Page 110 of Pick-Up
With Kaitlin, things worked on paper. We looked right. We worked right—for a while. We were a decent team. She liked lists as much as I do.
At first, when I had just arrived in New York, she seemed classy and confident, a native city kid who knew the ropes. We had fun in the beginning. But we were never right.
What she wanted had more to do with what things looked likethan how they actually were. And when it turned out I didn’t really give a shit about Page Six mentions and South Beach white parties, she took it personally. Like I had gone back on a promise.
From then on, the marriage was like going through the motions. And the more she griped at me, the more I retreated.
I would have stayed though. For Ruby. And, honestly, because it never occurred to me that I could leave.
In some ways, I should be grateful to Kaitlin for cheating. Because, otherwise, we would have gone on like that—in a joyless relationship—for God knows how long. Maybe forever.
Even then, I was hurt by her betrayal but more relieved. I didn’t realize how trapped I’d felt until the gates opened.
She could have picked less of a dirtbag though. For someone with high-status standards, she really dumpster dived. Whatever he had been like in high school, the guy had turned into a bottom-feeder. Way beneath her. I can even say that now. After everything.
Made me wonder about how she sees herself.
I throw on my T-shirt and slacks. Take a deep breath before I leave my room. Put on my game face. But no one is in the living area when I leave, and I can hear water still running in Sasha’s room. Long shower.
Is she wasting water again?
What the hell is wrong with me?
I have tonight. To talk to her. To stem her panic. To hatch some kind of plan with her before she leaves for the airport in the morning and, faced with reality, doubles down on her doubts.
Here we go.
TO-DO
Keep it chill at dinner.
Get Sasha alone and convince her this is viable.
Test out my bed this time.
37 | The O.K. CorralSASHA
When I finally emerge from my room, the villa feels empty. The quiet is deep. Ethan and Stephanie have left, already en route to dinner.
I am staying calm. By which I mean that I am telling myself I am calm, but my body is a blender on chop. I am pushing mental images out of my mind of Bart with orange makeup running down his face and onto his furry pumpkin costume; of Nettie’s mouth dropping open as she absorbs another disappointment and pulls further into herself. Me, spending the rest of my career making videos of Larry the cat in Do It Furr Fashion.
I have a plan: I will talk to Stephanie and the rest of the group about the situation and see what we can figure out. Hopefully, there’s some reasonable solution. A way for me to avoid failing everyone at once.
I grab my clutch and head up toward the restaurant, too anxious to truly appreciate the sun setting this one last time over the horizon, a laser pointer finding focus until it dips out of view. The world’s most gorgeous eye exam. “This one?” it asks. “Or this one?”
Stephanie’s laughter rings out, greeting me before I arrive. And, as I crest the steps, I see that everyone is already taking their seats at the long outdoor dining table. I expect to find Martin in the seat of honor at the head, but he’s nowhere in sight. I wonder if Stephanie is disappointed or if she’s already gathered enough intel for a lifetime of salacious dinner-party stories.
Too late, I realize: I am freaking out so much about the weather that I have forgotten to have postcoital panic. This is the first timeI am seeing Ethan after doing the deed. I should be feeling preteen awkward. I should have run out of things to say before I began. I don’t know if it’s the other pressing issues, the man himself or my blossoming maturity (it’s not this), but, instead, when I spot him, I just feel warm inside.
Damn. I like this man. Like,likehim, like him.
Tonight, Ethan’s PT (it’s time I make these perfect T-shirts an official thing) is navy blue and it’s a fantastic color on him. His hair is just disheveled enough; his stubble is freshly trimmed. His skin is sun-kissed. His trousers hug his butt like I would if no one was around. Having gone there has not quelled my desire to go there again.
Not even my Kaitlin guilt—or fear of widespread VIM hatred—can stave off the horn dog in me when it comes to Ethan.
For a second, when I see him see me, when he looks up from conversation and a hundred-watt smile spreads across his face, I forget how fucking unhinged I am. How close to the edge. I just want to walk over to him, like he’s not my damn employer, and tuck myself under his arm, bury my face in his chest. And then I want to live there forever.
I feel like he’s mine.
