Page 118 of Lucky Night

You, afraid to say something? Comeon.

He dismisses that with a wave of his hand.

Anyway, it didn’t matter what you felt, she says. It was about how I felt.

About me! he cries, stopping in front of her. How you feltaboutme!

She rises now, coming to meet him. Don’t be upset. She touches his arm.I—

He jerks away.

Don’t be upset? You’ve dropped a bomb on me, Jenny! Out of fucking nowhere, while I’m dealing with—here he flails a hand toward the television—how am I supposed to…

He’s all over the place. He needs to calm down.

He sits on the sofa. Grips his head in both hands and leans back, staring up at the ceiling.

What the fuck? he whispers. What thefuck?

How did he miss it? How did he not see it? Love? A year? A year she was…

Did it not occur to you, he says, addressing the ceiling, that I might want to know about this magnificent romantic experience you were having? Not telling me…that means we were having sex, dozens of times, over the course of years, and I didn’t know you were in love with me. If I had known…I mean, you were sleeping with me under false pretenses.

Okay, well, I guess I’m a rapist, she says. Sorry.

That’s not what I meant. Jesus, Jenny, I don’t know what to think here! What am I supposed to do with this information?

Be flattered? she suggests. Touched? And maybe don’t use it to attackme?

Why didn’t you give me a chance to respond?

What, like, love me back? You didn’t need to know how I felt to do that. I was right there, Nick. That was your chance.

No, he insists. Because that wasn’t you! You were hiding your feelings. Hiding and lying.

You were hiding things, too. That didn’t stop me. It never stops anyone. Insufficient information, remember? You didn’t love me because you couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. And that’s fine!

He walks to the window. Walks back. A few more lengths of the room and he feels calmer. Slightly. Because you can’t survive at that pitch of aggravation for long.

He passes her again. Glances at her.

He always dismissed the thought of loving her, pushed it away, thinking only of himself, never wondering how she felt, whether she…and she did. Love him. And he didn’t know it. When he made that suggestion, and she shot it down…what if he hadn’t retreated? What if he’d asked a few more questions—actually tried to know what was in her head? What if he hadn’t felt so rebuked, what if he’d risked…

Not me, obviously.

He knew it had been six years. But he didn’t want her to know he knew. She didn’t want him to know, he didn’t want her to know…

Jesus Christ. What have they beendoingall this time?

He stops at the door. Stands before it, in the low-lit foyer, still so elegant, unsullied by whatever the hell is going on downstairs, not to mention the turmoil between them. This fucking night. So longed for, so anticipated, so…

The door, he says.

He comes back to her. She’s standing by the bed, eyes on the television.

They’re saying one of the stairwells might be clear, she says. They have to check—

You said something to me. At the door.

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