Chapter 12

12

I shiver watching the snow come down. It’s cold in here. There are plants wilting against the glass. There’s some dusty patio furniture. A stack of magazines on the coffee table. Architectural Digest and Life in the Finger Lakes . There’s a worn copy of The Power Broker .

I don’t believe for a second that any of these people have a keen interest in Robert Moses.

Whose book is this?

Whose house is this?

The man circles the room and lands in a chair, draping himself across it, limbs swinging. He wears a long, thick silver chain tucked into his sweater. It glints in a patch of moonlight.

I take a good look at him. As I stare, my heart takes off, beating faster and faster until my head catches up and I realize he reminds me of someone, only I can’t remember who.

Right now I’d give anything to be younger, for no other reason than to escape this feeling. Rewind to a time before this was possible, before I’d lived enough to discover a ghost in a stranger’s face.

“What is it?” he asks me.

Have I met him before? In life? In a dream?

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

“Mm. Do you lie for my sake or for your own?”

I don’t know how to answer, so I don’t. I move back toward the stairs. Above me a mound of snow slumps from the roof, lands with a dense thud.

“Tell me something true,” he says.

“What is this? Truth or dare?” I ask without turning around. I press against the wall. Beyond the glass, the snow is piling up. How much more will fall tonight? I imagine this view completely obscured . I hear Naomi’s voice: It’s some snow, not an apocalyptic blizzard. But how would she know?

“Have you ever played truth or dare?” he asks.

“I never played any of those games.” If I had, maybe I’d be less scandalized by the X-rated spin-the-bottle debauchery happening in the other room.

“I’ve never played either. Would you play with me now?”

I look over at him. He wears the biggest, goofiest smile, delighted by his own idea, and it’s infuriatingly endearing. I snort.

“I’m serious. What else are we to do?”

There’s an insinuation, and it sends a spark rocketing up from the arches of my feet through my core and out of the top of my head. Sweat breaks over me like a wave.

“Okay,” I say, sitting down in the chair opposite him, crossing my arms and legs, creating a barrier with my extremities because I’m nothing if not committed to deluding myself.

“Your turn,” he says.

“Truth or—” I can’t even finish. It’s so absurd.

“Or…?”

“Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

“Dare?”

“Yes. Dare.”

“I thought you’d pick truth, since you’re Mr.Honest.”

“I am. That’s why truth isn’t exciting. For me. Maybe not for you since you lie.”

“I don’t lie.”

“A lie!”

I could strangle him. Put my hands around his neck and…

“What’s my dare?”

“I’m thinking.”

“Don’t think too hard. It’s a game.”

“I dare you to speak with your real accent.”

He sits up in his chair. “This is my real accent.”

I sit up straighter in mine. “No, it isn’t.”

He laughs, lets his head back, runs his fingers through his hair. “You’re cheating.”

“How am I cheating?”

“That wasn’t a dare. It was truth.”

“Okay. I dare you to tell me why you’re using a fake accent.”

He leans forward, hands on his thighs, eyes narrowed. “It’s my turn.”

“You’re not going to do my dare?”

“I am doing your dare. This is how I speak. Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“Who hurt you?”

The question hits me like a fast pitch. I fall back against the musty cushion, my jaw slack.

“That’s not—”

“Not what?” he asks. “Did you change your mind? Would you prefer a dare? Because I have something in mind…”

He grins his devious fox grin.

“Your question is presumptuous.”

“So was your dare.”

I wish I weren’t wearing these leggings. I know better than to borrow Naomi’s clothes. They don’t fit right, and they’re always impossibly uncomfortable. There’s a tag scratching my lower back. And they’re not real leather, but they might as well be—they’re sauna hot.

“Are you going to answer?”

“I don’t know how to answer.”

“It’s a simple question.”

“It’s not. It’s vague and…and…”

He raises his eyebrows. “And…?”

I’d rather be back courtside at the orgy. “And nothing. I’m not playing this game.”

“You’re quitting on me?” he asks, pouting.

“Nobody has hurt me.”

“Then why are you hurt?” he asks, slipping a metal case out of his back pocket and getting another cigarette. He lights it with a Zippo. “I can tell.”

“How?”

He exhales. “I’ve been around.”

“That so?”

“I don’t look it. But I’m old. And wise.”

I scoff. “Wise.”

He pouts again, ashes his cigarette on the floor. “Don’t be cruel.”

“How old are you?”

“It’s not your turn,” he says. “It’s still my turn.”

“I answered your question. Nobody hurt me.”

“You will think I’m lying. About my age.”

“Tell me anyway.”

He nods, takes a drag. “I am five hundred and ninety-two.”

The audacity. “You are such a liar!”

That grin slinks out again. “See?”

I stand to get away from him, walk over to the far wall, the musty scent from the cushion clinging to me like a parasite.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I suppose I’m no fun to play with.”

Outside, the snow falls with purpose, as if fleeing the dark of the sky. There’s nothing peaceful about it. It’s frantic. The glass walls must be thick, because I can’t hear the storm. It’s eerily quiet.

I assume Naomi will finish eventually. Come find me.

I hate not knowing how much time I have to kill.

“Fine. Dare,” I say. “And if I do it, I win.”

“With the dare I have in mind, I think we’d both win,” he says. The way he says it, and the way he looks at me when he does, I can’t. I lose my nerve.

“All right, old man,” I say, returning to my chair. “What if we drop the game and have an honest conversation? Just talk.”

“Whatever you want,” he says.

I realize I still don’t know his name. “You could start by telling me your name.”

“Henry,” he says, tossing his cigarette to the floor and stomping it out. He doesn’t look like a Henry, and maybe my face reacts without permission, because he adds, “But in the spirit of truth and honesty, that isn’t the name I was born with. That name was ugly, with an ugly history. I changed it.”

“I’m Sloane,” I say. “Sloane is my mother’s maiden name. Sometimes I feel like it suits me. And sometimes someone says it and I can’t believe they’re referring to me. There’s a complete disconnect. I’m no more attached to it than my Social Security number.”

I’m rambling. Whatever. Killing time. Just killing time. Just talking. Nothing else is happening here. Or going to happen. He’s strange and arrogant and I’m married. I look over at him, and he looks back at me.

I really like the way he looks at me.

“Is there a name you think would better suit you?” he asks with such genuine interest, I regret not having kissed him already.

When was the last time anyone made a genuine attempt to know me? Beyond the checklist of basics. When was the last time anyone made any effort to gain insight into my interiors?

This is wrong. This is bad.

This is platonic. It has to be.

“That’s a good question,” I tell him. “Maybe something simple and old-fashioned.”

“Like…?”

“Hmm. Like…Eleanor. Or Esther.”

He laughs his giant-nerd laugh, snorting at the end. “You are not an Esther.”

“Not now. But I could be. If I chose to be. Like you chose to be Henry.”

“I suppose names are only part of our identities. Not all of them.”

“They’re foundational.”

His lips pull to the side, brows sink as he thinks. “Did finding out my name change your opinion of me?”

My turn to think. “Yes. But every new thing you learn about someone influences your opinion of them.”

“Do you form strong opinions of people?”

“Generally, yes. Do you?”

He nods. “Most people are predictable. I observe them, come to my conclusions, and give them the opportunity to prove me wrong, and they never do.”

“Never?” I shift in my chair. I wish it were closer to his. We’re separated by the coffee table, a valley between us.

“Very rarely.”

“Have I proven you wrong?”

“No,” he says, wearing a smile I haven’t seen before. “You bewilder me.”

My cheeks sizzle; I’m blushing so hard, I can likely be seen from space.

“That’s why I brought you up here. Tried to engage you in playground games. You’re an enigma. I can’t quite figure you out.”

I open my mouth to dispute him. Tell him I’m not an enigma. I’m ordinary. My life is tedious at best, sad at worst. I take an Epsom-salt bath every Tuesday night while listening to true-crime podcasts. I vacuum and do laundry on Saturday mornings, then go to Wegmans around noon, where I buy the same things every week, maybe switch up the flavor of seltzer. I batch cook Bolognese sauce once a month. I stare at the soup recipe that’s been saved to my desktop for two years and I know I’ll never make but for some reason won’t delete. I waste hours researching eye creams. I call Naomi. I call my parents, FaceTime my brother maybe once every couple of months. I keep in touch with friends who live far away via text, and sometimes I get coffee with acquaintances who live nearby, but it’s always surface level. When anyone asks me what’s new, the answer is always Nothing.

I work remotely as a project manager for a food distributor, and once a quarter I fly to Chicago to go into the office and see my coworkers face-to-face, and we’ll go out to dinner and I’ll walk back to the hotel afterward, mellowed from exactly two glasses of wine, and I’ll stop in a 7-Eleven for an electrolyte drink so that I’m not at all hungover in the morning.

Joel and I go for hikes in the summer, to the movies when it’s cold. We go to the local diner, where we talk about finances or retirement or things we need to do around the house. He goes to the gym, goes out with friends, goes out. Travels for work. I stay home, and I read, and I cook, and I bake, and I garden, and I clean, and I watch TV, and I breathe. That’s all I do. Breathe.

But Henry doesn’t need to know any of that. We agreed to be honest, but I can be honest without telling the whole truth. Why not give him his mystery?

I say nothing.

He stands up and slowly comes toward me. The way he moves, the way he walks…he has this supernatural grace.

There’s no question now. No doubt. Only clarity. Only want.

I want him to touch me. I want his hands on my thighs, my waist. In my hair.

But he passes me. Circles around the back of my chair, and I’m reacquainted with the brutal sting of disappointment.

He wanders to the window. He’s quiet.

“If I hadn’t gone and sat in the corner, what would you have done tonight?” I ask him. “Would you have stayed and watched? Would you have joined in, eventually?”

“No. Years ago, maybe. Yes. To feel something. To feel different. Good. But it’s fleeting. And empty. Meaningless. I find no satisfaction in it. Though I understand how there’s satisfaction to be found.”

“What would you have done, then? If you weren’t here with me?”

He reaches over and plucks a shriveled brown leaf off a drooping plant. “I would have gone and wallowed. Sat alone in the dark, longing.”

“Are you being smart with me?”

He turns around, leans against the glass with his hands behind his back. He’s keeping them from me. “We agreed to tell each other the truth. That’s the truth.”

“If you say so.”

“You don’t trust anyone. Not even yourself. That’s why I asked who hurt you. Trust is something that’s broken. That’s lost. That’s taken from us. Who took it from you?”

I’m drowning in all the sweat from these leggings, and from this back-and-forth, from the physical distance between us that’s now too great for the intimacy of this conversation. I stand up and I go to him, and the closer I get, the closer I want to be. I leave maybe an inch between us. And I tell him.

“No one took it.”

His brow furrows.

“You want my sad story? It isn’t particularly interesting. It’s not some heartrending saga or Greek tragedy. I’m easily defeated.”

“Tell me.”

“Okay…Well, when I was young, I was ambitious. I wanted to go to a good school. Somewhere I could make connections. I thought I’d be a lawyer or a CEO. Someone powerful. I grew up poor, worrying about whether Mom remembered to pay the electric bill, if Dad remembered to buy us food on our weekends at his house. I didn’t want that for my future. I wanted something better. Shinier. And so I worked hard and got a scholarship to NYU. But when I got there, it wasn’t some perfect dream. I made friends, but I felt…I felt different from everyone else. Lonely. Until I met Smith.”

Henry’s hands come out from behind his back. He hovers them at my waist, leaving enough space that he’s not quite touching me, his open palms just skimming my oversized T-shirt. What lucky fabric.

“I’d never been in love before, and I fell hard and fast for someone who had a short attention span. He was into me for about six months, and then he wasn’t. Broke it off out of the blue first semester sophomore year. I didn’t take it well. Especially because…See, this is the part—this is the part I don’t tell anyone, never tell anyone, because they’ll either feel sorry for me or blame me, and whichever one it is, it always makes me wish it was the other. So”—I stop to laugh and to swat away a rebel tear—“he’d asked me for pictures over the summer, right? And I was nineteen and stupid, so I sent him these pictures. Naked pictures of myself. And he sent them to someone, who sent them to someone, and yeah. They got around. And I was already, just, completely heartbroken. It sent me over the edge. Now I had this reputation. I thought, why not earn it? Why not live up to it? So I became the slut they all said I was. But I couldn’t handle it sober, so I started drinking. Partying. Slacking off in my classes. It’s scary how quick I got so out of control. Even Naomi was like, Relax . But I couldn’t. Because, and this is important, important to note, to understand…because I loved feeling it all.”

I pause. “No. That’s not right. I loved feeling it all . I loved waking up with a pounding headache after drinking too much the night before. I loved throwing up until my throat was raw. I loved sobbing on the subway, so loud, the whole car would stare at me. I loved getting high with a stranger in the bathroom of a random bar in the afternoon. I loved hooking up with—well, I wasn’t discerning at the time. I loved the walk of shame. I loved missing class, getting emails from my adviser that I wouldn’t respond to, just to steep in the stress, punish myself. I loved the wind in my hair as I was free-falling, which is crazy, because I was such a rule follower growing up. So conscientious. But…I don’t know. I don’t know where I was going with this. A few weeks before the end of second semester, I was drunk and fell off a curb. Almost got run over by a taxi. It juuust missed me. I could’ve died. Instead I just smashed my head. Scraped my face, my whole arm. Broke my wrist. Shattered it, actually.”

I lift my left arm, twist my wrist so it clicks, so it makes that heinous noise. So it aches.

“But I knocked some sense into myself. Came back to reality. I remember lying in the hospital, wondering how I got there. I went through all of it, step by step. Every mistake I’d made that led me to that moment, that horrible, disgraceful moment. It wasn’t Smith’s fault. Or my parents’. Or anyone else’s. It was my fault. I’d made bad decisions. A lot of them. I promised myself that from that day on, I’d be more careful. I’d use my head, not let myself get carried away by emotions. I’d temper my expectations. Protect myself from disappointment. And I thought it was a good plan, but I’m starting to wonder if it was yet another bad choice.”

Henry grips my waist. Tightly.

“There it is. Is your mystery solved? No one hurt me. I hurt myself,” I say. “I…I don’t know why I just told you all that.”

“Because I asked,” he says. “I’m glad you did. We may come to understand each other, Sloane. If we do not already.”

He slides one hand to the sweat-damp small of my back, the other up to my neck. He could choke me with this one hand if he wanted to. It’s big enough. Strong enough. But his grasp is unthreatening. His fingers stroke my jaw, lift my chin.

We stare at each other, and his eyes are so big, this color I’ve never seen before. A color that seems to change as I stare, from brown to green to yellow…

He whispers a question. “May I?”

I let my lashes go heavy, let the world around me disappear. And then it’s his lips on mine.

Then it’s me getting exactly what I want.