Chapter 36 Sidney

CHAPTER 36 SIDNEY

January 2007

New York

I built the entire Cate Kay world. The labyrinth of contracts and bank accounts and NDAs—all untraceable to Cass. One day, Cassandra Ford was just a made-up name; the next, a US citizen with discreet access to nearly unlimited resources. I thought securing Cass’s privacy would unlock her love. Flawed lawyer-think, I see now. She never appreciated the genius of what I’d created—how I pulled at every loophole and knitted her an entirely new universe. But my skill set would never take Cass’s breath away—a fact I was too blind to see for too long.

She preferred me in bed, in the dark—not out in public. But just one week before she jetted across the country to Ry Channing (without even a backward glance, let me add), we’d had one of the more tender nights of our relationship. Anytime she offered me her full attention, I felt like one of those magic sponge animals—just add water—that instantly and rapidly expand. The fullest, most powerful version of myself.

That night, we were eating dinner at a downtown sushi restaurant that was in the basement of a brownstone and was so dark that the sushi rice gleamed on the table. We had to lean forward just to see each other’s faces.

After sushi, we were in a bubble of warmth as we walked up the steps to the street. I was, however, preparing myself for it to burst—two feet of separation and Cass drifting away on some thought train she rarely invited me on. But that night as we walked toward the subway, she nuzzled into me, wrapping her arm through mine, leaning against my shoulder. I glanced down at our interlaced arms—took a mental snapshot. A surge of dopamine lit me up.

That night in bed, she leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, unprompted, and said, “Thank you for dinner and for everything you’ve done for me.” All was right in my world.

So, imagine my… I don’t even know what the right word is—sadness, anger, disappointment?—when a week later Cass dropped everything to accept Ry Channing’s invitation. I was always the more mature one—I tried to rise above. I let her go. Let her have her space. She checked in, but her updates were painfully obligatory. I would glance at them on my BlackBerry and wonder how such a good actor—according to her drama teacher, anyway—was so terrible at pretending.

In my profession you learn that people are always building a web of lies around a kernel of truth and calling it honesty—it’s transparent. So, when Cass tried convincing me that the trip to Hollywood was about the movie—well, I’m no idiot. If it was about The Very Last , she would have been gone for a few days inside conference rooms on some studio lot. She might have even considered inviting me along. I knew she went on that trip to Los Angeles searching—for infatuation, clearly, and for a version of her life she was hoping could still exist.

I was furious.

A partner at the firm noticed my discontent while Cass was away. He’d stopped by my office, twice, to find me staring out the window. Not necessarily an unusual position in which to find a lawyer, but I didn’t even hear him knocking. He had to put himself in front of me to break my trance. The second day he found me like this, he dropped into the chair across from me and said, “Tomorrow at noon, be ready. I’m taking you somewhere to burn off whatever this is.” This was said with disdain.

“Taking me where?” I wasn’t in the habit of joining men on mystery adventures—certainly not in the middle of a workday. This guy, Jonathan, wasn’t my boss, but he wasn’t somebody you turned down, either.

“You played basketball in high school, yes?” he asked.

I was intrigued. “I did…”

“And I’ve seen you running, so you’ll love this.” He was already standing again. “Wear whatever you’d wear for one of your runs.”

“Noon,” he added, rapping my door on his way out. “Be ready.”

“Soul… Cycle?” I said, trying to work out what those two words meant in combination. We were on an Upper West Side corner approaching a shiny white storefront with gold embellishments, and I’d never seen Jonathan this excited. He was backpedaling so he could watch me approaching. A first-timer, taking it all in.

“You’re gonna fucking love it,” he said, pulling open the door for me. He was talking a mile a minute—pointing out the lockers and changing rooms and explaining the transformation that would happen inside the darkened space down the hallway.

Jonathan had misjudged me. I wasn’t a group fitness person. I liked to oversee my own physical punishment, and I’d never found a group class that wasn’t mostly wasted time. Also, I hadn’t been on a bike since I’d put baseball cards in the spokes as a kid, and I certainly had no desire to be physically attached to one. But here I was. I stuffed my feet into the weird shoes and clacked down the hallway.

The room was already filled—people were buzzing with anticipation like we were at a concert. Jonathan was in the back row, already pedaling, and he waved a towel to get my attention. I turned sideways and excused myself a dozen times until I was standing next to this gleaming torture device. He began gesturing toward the front of the room, but I was focused on figuring out how to get myself up and on. The pedals were spinning wildly—an apt metaphor for how I was feeling.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and heard a rich, velvety voice saying, “Here, let me help.” I glanced to my right—there stood a goddess. Strong shoulders, dirty blond hair done in a Viking braid. She was missing only bow and arrow. She smirked, saying, “I promise it’s not as scary as it seems.” Then she was touching my hip—a measurement for the bike, I soon realized. She turned some knobs and gracefully manipulated the handlebars. “Try this,” she said, steadying my forearm as I tried clipping in my shoes.

My reluctance melted, and I pressed my toes down until I heard one satisfying click, then another. Even as a kid my mom would stop people and say, “Oh, Sidney can figure it out on her own.” She was always telling people I was so competent she’d never have to worry about me. But sometimes it’s nice to be worried about. Even if it’s just the gift of a sweat towel or a seat adjustment with a lingering touch.

“Feel good?” she was asking. I looked down. For no discernable reason, her hand was resting lightly on my thigh.

“Feel great,” I said. And I did—nobody was ever helping me fix my problems.

“Brilliant,” she said, then she was gone. I turned to Jonathan and before I could say anything, he jumped in with “I just knew you’d love this place.”

I went every day for the next month.