Page 42 of Lucky Night

She snorts. You think?

He grabs his phone. I’m going to email Caroline. You need to write to Tom.

She turns to him again. What?

We’re not supposed to be here, Jenny. And when we get out, we might show up there, he points at the television, for the wholeworld to see. It’s only NY1, but if someone we know catches it, or it goes online…look at that asshole, he’s giving a thumbs-up to the camera! The point is, we could get caught, unless we lay a little groundwork to explain what we’re doing here.

That’s what you’re freaking out about? she says. Getting caught?

He really wishes she would get with the program. This is not an ideal situation, he says, but we’re safe. The fire department is on top of it, hell, they’re in the stairwell chatting with guests, which suggests they aren’t battling someTowering Inferno–type situation. It’s just—

Chatting with guests? she says. Chatting, Nick?

The hotel has not disclosed how many people remain on the upper floors.

I’m going to text Caroline and tell her…something, I’ll figure it out. You need to text Tom, or email him, however you guys tend to communicate. Tell him…he snaps his fingers. I know—tell him this. You had to come back to the city early. For a last-minute meeting. And your publisher put you up at this hotel, which is why—

That fireman was not chatting with guests, Nick. He was yelling at us to get out of the way. So they can fight the fuckingfire.

Jenny, I’m trying to help you. I’m trying to protect both ofus.

Protect us! She laughs harshly. But not from the fire, right? From being exposed as cheating pieces of shit.

The newscast cuts to a commercial. He sets his phone down and walks to the window.

He gazes out, hands in his pockets. Watches the wind whip snow past the glass. It must be freezing out. The kind of bitter winter night they don’t get many of anymore. They could be out there right now, shivering but at liberty. If only he’d—

Jenny, he says.

She doesn’t answer.

If you’re just joining us, we’re reporting live from the site of a significant fire in Midtown Manhattan, which we’re told started shortly after six p.m. on the twenty-first floor. Reporter Juliana Gonzalez is on the scene.

She’s still hunched at the foot of the bed, dividing her attention between her phone and the television.

He walks to her and crouches down. He touches her knee.

Jenny. Hey.

She looks at him.

We’re not pieces of shit.

Yes, we are, she says. And soon we’re going to be charbroiled pieces of shit, and it’s your fault.

She’s glaring at him.

I wanted to leave, she says, practically spitting the words. Twice I wanted to leave, and you said we should stay. Marshaled all your, she waves her hands, rational arguments, your reasons why it was fine, even while you weren’t telling me everything you knew!

I didn’t refuse to leave, he says. I was ready to go if you insisted, but you agreedto—

Bullshit! she cries. That is such bullshit! You persuaded me to stay because you thought you were right. You knew best. But you were wrong. We should have left, we could have left, and it’s your fault we didn’t.

He’s been crouching at her level. Now he rises.

Let’s take a break, okay? This has been intense, and we could both use a little spaceto—

She gets up, pushing past him, grabbing a corner of the duvet and dragging it with her as she crosses the room and plops down on the sofa. She wraps the duvet around her.

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