Page 45 of Lucky Night

Well, he’s not the only fool in this room, is he? This situation, this nightmare, is ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-nine percent his fault, for sure—the insistence on a whole night, the choice of this particular deathtrap-beg-pardon hotel, his withholding of information and of course his arguments why they should heed the intercom voice, not her gut or common sense, and stay.

But who allowed herself to be prevailed upon and persuaded? Who allowed their time to be frittered away with idle talk of brainwashing and phantom jizz?

She glances at him. He’s sitting up against the headboard, shoes off, frowning at his phone. He’s aging well. Six years older than she is, but doesn’t look it. He’s holding on to his hair. It’s started going gray, which suits him. He keeps it cut too short, though.

She rarely gets to observe him from a distance like this. The sharp jaw, sharp chin, he’s all edges and corners. Still slim. Inbetter shape than when they started, in fact. Being a relentless tyrant must do wonders for the metabolism.

She refreshes Twitter. @nycfirewire says the FDNY is beginning smoke remediation efforts, aiming to clear the building’s stairwells within the hour.

She considers his hands. They’re long and slim, a little bony. Beautiful. She’s always been a hand woman. A handmaiden, ha. His are rarely still. He never shuts up and his hands never stop moving, painting his words onto the air.

What is she doing? Why is she appreciating him, and getting all florid about it?Painting his words onto the air?She’s so embarrassing. Meanwhile he’s ignoring her, sheathed in his umbrage over there, his chagrin. He’s the Chagrined King, scrutinizing his phone, lips pursed.

What’s he studying with such concentration?

Porn. It’s probably porn.

She turns away so he doesn’t happen to look up and think she’s smiling at him, because sorry, no, she still hates his guts and thinks he sucks.

She refreshes Twitter. @firechieftim, a retired battalion commander, applauds the FDNY’s rapid and effective response, noting the department’s unparalleled experience fighting high-rise fires. Couldn’t agree more, Chief Tim!

Does she really hate Nick’s guts? Should she? What’s the point of staying angry? It’s exhausting. It allows him to take up way too much space in her head. Even more than he’s occupied lo these many years.

He remembered the room key. If he hadn’t, they’d be roaming the halls right now, or hanging out in the little room with the vending machines and the icemaker. He’s organized, he has forethought—points in his favor.

The little room with the icemaker? This isn’t a HoJo, for God’s sake.

Another point in his favor? She loved him once. It’s been over for ages—lo these many years—but some tenderness lingers. Evenback then she wasn’t blind to his flaws, but he was alive. Most people are dead dead dead. He had a spark, in the way he spoke and looked. His intensity and outrageous opinions. The complete truthfulness of him when he was naked. He was vital. He dazzled her.

See? Even now she can’t escape the absurdity of it, the spoony superlatives. We make so much fun of people when they carry on about falling in love, about getting swept away, because they sound so ridiculous. Love is ridiculous, from the outside. But when you’re in it…oh God, when you’re in it…

She thought it would be awful. Humiliating. And sometimes it was. But mostly, she was exalted. More absurdity, but she was. This outrageous, imprudent love, it was her thing, hers alone. She wanted without being wanted, and felt great power in it. Even in the ending of it. Not that that was easy, Jesus no, it was torture. But she didit.

It’s reassuring, actually, to know that you can fall in love with someone, and fall back out, and survive. It’s difficult, harrowing in fact, but you’ll be okay.

Now? It’s fine. Little things, like the wedding ring incident, occasionally tug at her, but mostly she’s steady. Her love was a madness, but she’s glad it happened. Once I loved someone, and he didn’t love me back, but that didn’t matter. I did it. It was mine.

And here they are now, here he is, the unwitting beneficiary of her buried tenderness. And her gratitude. She can’t forget her secret gratitude to him, for turning her into a writer. A good one, college workshop instructors be damned. She might have become who she was supposed to be without him, but she didn’t. She owes him that.

She hears a rustling. An aggrieved, slightly performative sigh. The click of his phone being placed on the nightstand. Is he…

Yes. He’s getting out of bed.

He’s coming over.

The cooling-off period has ended, apparently.

He walks across the room and pulls out the desk chair. He sits down on it, facing her across the coffee table.

He wants to talk. Good. If he apologizes, she’ll grant him alittle grace. In honor of her dead love and her very live gratitude. And the fact that he was so generous earlier.Where are you, Jenny?He fucked up after that, badly, but he has tried to be kind.

He gazes at her.

She gazes back.

Did you sleep with that director? he asks.

She blinks.

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