Page 43 of Lucky Night

Right, he says. I’ll stay here, you stay over there. We’ll take a minute and cool off.

She rolls her eyes and turns away.

Fine. If she wants to act like a petulant child, that’s her business. He’s trying to help her, but he can only do so much. She’s not well. That tranquility of hers when they got back to the room was a front. Like all her other fronts.

In addition to complications from the weather, firefighters initially encountered a problem with the building’s standpipe system, which caused delaysin—

He mutes the television. Enough with the yabbering news. Enough with tending to Jenny. He needs to focus on what he’s going to tell Caroline. What minor lie will be sufficient to cover up the much bigger one. He despises this part, the blatant falsehoods—or rather, he despises himself when telling them. They’re so mean. So low. She deserves so much better.

He finds his phone. Taking Jenny’s spot at the end of the bed, he starts typing.

Hey. You’re probably asleep, just wanted to let you know my flight got canceled and I decided to put up at a hotel rather than come home. I hope to leave first thing tomorrow but I’m on standby right now, so who knows when—

Is he joking with all those clicks and clacks? Has he not…oh, wow. He hasn’t turned off keyboard sounds on his phone! What kind of a monster…how is she supposed tocool offwhen he’s tap-dancing with his fingers over there?

Typical. Thinks of nobody but himself. Of nothing but his own convenience.

She should call out to him, guide him through the process. Hey, asshole! Go to Settings, Sounds and Haptics, Keyboard Sounds, andswitch it the fuck off.

But she’s not going to be the one to break the silence. No sir. Jesus, he’s a fast typer. Cooking up a lengthy lie for his poor wife,no doubt. One of his persuasive spiels, his three-dollar-word-studded mountains of horseshit.

How in God’s name did she ever fall in love with this clown?

Not the first time she’s asked herself this question.

She is dimly aware that her fury at him is preventing worse feelings from gaining purchase. Horror, overwhelming fear, et cetera. Sorry, guys, try again later. Right now I’m focused on the numerous shortcomings of Mr. Lacks Basic Phone Etiquette over there.

Including the fact that the only thing he seems to fear about their predicament, the only thing that mildly troubles him, is the possibility that they’re going to get busted.

And she’s the irrational one?

Though she shouldn’t be surprised. He’s always been excessively cautious. Proposing they meet in quiet bars, out-of-the-way restaurants. But mostly in hotel rooms. They arrive separately and reunite inside the doors of rooms like this one, away from the nosy, noticing world. And she understands—she doesn’t want to get caught either. But couldn’t he be a little less obvious about it? Not always fidgeting and glancing at the door when they’re having a drink, not scanning the lobby on the rare occasion they enter a hotel at the same time. In private he loves that they’re sinning—part of me wants you to put them back on so I can watch you take them off again—but in public he’s eager to distance himself. Like she’s some sort of crime.

Which she is. They are.

She gets it, she does.

Still. It’s infuriating.

She separates out a lock of hair and twirls it until it coils up on itself close to her scalp, like a little horn. She lets it unspool, then coils it up again. Herve hates this habit of hers.You’re cruising for breakage, my dear.But it’s comforting. She lets the lock unspool again, then pulls it in front of her face, against her forehead, against her…

Her hair smells of smoke.

She plucks at the shoulder of her blouse—they’re still dressed from their attempted flight, it’s strange to be clothed in a room with him—and brings it to her nose. It smells of smoke, too.

Breathe now. Breathe. Think more about what a shithead Nick is. Deceiving her, ordering her around, assigning her research tasks like she’s one of his minions, dictating a lie to tell Tom. A ridiculous one. No publishing company in the world would put her up at a hotel this nice. She’s made hers millions of dollars, and still she’s lucky if they book her into a fucking Ramada!

Whatever. She doesn’t need his facts and reasonableness. She’s not a puddle, okay? She’s not pinballing around the room in a state of derangement. There is a fire. Professionals are handling it. She gets it. She doesn’t need to be managed.

Where is her phone? Lost somewhere in the duvet. Doesn’t matter. She’ll check the news in a minute. See? She can hold off on that, too.

Though her stomach is fluttering. Her mouth is dry. She closes her eyes and focuses on her breathing. If only she knew how to meditate. She doesn’t have the patience. For meditation, or yoga, or any sort of calming, mindful hobby. Tom and the boys love to tease her about it, how she takes up enthusiasms—knitting, the piano—only to discard them after a few half-hearted weeks.Hey, guess what? Mom gave up on pottery. Haha!

Did that mother in Brooklyn get teased by her children? Did they hang on her and make her sticky, fart into her decorative pillows? How did she survive when they weren’t around to aggravate her anymore? Has she survived? God isn’t enough, faith doesn’t fill the days. You still have to brush your teeth and parallel park, take shits and do the laundry. All the while your brain is working, drumming it into you:you left, you left them, you jumped out the window, you lived and you left them to die.

A mother, separated from her children. Who chose to leave them behind. She doesn’t want to judge the woman, but what she did is inconceivable. Unnatural.

Okay, but haven’t you left your children?

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