Page 108 of Lucky Night

He wishes they would stop cutting back to the aerial shot. He’s sure the technology is expensive, CNN wants to get its money’s worth, but it’s excessive. Voyeuristic.

He takes a couple of deep breaths. Surreptitiously. He doesn’t want to worry her. He sits up, trying to release the pressure in his chest. When did that start? Hey, how about a heart attack right now, wouldn’t that be fun? He has occasionally worried about keeling over while in bed with her. Sometimes it’s felt like he might. On the one hand, no better way to go, on the other…

He doesn’t want to go. He doesn’t want to die.

Ever, ideally, but especially not tonight.

He sets the phone on the bed. His hand is unsteady. He picks it up again. He’ll hold on to it. Give his hands something todo.

And while the fire department has provided a dedicated number for trapped guests, we’re told that the line is overloaded, and people aren’t able to get through.

He opens his mouth to make a crack about that, but he can’t think of anything. The urge to joke has deserted him.

First the lust, now the wit. Gone.

His stomach is jumping. He’s never nervous. In fact he’s famous for his composure. Unflappable even in the big moments—during opening statements, or when the jury is filing back in with the verdict. No butterflies, no sweaty palms. People are so impressed.

They don’t know it’s because he doesn’t care. Doesn’t give a shit about any ofit.

He hasn’t cared for years.

We’re attempting to verify online posts that appear to be from guests on the thirtieth and thirty-first floors, reporting heavy smoke conditions. If these accounts are genuine, they suggest the fire is spreading upward at an alarming rate.

The fire looks like it’s receded from the twenty-fifth floor—it’s not visible from the outside anymore. Why not mention that, Brian? Why always focus on the next worst thing that could be happening?

You did it, he says, a touch too loudly. You went forit.

She turns to him, confused. Of course she’s confused—what the hell is he talking about? If only he could pour out all his apprehension to her. Lay his head on her lap and tell her his troubles. He used to do that with Caroline. He would list his problems, and she would stroke his hair and listen, not saying a word until he was finished. Then she would ask questions, sort and rank his fears, accepting some as valid and dismissing others. He always felt better afterward.

They haven’t talked like that in years. When did they change, why, how did they let it die? Should he have tried harder? Taken that messy New Year’s Eve as a warning, a signal to back the fuck up and figure out what went wrong with the woman who had once been everything to him?

But Caroline had pulled away, too. It wasn’t just him. They’d both lost each other.

And now everything is ruined.

If only he could tell Jenny his troubles now. She’s a balm, she would be sympathetic. But he can’t. He can’t go back, can’t keep starting over, repeating the same goddamn pattern. He’s a grown-up, for Christ’s sake. He’s been the strong one—he is the strong one. If he wusses out now it might upset her, and that won’t fly.

He needs distance from the news, and that gruesome image. He walks over to the sofa.

I went for it? she says.

I just mean, what we were talking about before. Your work. You do what you love. Being a lawyer was never something I wanted. It was a backup plan. I wanted…

His eyes stray to the television.

No. Focus on her. Look at her. Waiting for him to speak.

And say what?

I went to Oxford, he says. Like your buddy Juan Pablo.

Did she sleep with him?

Oh for fuck’s sake!

I thought you went to Brown, she says.

I did, for undergrad. Oxford came afterward. I was a Rhodes scholar.

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