Page 63 of Backslide
There is also a second bottle of iced tea. Which makes me question Noah’s claim that he bought the drink for himself—was it always intended for me?
And, if so, why was he being so kind? Was it guilt? Reparations for our past—though he has still never admitted fault? Or could he just not stand the idea of someone out there in the world not liking him?
Noah was always the most charming, well-loved guy. You couldn’thatehim. If you got to know him well, you’d glimpse his darker dimensions, but he presented outwardly as accepting, sweet, and fun—like everybody’s favorite puppy.
With a killer six-pack and panty-dropper eyes.
Well, it was no mystery why the ladies liked him.
Is he just trying to right a wrong, so his conscience is clear?
My mind wanders back to his abs, then roams around his body to unseemly places, as I wonder whether it’s still the same.
Inadvertently, tangled in my dress, I’d shown him mine, but he hadn’t shown me his.
But back in the day…
That relationship was so formative for me. So much so that he haunted me. Sometimes, over the years, I’d realize suddenly, with shame, that I was attracted to someone because of a certain physical quality that reminded me of Noah. And I’d chastise myself for that—for even remembering the particular slope of his lowerback into his ass, the leanness of his build, the broadness of his shoulders, the smooth tan skin of his muscled forearms. The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. Even Alfie, though fair and lithe and always in a vintage band tee, had a half-smile that evoked one Noah used for our inside jokes.
But it was a poor imitation. More caustic than clever. I know that now.
By the time I realized I’d been taken in by that familiarity in part, that I’d endowed this new man, Alfie, with a kind of warmth and affection he didn’t possess, I was in deep.
I groan, running a hand as far as it will go through my tangled hair.
I am hot and bothered enough, but still I pop a pill and plug in the heating pad. I dim the light, lie back down, and place the warming fabric on my injured shoulder.
Every part of me feels pulled tight, the dial turned up.
Moonlight falls through the shades, turning everything blue. Even my mood. A tree branch taps the window like Morse code.
Am I reacting this way because I’m roiling from a breakup? It would be easier if that was the case. Only, I know that’s not true. Because Alfie and I were over ages ago, though I’d let the relationship sit out, thawing, until it turned. Change is always challenging, and another failed relationship didn’t feelgreat, but I’d felt mostly relief when he walked out the door carrying his last box of political tomes and politely wished me well like I was his least favorite colleague.
One thing I know for sure: I will not be lying in bed decades from now, electricity thrumming through me, sheets nervy against my skin, thinking abouthim.
Clearly I’m in crisis of another kind. It’s true that I’ve been feeling stuck. New York is home, but somehow I’ve grown sick of the Brooklyn neighborhood I once loved. Even of the curmudgeonlybodega cat with whom I used to trade haughty glares. I am no longer excited by the prospect of the next fancy project or timely “collab”—the parties, the cocktails, the sometimes-famous people.
In about two months, the magazine will fold, cast aside along with its staff.
Which, I suppose, is the push I need. I’m ready for the next challenge. The next stage. But what does that mean?
Because here I am in the dark with my eyes closed against reality, fantasizing not about a new future but about the past. About what—or who—lies just on the other side of this suite’s common room. About putting on some of those old records and inviting him in. And isn’t that the exact opposite of what I should be doing?
Grasping at old versions of myself out of desperation? Backsliding into old habits? Giving credence to bad ideas, a person I know is bad news, from before I knew better?
Why am I even entertaining this? The truth is, I realize now with a sense of profound embarrassment, I don’t even know if there is athisat all.
And I definitely know thereshouldn’tbe.
And yet I keep returning to that almost kiss on the plaza bench earlier in the day, the way his lids dipped heavily as he leaned in.
I need to focus on the future! Heal my (psychosomatic?) arm! Be my best self for Cara. Then go home and figure out what’s next. Not daydream about making out with my ex-boyfriend from a time when I was also crushing on John Starks, George Clooney, and Christian Slater.
I shift to my right and feel around on the bedside table for a bottle of orange blossom and chamomile pillow mist that is apparently distilled on the property. I spray it around in place of sage to clear the air. Clear my head.
And it does smell incredible.
See? I’m fine! Great, even. I can go back to avoiding Noah. Rejoin Team NSA. Use my shoulder as an excuse to skip the booze bus to wineries Cara has planned for tomorrow—Day 3:You booze, you snooze!Song: “My Own Worst Enemy” by Lit—and use the time to get my shit together instead.
