be moving?”
“It’s flattering, but I’m not going to take it,” he said. “What with Jonah, you know, I should be here near him. And it’s a lot farther for my parents if they ever want to come visit.”
He had no intention of leaving New York. Not when his life had suddenly become so full of Cleo. Perhaps it would be better if Frank did know sooner rather than later. He would forgive him eventually. Especially if he was, as Cleo suspected and Anders couldn’t quite believe, in love with Eleanor. Anders could be happy with Cleo. They could live together, get their own place. Uptown maybe, near the park. Jonah would like her, he was sure.
“Anders.” Christine furrowed her brow at him. “Your parents have never once come to the States in all the years I’ve known you. And as for Jonah, you hardly see him every month as it is. He can go and see you out there. I’m sure he’d love that.”
“I see him more than that, surely?” Anders ventured.
“Anyway, it’s not Jonah you have to worry about. Frank’s the one who really can’t live without you.” Christine took a sip of coffee and grimaced. “He’s like the poster child for codependence.”
“That’s not true. And he’s got Cleo now.”
Just the sound of her name in his mouth gave him a feeling of warmth.
“I don’t see those two lasting.”
“You don’t? Why’s that?”
Because he had fucked her twice last night?
“Frank still acts like a child,” Christine said. “And, from what I’ve heard, she virtually is a child.”
“She’s hardly—” He was mildly panicked by this description of her, not least considering that he was two years older than Frank.
“Ah!” Christine threw her hands in the air, looking past him. “And here is my child!”
“I’m not a child, Mom,” Jonah growled.
Anders leaped up to hug Jonah, who submitted to, but did not reciprocate, his embrace. Jonah was in the awkward part of a growth spurt, his limbs somehow a little too long for his body. His shaggy brown hair partially covered the dusting of acne that was creeping from his cheeks to his temples. Despite all this, Anders thought, he looked pretty good. He was wearing a Chelsea jersey and a pair of slim selvedge jeans Anders would have worn himself.
“My god,” Anders said. “You’re almost as tall as me now.”
“Yeah, maybe,” said Jonah, staring at his sneakers. “But you’re still mad tall.”
“I thought we’d go to the Natural History Museum.” Anders rested his hands lightly on Jonah’s shoulders. “There’s a butterfly exhibit.”
The suggestion sounded deeply lame, even to him. Jonah gave him a look that could only be described as withering. When had he learned to look at someone like that?
“All right, fuck that.” Anders grinned. “You want to go get steaks or something?”
“Language!” said Christine.
“Sure, whatever,” said Jonah, shrugging on his parka.
The steakhouse they went to was dark and empty, unpenetrated by the sunshine or air of weekend merriment that permeated the streets outside. In keeping with the main item on the menu, the interior of the restaurant was blood red; carmine-drenched walls, congealments of dark maroon chairs, thick crimson napkins pleated on mahogany tables. It was like being inside an artery.
Anders ordered them porterhouse steaks with sides of baked potatoes and creamed spinach, plus a Peroni and a Coke. Real man’s food, he observed dryly to himself, thinking of his weekly vegetarian brunches with Frank at Sant Ambroeus; their orders of organic eggs and many rounds of Bloody Marys to ameliorate the effects of the night before. He realized, with a start, that those brunches would be over for good.
“So, how’s high school?” he asked.
“I’m young for my year,” said Jonah, slurping his Coke in one gulp. “Everyone else is fourteen.”