Page 122 of Lucky Night

Maybe we’ll get out of this. There’s still a chance. But it’s bad. The smoke is…there’s smoke in the room now. I don’t know…the lights have gone out, so we can’t see into the hall.

You’re a good man, Tommy. I know you don’t think so sometimes but you are. Take care of my boys. Take really really reallyreally really really really good care of them, okay? Tell them I love them. I said that already, I know, I just…

Okay. I’m going to go. I have togo.

I’m going togo.

Maybe I’ll see you soon. I hope so. Or maybe…maybe later.

Maybe I’ll see you later.

I love you, Tom.

Bye, baby.

She ends the call, lowers her head between her knees and sobs.

Her tears drop down onto the soft bath mat.

She’s not ready for this.

She told him the truth. She’s not scared anymore.

But she is sad. So sad!

There’s so much more she wanted to do. And her boys! She’s fucked up their lives.

So she lets herself go for a while.

Eventually the tears slow, and her ragged breathing evens out. She is scoured and tranquil once more. She hauls herself up and finds the vanity, where she splashes her face with water from the full sink. All the towels are gone—she dries her face with a skimpy washcloth.

Her reflection in the mirror is pale, lit only by the dim light from the phone screen. It goes dark, and she taps it, checking the battery level. Nick needs the signal to send his emails.

Maybe I’ll see you,she said to Tom. Not a lie, though she knows she’s not going home.You’re never home,Tom said, just last week, and it pissed her off, but he was right. Right without knowing why. She’s been keeping some part of herself to herself, for herself, for a long time. She made a promise. She broke it, over and over again. She thought she’d have a chance to make it right.

But she won’t.

She splashes her face again. The cool water is delicious.

It is what it is, she tells her ghostly reflection.

What itis.

What it was.

Twenty One

All that illuminates the room now are the lights of Manhattan and the fire reflected off the building opposite. It’s maybe four or five floors below them. He’s not sure because he hasn’t gone to the window to look. He needs to finish these emails.

Emails. Christ. Not how he would have chosen to say goodbye. But better something written than a phone call—a voicemail, for surely Jill and Caroline are both asleep. Writing, he can make sure he hasn’t left anything unsaid. That he’s included enough love and apologies.

He is a careful writer usually, judicious. But it’s pouring out of him now. In a good way. He’s in a confined space, a compartment the size of his laptop screen, and he can manage things nicely there. He can focus on the love, the apologies, for Caroline and especially for Jill, his sweet girl, his wonderful daughter, she has been his delight every single day, does she know that, did he tell her often enough? He’s telling her, right now.

Anyway that’s where he is, focused on them, which conveniently prevents him from thinking about the dark and the dire, the unbelievable unreality of what happened, is happening, might happen any minute now, which is why he needs to focus on the love, and the apologies.

So he does. Until he’s said it all.

Jenny comes back into the room. He connects his laptop to the phone’s signal, reads his emails one more time, then sends them. He closes the laptop.

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