“That is so cool,” said Lucy.
“It was pretty cool,” said Ben. “It’s safe to say it was the coolest thing I’ve ever done. I also had sex with a bank teller once, but that was considerably less cool.”
Lucy got out of bed and looked around on the floor for her underwear. “So, this might sound kind of weird, but is there a day of the week that would work better for you than other days, for this, if we’re going to keep doing this?”
“Thursdays,” Ben said, after thinking for a second. “Thursdays would be good.”
It was after nine o’clock before Lucy was on the train, heading back to her real life, staring out at the bright lights reflecting off the black of the Hudson River. She’d told Owen she was having dinner with Aly again, that Aly was going through a bad breakup, so he was home with Wyatt.
She couldn’t stop smiling.
When did I stop feeling like this? Lucy wondered. It had been a very, very long time since she felt like this.
It really wasn’t the sex. Or it wasn’t just the sex. It was, well, feeling like the best version of herself, the version she used to be a long time ago. Only back when she was that version of herself, she hadn’t appreciated it. She didn’t know it was something that would go away, that would disappear so slowly and yet so quickly she wouldn’t even notice it was gone until it was too late. Maybe it was just youth, but it seemed like more than that. This is how Ben made her feel: completely adorable. That was the word. Lucy felt adorable. When did she stop feeling like this? What happened to her? Where did it all go?
One of the results of turning yourself invisible was that the moment somebody actually paid attention to you, the minute somebody actually looked into your eyes for three seconds too long or touched your arm a few too many times or sent you a mildly flirty e-mail, you thought you were in love with him. It didn’t take much.
And, to be fair, Ben was doing more to her than that. A lot more.
It was like she had turned her dimmer switch way, way down, and now it was up, and she was herself again for the first time in a very long time.
Anyhow, whatever it was, Lucy couldn’t stop smiling.
And her pretend French class started up next week. On Thursday.
Ten
As the Lord Buddha famously said, “Life is suffering.” Part of the problem, okay, a big huge part of the problem, is when you expect that it is the job of your life partner to rid your life of suffering.
—Constance Waverly
The Waverly Report
Izzy’s fat, neurotic, semi-invalid cat was asleep on Owen’s blazer. Owen could hear Izzy walking around upstairs, singing the opening bars of a song he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He was trying to nudge the cat onto the floor when Izzy slinked down the stairs in a flimsy silk robe, belting out the refrain of “Blue Bayou.”
“You have a great voice,” Owen said when she finished.
“I know,” said Izzy. “You don’t have to tell me that. I used to be a singer.”
“Really?”
“Yep,” she said. “I used to sing at Eighty-Eights in the city.”
Owen was surprised. “You used to sing at Eighty-Eights? Are you serious? That place was amazing.”
“Yeah, well,” said Izzy. She sighed theatrically and leaned against the door frame, her right thigh peeking through the slit in her robe. “What can I say? It was another life.”
Owen knew there were a million questions he should ask her, out of basic human courtesy more than anything else, but really what he wanted to do was retrieve his blazer from under her fat orange cat and get back to the office before anyone noticed he was missing.
“Can you help me with…” He motioned to the cat and his jacket.
“Buttons!” Izzy yelled. “Buttons, down! Off the chair!”
Buttons swiveled his neck and stared at Owen, pissed off. Izzy finally scooped him up with both hands and held him like a baby. He seemed to like that.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you before,” said Izzy. “I bumped into your wife this morning.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don’t get crazy,” said Izzy. “It was nothing. She was at GroceryLand.”
“You told me you and Lucy had never met.”
“I don’t know her. I saw a woman buying fourteen banana yogurts.”
“That doesn’t mean it was Lucy.”
“Owen, come on. Nobody buys fourteen banana yogurts at GroceryLand,” said Izzy. “Besides, I’ve seen her picture on your Facebook page.”
“Oh.”
“She seemed nice.”
“How do you mean?”
“She was nice to the checkout lady. They talked about chickens. Apparently Lucy is having a big problem with a rooster. And the checkout lady knows a guy who takes roosters.”
“You were behind her in line?” said Owen.
“It just worked out that way, I swear,” said Izzy. “I didn’t know you had chickens.”
“We have chickens.”
“How many?”
“A lot,” said Owen. “Too many. I think about fourteen.”
“Can you bring me some eggs next time you come over?”
Owen tried to sweep the cat hair off his blazer. “Can you do me a favor and stay away from Lucy?”
“What are you talking about? I am staying away from her. I saw her at GroceryLand. It’s a public place.”
“One of the things we’re trying to do with this is not humiliate each other. And I think, if she knew that you and I were doing this and she didn’t know you, but you knew and knew her, it would—”
“You guys and your rules.” Izzy laughed. “You still think you can get out of this thing with no consequences.”
“Not no consequences necessarily,” said Owen. “I’m just trying to be respectful, okay?”
“Yes, that was very respectful of your wife,” Izzy said, gesturing up the stairs to her bedroom. “What you just did to me.”
Owen worked two towns away from Beekman, inside an old industrial loft that had been turned into an open-plan office space and housed several unrelated small companies.