Page 36 of Shame

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I wakeup the next morning with a raging headache, for obvious reasons. Too much wine, too much screen time, not enough sleep or common sense.

With a groan, I grab a laptop and carry it to the kitchen. As I brew an extra-large cup of coffee, I open the computer and wince at the evidence on the screen of my wine-fuelled critique of a stranger’s choices.

Then, because I’m a glutton for punishment, I refresh the page—and find myself blocked.

Well, that’s probably for the best.

Luke would be horrified if he knew what I did. It’s the worst kind of behaviour he abhors on the internet. I would feel bad about it if his own behaviour in private hotel rooms wasn’t a thousand times worse, and maybe the asshole from last night will think twice about making the same mistake my husband has.

My thoughts swirl from Luke to Damien Noble, and the conversation the day before. Then back to Luke, Luke of old, Luke from college, who would be the first person I’d talk to about taking my business in a new direction.

I’m so tempted to call him. No, text him. That would be safer.

Just to run the question past him.

Would it be fair? To ask him for that attention, knowing I’m using him? But also, why do I feel like I need to be fair? He hasn't been fair to me.

What if I'm selfish and I just take what I want? I'm nervous about this show. How best to leverage it and still deliver orders to my online customers who fund my life. The show is about prestige, local recognition. It’s about myreputation.

I want to go for a walk around my city, with my husband, and be selfish for a short period of time.

Maybe I have to be honest with him about that. I think about texting him or emailing him or calling him, and explaining what I want.

But something holds me back, and I don't. And then when I go out, there he is. On the elevator when the doors open.

“Hi,” I say cautiously as I join him in the elevator car. “Were you coming up to see me?”

What were the odds?

His cheeks stain red. “I was heading out to get some fresh air, and I saw the elevator was being called to the eighth floor. I hopped on just in case it was you. I just thought I might see you for a minute,” he finishes, naked longing in his voice.

I have wanted him to long for me for ages.

And now he does. And it doesn't feel good. It feels hollow and empty and sad.

I’m not sure how to reply to that.I was thinking of calling youfeels cruel now, like I would be leading him on.I wanted to talk to somebody. And that somebody is you. Why is that somebody you? Why is it always you?

I opt for a smile instead.

“How's the prep for the show going?”

I don't have to bring it up. He's asking all on his own.

So I answer him honestly. As we arrive on the ground floor, I admit, “I’m nervous about it.”

He steps off first, waits for me.

“Are you heading to the office?”

He shakes his head. “I’m still working from home.” He stumbles over that last word and corrects himself. “Here, the apartment. I was going to get a coffee.”

“Oh, I was—” I cut myself off.

He looks surprised. “Are you also going to get a coffee?”

I nod. “And then I was gonna go for a walk, and think about why I'm nervous and what I need to do next and how to get ready for this, how to maximize the opportunity.”

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