She took a seat at the far end of the long polished bar, votive candles and sprays of tea roses in little vases, barstools of supple chocolate leather, music an unobtrusive tinkle of unobjectionable jazz. Her regular drink here was a delicious premier cru Montrachet at twenty-eight dollars per glass, but now she asked for sparkling water, the little bubbles bursting on her tongue and a bit up her nostrils, a tickle from the bitter pith of lemon-peel garnish.
Her senses were heightened, her observations keen. She felt like a scientist, studying her environment. Studying herself.
A decade and a half later, swaths of that period of her life have become vague—whom she saw, how she passed her days, the therapy sessions, the lawyers, her whole life collapsing around her, all a blur. But one thing she remembers clearly is that afternoon. She remembers rehearsing the upcoming interaction dozens of times, preparing herself for a completely different level of negotiation than anything she’d ever before experienced, the irrelevancies of haggling with real-estate agents or job offers or flea markets: all those stakes piddling in comparison.
She chose not to face the front door. She didn’t want to be seen to be waiting for him; she didn’t want to be perceived as anxious. Who was she kidding?
From where she sat, Ariel could see the reflection of the entryway through the mirror behind the bar. So she saw him arrive, nod to the hostess, and stride past the ma?tre d’ stand as if he owned the joint, wearing the confident smile of a man who had everything, the grown-up version of a boy who’d been promised anything, a person who’d been told again and again, all his life, that he could have whatever he wanted, do whatever he wanted.
Maybe his behavior should not have come as any surprise. Maybe it was foreseeable. Maybe, in fact, it was inevitable.
Charlie didn’t know how to greet her. In the past, he would’ve kissed her on the cheek, holding her arm, or her elbow, or even the small of her back when he thought he could get away with it. He was that kind of handsy. But now he wouldn’t dare.
He took the seat next to her, and her body recoiled from his, an involuntary reaction.
The bartender glided over instantly. Charlie Wolfe was a man who rarely waited for anything.
“What can I get for you tonight, Mr. Wolfe?”
Charlie waited an extra second before answering, a micro-pause, a little power play of making someone wait, even if just for a second, as a way of asserting dominance. This was the type of asshole that Charlie Wolfe was. Is.
“A glass of the Barolo, please, Danny. You know the one I like.”
Ariel understood that this wine was not on the menu, not available by the glass, not unless you were a man like Charlie, a man who made it a point to ask for things—to demand things—that other people couldn’t have, that it wouldn’t even occur to them to request. That was the point, wasn’t it? Charlie didn’t give a damn about any Barolo. He just wanted to demand something expensive, something exclusive, something that proved how important he was.
“My pleasure, Mr. Wolfe.”
Ariel still hadn’t glanced his way, but she could feel him turn to her, expectant but silent.
“I don’t want this to take longer than necessary,” she said, staring straight ahead at the array of bottles backed up to the mirror, reflecting the large dining room, all those empty seats, no witnesses.
“Okay.” His intonation suggested a lot of things: doubt, hostility, condescension.
“So I’ll get right to it.” She wanted to see his face when she said the next thing, so she turned to him, and her stomach immediately roiled, she just barely avoided retching. This was the first time Ariel had seen Charlie since he’d raped her, and no matter what she told herself about her control, her advantage, her safety in this public space, her body was telling her different.
She’d expected this confrontation to be difficult in ways that she couldn’t expect, and this, apparently, was one of them.
Ariel clenched her jaw, swallowed her nausea, and forged ahead.
“I’m pregnant.”
Charlie’s mouth did not fall open, his eyebrows did not raise, he did not react in any way. It was impressive, really. She almost admired his self-control. Almost. But what she really felt was revulsion, and loathing, and a horrible type of envy. He could control his own body; he could even control hers. She could not.
She fought another wave of nausea.
The bartender placed a linen doily in front of Charlie, topped by a glass whose bowl was the size of a softball. Danny displayed the label for approval, then slowly poured an inch of the wine, a deep viscous purple, like the blood of some big game that had been hunted and gutted and taxidermied and presented with a flourish and a low groveling bow to the smug hunter. Danny wiped the mouth of the bottle with a towel, and began to retreat, concluding the spectacle of subservience.
“Thanks Danny.” Charlie turned back to her. “And you think it’s mine?”
“No,” Ariel said. “I know it.”
Charlie again chose not to respond. Instead he took a sip of wine, replaced the glass carefully to its doily. He looked like he was contemplating the Barolo, whether to judge it a 93 or 94. It was fake, this composure, it had to be. Ariel was positive that this person couldn’t be this unflustered about this predicament. No one could.
What would make him more despicable? Real poise in this situation, or fake? Maybe it didn’t make a difference. She already hated him to the maximum extent.
“How?” he asked.
“How what?”
“How do you know?”
“Do you not understand how human reproduction works?”
“How do you know that I’m the … ?” He seemed unable to finish the question. Unwilling.
“No one ever explained this to you?” she asked. “In health class? Or maybe your dad?”
Charlie nodded. Ariel understood this sort of nod, not one of agreement, but a signal of something else, an acceptance of disagreement, of antagonism.
“Okay then,” he said, still nodding. “I’ll tell you, point-blank: I do not believe you.”
“Believe me?” Suddenly she had no more nausea. Now she felt her body rising to rage. “Oh I don’t give a damn if you believe me. That’s the beauty of science, isn’t it? It’s not a question of belief.”
She picked up her own glass, took a sip of water, leaving Charlie to ponder it. There was so much retrievable, identifiable DNA floating around in the world—on wineglasses and toothbrushes, combs and bathroom sinks, in the contents of rape kits, vaginal swabs, semen. She didn’t need to explain any of this to him, and they both knew it.
Charlie often bragged about his broad experience negotiating. He studied tactics, he scripted conversations, he practiced in the mirror, he was always prepared to wait it out, to draw it out, to strike first, to do whatever it took, whatever would work, which sometimes was cutting directly to the chase. That’s what he decided to do now: “What do you want?”
When you realize that you can’t win, don’t fight.