Page 29 of Lucky Night

I know. It just makes me feel better to check.

There’s way too much information on the internet. Radio codes? Where are you even finding this shit?

From social media accounts that follow the FDNY. She’s scrolling again. I came across them last year, when I was doing research. At the end of my trilogy, a fire destroys the house at the center of the story. I wanted it to be authentic, and—

Wilderkill burns down? he says.

Yes, it…she looks up. How do you know its name?

Hmm? Oh. Well. He reaches for his champagne. Takes a long sip. Jill read your books. She loves them.

She does? Jenny looks so pleased. I had no idea.

Yeah, she never shuts up about them. I must have heard it from her. Listen, stop stressing about the alarm. And don’t look at the internet. It’s a cesspool.

Right. You’re right. She sets the phone down. Adjusts the pillows behind her. Picks up her champagne and takes a sip.

So, she says. Us. You. Change.

She’s really not letting thisgo.

You said early on that you’d never, you know. Done anything like this before.

Had an affair, he says. Cheated on my wife.

Because if they must talk about it, they should stop mincing around and use the correct terminology.

Adultery. Voluntary sexual activity between a married person and someone other than that person’s spouse.

From the Latin,adulterare,to pollute or defile.

Synonyms: infidelity, two-timing, fornication, inconstancy, entanglement, liaison. Faithlessness. Criminal conversation.

I guess I’m just curious whether it’s made any sort of a difference in your life, she says.

I’m happier, for sure. He takes her hand and kisses it. We’ve talked about this—how I was in a dark place. Suffering my predictable midlife crisis.

Your malaise, she says.

Exactly. Which is gone now, thanks mostly to you. But has this changed me fundamentally? I would say no. He turns her hand over and kisses her palm. If only, right? If only knowing you could wash away all my flaws and failings.

He bites her thumb. Hears the sharp intake of her breath. He takes hold of her wrist, pulling her toward him.

Hey. Why don’t we…

But she’s drawing away.

I’ll be right back.

And she’s gone again. He picks up his glass. Empty. He goes to the fridge to collect the second bottle of champagne. She’s still nervous. Should he have offered to go downstairs and check out the situation? God no. He tears the foil off the cork, untwists its wire cage. He could have called, though. He just doesn’t want to break the spell of the night. There’s something intimate about being confined in here with her. Insulated from the outside world. Even placing a phone call would be reaching out to that world. Acknowledging that it matters. He aims the bottle at the bland collage above the sofa—a dent could only improve the thing—and eases the cork free with his thumbs. Still, she shouldn’t have to turn to the internet for information. He’ll call down when she comes back.

Why is she so fixated on change—has he changed, can’t people change? She hasn’t. For all that’s happened, her massive success, her glamorous new career, she’s exactly the same as she was when they met. At a toddler birthday party, of all places, in one of those soul-murdering kiddie torture gyms. They chatted among the balance beams and brightly colored mats. Other people were there, he doesn’t remember who. She’d just moved to town, anotherBrooklyn refugee. She had a messy ponytail. And a poppyseed stuck in her teeth. He would have said something, but he didn’t want to embarrass her. She was so wonderfully unselfconscious, with her big guffaws. Her sexy weariness. He found himself thinking about her the rest of that day. She’d snagged in his mind.

He began to see her occasionally around town. At social events, when he was running errands, dropping Jill at the town pool. He would notice her and instantly feel awkward. Because, to be clear, he wasnotthat guy. The married perv, the creepo dad, ogling and lurking—that was the last guy he wanted to be! It was disgusting. Of course he wouldn’tdoanything, would never approach her or signal his interest. But it felt wrong to even think about her. So he remained polite, but aloof. At the park, the bookstore. The occasional neighborhood party.

Settling the new bottle into the ice bucket, he notices her heap of rings, and his cock gives a valedictory twitch. Engagement ring, wedding band. He loves to watch her remove them. The way she thrusts her elbows out, twists and tugs, lips pursed, a crease between her brows. The effort makes her breasts shimmy gloriously. Until off the rings come, and she leans over to place them on the nightstand.Where my hand is set.She is naked then, shorn of any reminder of her other attachments, her full life of relationships and associations that could cause him a pang of…

What? Nothing. He doesn’t feel pangs. That’s part of what’s so fantastic about her, and this. It’s blissfully pang free.

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