Page 123 of Lucky Night

Any news? he asks.

She’s scrolling on the phone. They think there might be firefighters still alive in the building, but they aren’t sure. If the sprinklers are functioning—they don’t know that, either—there’s a chance they could stop the spread. Otherwise…

He goes to the window. The exterior of the building across the street reflects an unfathomable sheet of orange flame, three or four stories down. An undulating mass of color, billows of smoke whipping away on the wind. It’s weirdly gorgeous.

And close. So close.

They could make it quick. Leave the room and find a stairwell. It would take only a minute or two for the smoke to overwhelm them.

He turns the idea over in his head, even as he knows it’s not an option. Not while there’s still an infinitesimal chance they might get out of this. Not while there’s still the boundless capacity of human delusion.

She’s on the sofa, arms around her knees. He takes a seat in the chair across from her. He drums his fingers on the arm. Crosses his legs. Uncrosses them.

He stands up. Sits down. Stands up again and goes to the minibar. There’s still so much booze left. Imagine being a recovering alcoholic and walking into this room. He takes a pint bottle of something—whiskey?—and returns to the chair. He cracks the cap and takes a swig.

My office at home looks down on the Parks’ back porch, he says.

She lifts her chin. The light in the room is dim, but he can see her eyes shining.

I can’t see it from my desk, he says. The place where we…Imoved the desk, so I wouldn’t…I didn’t want to be looking down on it all the time.

He offers her the bottle. She shakes her head.

He walks to the window again, but comes right back, sits beside her and takes her hands.

How about this? he says. How about, if we get out of this? We be together.

She doesn’t respond.

We go legit, he says. You and me. It’ll be a shitshow, a scandal, but so what? Those can be fun. What are we here for but to provide entertainment for our friends and neighbors, right?

She is silent. Just looking at him with her big shining eyes.

How does that…what do you think? he says.

She raises their joined hands to her lips and kisses his.

Jenny kisses his hands!

I think it could be great, Nick. But we’re not getting out of this.

He barely makes it to the bathroom. That the contents of his stomach end up in the toilet is a matter of sheer luck. On his knees in the darkness he clings to the porcelain and heaves. He hasn’t vomited for years. Or cried, though he’s crying now. He feels the tears on his face, tastes them even as he’s spitting and spitting, trying to spit out that awful sour acid.

How is this happening?

He’s wasted his life.

She follows him in, using the light of the phone to guide her. He senses her moving around, then she’s kneeling beside him. He feels her hand on his back.

Take this, she says. She’s brought him a glass of water. He rinses his mouth and spits into the toilet. She has a washcloth, too. She’s thought of everything. She’s so good, she’s—

The glass slips from his fingers and smashes on the floor.

I’m sorry! he cries. Jenny, I’m so sorry!

Her eyes fill with tears. She can’t help it—she always cries when someone else is crying.

But Nick? Nick weeping? She can’t bearit.

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