“Oh God, I was just thinking about that the other day. That was an amazing trip, you were beautiful.” His voice catches and I know he is remembering our nights, the long lazy nights in the Jacuzzi, our naked legs entwined. I give a soft giggle.
“Remember the rooftop?” My heart pulses and I feel the quick beat between my legs. I flash on the image of my back against the brick hotel, my dress hastily pushed up to my waist and Henry pressed up against me, my hands skimming his warm back, damp with perspiration from the July air. The clenching of his muscles as he came.
“I can’t talk about this here.” His tone is teasing, a low, breathy huff of pent-up frustration that breaks on the last word. “Tonight, we can remember it properly.”
“Okay, okay.”
“Did you call Penny?” He speaks in a normal register, a return to business as usual.
“Not yet, I will. Or I’ll cook. I do that sometimes.”
There is a pause. “Whatever you’d like.” I hear voices in the background. “Tonight. See you then.” He’s gone, just like that.
I love making Henry weak. I love to see his stone face crack with a smile or his dark, clever eyes cloud with want. I love this idea of him: powerful and in control in his boardroom, with its rich mahogany and skyline views, all steel peaks and clouds, and underneath his muscle and dominance, as he barks out orders that men scurry to fulfill, he is unfocused, thinking of me. He’s said that before, You drive me to distraction. I tend to believe that’s one of the nicest things he’s ever said to anyone.
I dress quickly and I’m in a cab in less than a half hour. The diner is no fuller than it was two days ago, and Cash is seated in the same booth, two steaming cups of coffee in the center of the gray-and-blue-Formica-topped table. I slide into the booth across from him and he gives me a wide grin, folding his paper. He clicks open his laptop.
“These photos are amazing, I cannot wait to show you.” His face is animated, his eyes wide, and voice hitches as he navigates the trackpad. His background is of a towheaded child, freckled and gap-toothed. I wonder if she’s his and check his hand. No ring.
He clicks up a slideshow and turns the screen to face me. There are photos of Henry, breathtaking in his straight-cut suit and blond hair glinting under the ballroom lights. He is watching me, staring at me, smiling at me in almost every photo. The shots of me are less confident, my head turned, my expression unsure or nervous, candid shots where I am flicking back my hair or scanning the crowd, or laughing in a small group. He has captured me beautifully, though in fact, I can’t even believe it’s me. There are photos of photos, the large blown-up canvases of children tumbling together on a derelict playground, and shots of the decor, sparkling, dancing whitish-blue lights that look magical against the mirrored walls of the library.
“These are . . . magnificent. How did you make it look like this?” I’m practically speechless, and even as I reach the end of the slideshow and it starts over, I can’t stop watching. He shrugs, a faint blush on his neck.
“Well, cameras don’t invent beauty that’s not there. They just capture it at the right moment. This is what the night really looked like.” He spins the laptop around to face him and begins to click. “These are the ones I want to use.” He shows me.
There are six photos. Two of them are of me: one in profile, head to head with a female guest, giggling like girlfriends, my face in shadow and one with my arm linked through Henry’s, my head resting on his shoulder. The rest are of Francesca, the event itself, the guests, the speaker. In the two photos of me, I can’t see my features clearly; I’m in profile or turned, a vague angle, my face obscured. In one of the six photos, I can make out Molly and Gunther and my heart lurches, an acrid taste in my throat. I trace them with my index finger on the screen.
“Please, just . . . you can use the one of me and Henry. You can remove the one of me in profile.” I point to the screen, my tongue thick. He cocks his head to the side, just as my cell phone trills. The display reads Lydia but I press decline.
“So, you knew that couple? They seemed to know you.” His voice contains the forced nonchalance of someone fishing. He adds cream and sugar to his coffee and stirs it slowly, the spoon clattering against the white porcelain.
“Oh, I didn’t know them. They claimed to know me from college or something, but . . .” I force a laugh. “College was a long time ago now, so who knows?” I lift one shoulder and purse my lips, waving my hand. All I can think is, Please change the subject.
“Oh yeah? Where’d you go to school?”