“Listen,” he said. “Evan. You know how to play this game. That’s one of the reasons I hired you. You’ve got the right instincts. You’re sharp. You see things clearly. I don’t have to tell you what to do. You were made to do this kind of work. And there’s no higher compliment than that.”
We drove the rest of the way in silence, down the parkway, back across the George Washington Bridge. I thought about what Michael was saying. The confidence he’d had in me all along. He’d said as much to Brad that night in Las Vegas. Ambitious. A hard worker. Perfect for this project. He had no reason to lie to Brad, no way of knowing I was listening. He was telling the truth that night. Michael really did see something in me. And maybe it was something that I was only just starting to see in myself.
We drove down the West Side Highway, approaching midtown. The sign for West 54th Street loomed in the distance. I signaled and started to move into the left lane.
“No,” Michael said. “Keep going.”
“Isn’t the dealer on Fifty-Fourth Street?”
“You’re going to drop me off downtown first. Take it to West Twelfth Street.”
Michael was back on his BlackBerry, squinting at the screen and responding to e-mails. As we passed the Lincoln Tunnel, his phone rang.
“Babe,” he answered. “Yes. Yes. I’m almost there. Ten minutes, okay?”
He had me take West 12th to Bleecker, then hang a right and loop down to West 11th. Finally, on a street lined with town houses and trees, Michael had me pull over.
“Up there, on the right,” he said. “The house with the green door.”
Before he climbed out of the car, he leaned over and pressed on the horn. The sound blared through the quiet. Michael paused outside the car, one hand on the door, then ducked through the frame to look at me. “Good talk, Evan,” he said. “See you on Monday.” The door closed with a satisfying thump.
The door of the town house swung open. A figure, silhouetted by the light from the front hall, moved out on the stoop. She was petite and curvy, with wavy hair. Brown hair. I remembered the pictures of his wife from his office: a cool blonde, sleek and slender. Michael kissed this other woman, reaching down to grab her ass. She smiled and swatted his hand away, a joke they shared. Then they stepped inside and closed the door.
Chapter 10
Julia
“Is Evan going to join us this year?” my father asked. He and my mother were on speakerphone in the car, driving back from an event in Boston. It was the week before Thanksgiving.
“I’m not sure.” Evan had spent the previous three Thanksgivings with us, so it was only natural they assumed he’d come this year, too. “He’s been so busy. He might not be able to take the time.”
“Julia,” my mother chimed in. “We really need to know. Jasmine is planning the menu and doing the shopping now.”
“Yeah, I know, but his schedule is so unpredictable.”
“We understand, sweetheart,” my father said. I could picture him shooting my mother a look. She didn’t understand the world of men and their work, and the precedence it took. Lately, strangely, Evan’s stock had gone up with my parents; he had a job at Spire, therefore he was a person of substance. “Evan has to do what he has to do,” my father said, respect in his voice. “Good for him. Give him our best.”
“Ask him again tonight, Julia,” my mother persisted. My father sighed in the background. “This makes things complicated.”
Didn’t I know it. The truth was I hadn’t asked yet. To not invite Evan seemed cruel, but having him there seemed even worse. I hoped, in the days leading up to the holiday, that the obvious solution would present itself. Evan would preempt my question and tell me he had to stay in New York and work. I just couldn’t get up the nerve to ask. We’d barely spoken since his return from Las Vegas. Our silences had grown denser, colder. I’d been surprised it had gone on so long—a day or two, maybe, for Evan to gather himself and save face, but a whole week? I had underestimated Evan. Or maybe I overestimated him. Why should I have been surprised that he had a breaking point, just like everyone else? A point at which he no longer wanted to bother—a point at which he stopped caring, as I already had, weeks earlier?