While he stands at the entry, scanning for prospects, I do the same. It’s been awhile for me, but spotting the easy pickings is like riding a bike—a skill you never really forget.
Our eyes settle on a forty-something redhead in phenomenal shape, sitting alone at a corner table. Drew orders two drinks from the bartender—a Jack and Coke for himself, and whatever the lady is having.
Then he makes his move.
“Mind if I join you?” he asks her with a smile.
After her eyes shamelessly undress him, she nods. “Please.” He sets her drink in front of her and she thanks him.
He assumes she’s at the hotel because she doesn’t actually live in New York. So he asks, “Are you visiting the city for business or pleasure?”
She sips her drink and licks her lip provocatively. “Originally, business—I’m in real estate. But now it seems I’ll be multitasking.”
Drew winks. “I’m an excellent multitasker. I’m able to give my attention to many different areas at once. I’d love to demonstrate that talent for you sometime.”
Redhead smiles wider. Then she says, “Mistletoe.”
“Pardon?”
She points above them. “My hotel room has mistletoe printed on the sheets, in honor of the holiday season. How would you feel about kissing me under it?”
Drew chuckles. “I believe that’s a holiday tradition that should always be observed.” They finish their drinks, then stand. Ever the gentleman, Drew motions with his hand. “After you.”
And together they head upstairs.
The redhead’s room is actually a suite. Delores and I sit on the couch in the common area while the other version of myself and the redhead get busy in the bedroom.
From what I can hear—which is a lot—Redhead is quite flexible.
“Uh . . . fuck.”
“Oh . . . oh . . . oh.”
“Shit . . . yes!”
“Oh . . . yeah.”
“That’s it . . . yes . . . more . . . make me your bitch.”
“Jesus . . .”
And on it goes.
For an hour.
Then two.
From the couch, I stare at the ceiling. And think about repainting the home office.
Delores glares at me. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
I squint as I consider her question. “Not as much as I thought I would. I mean, it’s not really me, so I have nothing to feel guilty about. But still . . .”
Hearing any version of myself banging the hell out of a woman who isn’t Kate is just . . . bizarre. In a disturbing kind of way. Not a turn-on.
After a high-pitched scream and a roaring grunt, the noise from the bedroom quiets down. Until . . .
“Mmm . . .”
“Oh . . .”
“Uh . . . uh . . . uh . . .”
Delores throws up her hands. “Now this is just fucking ridiculous.”
I shrug unapologetically. “Picasso had his clay, Rembrandt had his brushes—I have my cock. Every true artist has a favorite tool. And you can’t rush fine art.”
“Yes, yes, yes . . .”
“Oh fuck . . .”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m fast-forwarding.”
“Thank Christ. Why didn’t you think of that sooner?”
I follow her out of the hotel room door. And we step into the living room of my apartment. My old apartment, before Kate and I lived together. The ultimate bachelor pad—black, stainless steel, and big-boy toys, remember?
We stand in the living room as Kateless Drew comes strolling through the door—his shirt half buttoned, whistling a merry tune. He takes a quick shower, then, clad only in boxers, pours himself a bowl of cereal. He sits back on the couch, puts his feet on the coffee table, and flicks on the television.
With a mouthful of cereal, he smiles. “A Christmas Story. Cool.” And he settles in to watch.
“I don’t understand,” I say.
“?’Cause you’re a moron,” Delores answers flatly.
“Instead of insulting me, can you explain what the hell I’m supposed to be getting from this? I thought the point of showing me my life without Kate was to demonstrate how miserable I’d be without her.” I gesture to my other self on the couch. “He’s fine. He loves his life. What’s the lesson here?”
With restrained impatience, Dee explains. “Of course he loves his life—being a raging man-slut was one of your favorite things. You always enjoyed your work, your life before Kate. But if you can’t see the lesson, then you’re not looking hard enough, Drew.”
I push a frustrated hand through my hair and look again. The other me chuckles at the TV and puts his empty bowl on the table. Then I gaze around the apartment. The pristine neatness, the monotone furniture, the valuable abstract art on the walls.
And for the very first time, it feels . . . cold. Flat.
Empty.
I think of my apartment with Kate and James—our home. It’s light and vibrant and messy in the best frigging way. There’s pencil marks on the wall showing how James has grown and a few scratches on the hardwood floors. There are mementos from vacations and pictures all over of our wedding and every significant moment in James’s life. There are toys and work papers, coats and shoes. It’s not messy, but—lived in. Busy.
Full.