Page 23 of Lucky Night

Weird comparison, but okay.

The point is she feels dumb next to him, which she hates. But also kind of loves. He makes her think. Challenges her opinions, prods and teases. It’s maddening. And so hot. God, she wants him again. Maybe they could no. You have to wait. It won’t be long now.

She hears the roar of the toilet, the blast of the tap. A muffled exclamation. His head appears around the corner.

Can you believe there’s no soap in this dump?

There is, she says. I mean, there was. I took it for Natey. He loves hotel toiletries. The little bottles and sewing kits and whatnot?

So you swiped them? You’ve sold millions of those vampire books of yours—you can’t afford to buy the kid a few trial-size bottles?

Ghosts. My books are about ghosts. She smiles at him. And you’re right. I’ve sold millions.

Congratulations. He nods at the phone in her hand. Everything okay?

What?

You were checking on the boys.

Oh. Yeah, they’re fine. The soap is in my bag.

He disappears again. Checking on the boys, right…she opens her messages. She’s gotten nothing from Tom since a text that morning:what did you do with the good spatula?She hasn’t responded. She doesn’t care for his accusatory tone. She also doesn’t want to admit that she used the good spatula to scrape ice off her windshield, which is why it’s currently in the back seat of her car. In pieces. So she types:I sold it to a passing Eskimo. That’s what her father always said when she was a kid and couldn’t find something. The stapler? Oh, an Eskimo came to the door looking for one and I gave it to him. Your tennis shoes? Sold ’em to an Eskimo!

Why an Eskimo? She never asked. Her dad is a good, kind man, a wonderful man, but the Eskimo thing…is it racist? Singling them out, mocking their, what? Nomadic lifestyle? Historical deprivations?

Can you even use the wordEskimoanymore?

She deletes her text without sending.

She checks Twitter, checks Google, checks Reddit. Checks into a mental hospital. Because honestly—what is she afraid of? Well, that’s easy. She’s afraid to die. More accurately, she finds it unfathomable. Nonexistence? Sorry—can’t picture it! And she doubts there’s anything waiting for her afterward, despite her half-hearted faith, which isn’t founded on a belief in some higher power so much as on a gut skepticism that this excessively complicated world could have sprung into being from atoms and chaos. Bat sonar, and babies’ perfect ears, and the convoluted reproductive systems of kangaroos—these things just kind of happened? She knows evolution is more sophisticated than that, it occurred over a span of time greater than her puny brain can grasp, there’s hard evidence, something about geologic strata…still.

Kangaroos have two uteruses. And three vaginas.

They must be exhausted.

In short, it’s all improbable. But if the alternative is true, she’s facing eternal torment for her flagrant sins. Either way, she’s screwed.

Thus the fear.

Flagrant sins. Does Nick feel guilty? She’s never asked. The question falls squarely within the realm of That Which They Do Not Discuss. They scrupulously avoid talking about their marriages, their spouses. Caroline seems to adore him. The way she smiles at him at parties. Touches his hair. Jenny feels awful when she sees them together. Stabs of guilt, which she welcomes. Because if she won’t stop doing what she’s doing with Caroline’s husband—and while she did consider stopping once, she hasn’t—it’s only right that she feel like a monster from time to time.

But she’s curious, too. Do they still sleep together? Do theyhave nicknames? In-jokes? What do they fight about? Laugh about? She knows he’s a good father. He dotes on Jill.

But what else is he? What kind of husband?

She moves to the window, then back to the sofa. Circling, circling. The way Nick talks circles around her. People don’t change? What a cynic, what a…of course people change! She changed. She had an epiphany, decided to correct course, and it was daunting, agonizing even, but she did it. She—hey, she executed! God, it felt like an execution at the time. She can’t tell him about it, absolutely not, but it happened. She changed.

So ha ha, Nick—you’re wrong! You’re completely—

There itis.

In the midst of berating herself she refreshed Twitter, and with a clutch at her heart now reads @nycfirewire’s latest post:

MANHATTAN 10-41 code1

Park & 50. Alarm reported 6.19 pm

Park and Fiftieth. That’s them. What’s a 10-41 code 1? She googles it and finds a site listing FDNY radio codes. She scrolls, scrolls, there are so many fricking codes…

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