Chapter 38

chapter 38

I wait until she’s asleepto put on makeup. I watch my lips curl over my teeth as the lipstick glides on. The muscle memory of it is quieting. The placid, faraway place that made the rest of high school bearable. Hours of YouTube makeup tutorials prepared me for the rest of my life. I learned exactly how to appear indestructible. Impenetrable. Paint as armor.

I’m strangely calm. I’d let my guard down with Patrick, and that was my fault. I should have remembered: Everyone is disappointing.

June says that however badly people treat me, I treat myself worse. She doesn’t get that there’s a certain logic to it. When I had my wisdom teeth pulled last year, I couldn’t stop rooting in the metallic socket, dislodging the blood clot with my tongue, exposing all the nerves. The pain had been so stunning and clear. It was both precise and expansive. I like that I could control when that zip of agony coursed through my head. It made everything and everyone else so quiet.

My hands sweep the brush across my skin. I’m looking at myself looking at myself into infinity. I could be anyone. I love how all girls’ mouths look the same in the mirror. The more we put on our faces—highlighter, bronzer, brows, cat’s eye, contoured, carved, concealed, and accentuated—the more we resemble one another.

I need a certain type of night. It doesn’t matter where. The kind that doesn’t affect you beyond the indescribable relief, the scratching of the itch, the bloodletting because you don’t have to remember any of it. None of it counts. I have no use for consequences.

I loot the tequila from June’s kitchen cupboard and help myself. It’s golden in my throat. I text the easiest person to see, to talk to. The worst idea. It’s as if I’m watching me from a distance.

He calls, and I’m thrilled by the immediacy of it. The thrust of intrusion. “What are you doing right now?” he bellows when I pick up. It’s loud where he is and he’s drunk. He always calls when he’s drunk. “Meet us,” he says before I can answer. The restaurant is noisy behind him.

I could walk there, I tell myself. It will give me plenty of time to change my mind. But in the next moment, I’ve arrived at the neon sign. It’s a tractor beam. Bright Lights, Big City. This Tribeca corner is mythic. It’s on the opening credits of the best seasons of Saturday Night Live. It feels like Christmas in my heart. It’s perfect.

I glide through the door, unzipping my men’s nylon flight jacket so that it slides off one shoulder. I’m wearing what amounts to lingerie. My earrings are big enough to ward off predators. The interior is a movie. I catch the eye of several people as I walk in, feeling their gazes graze me. I’m grateful for the ambience. It’s easier to be practically naked in dim conditions. The amber glow given off by the globe pendant lamps casts the chatty, upturned faces in a warm, appealing light. Total Toulouse-Lautrec territory.

A thin, smartly dressed woman with a blunt bob greets me at the hostess stand. Her face is a pearl, set against the strong shoulders of her vintage red dress. The lights from the construction outside pulse against the drawn venetian blinds, casting angled shadows across her face and the room. She reminds me of a replicant, but I feel more like the cyborg as I tell her I’m looking for friends, scanning the bar area before I spot him.

He’s sitting, clear across the room, tucked behind a beam at a leather-covered banquette in a corner. I wouldn’t have seen him had it not been for the mirrors hanging high on the wall. I’m horrified that he’s seated in such a snug spot. I can’t tell who with. Whoever it is, the shoulders are draped in a dark blazer topped by a leonine head of fair hair. Other than kids dining with their parents, I’m the youngest by a decade.

There are people on dates bustling behind me as the trim, attractive waitstaff in black and white negotiate their way through with hot plates and limitless patience. I’m desperate to leave, and had the hostess not been quite so coolly beautiful, I might have hidden my face, ducked, and hustled out with a mumbled apology. But instead I smile breezily, matching her sangfroid with my own, and make my way over.

I can at least say hi.

The older gentleman with Jeremy turns with his napkin pressed against his face, a flash of irritation disappearing so quickly that I must have imagined it. I reach down for my coat zipper and do it up a bit. There are full dinner plates in front of them, and I’m horrified that I’m interrupting a meal, hanging over them in this awful way. I helplessly gather my jacket around me, so I don’t disturb the couple next to them, who are now watching me as well.

“You can slide in with Jeremy,” says the man, calling someone over. “Let’s get that coat checked.” He eyes my enormous bomber. I do as I’m told, reluctantly baring my arms.

I’m basically naked, gritting my teeth so as not to shiver. I feel eyes on me and then realize it has nothing to do with my scant clothes and everything to do with this incredibly famous actor who even my parents would recognize.

“Hey, you,” says Jeremy, pressing his warm cheek to my cold one. I don’t know where to put my hands, pressed up against him like this, and when he slings his arm over the back of the banquette and around my neck, I don’t protest. Sandalwood cologne wafts over me and fills the sides of my mouth in warning saliva.

The actor watches us, never breaking eye contact or even blinking. He smiles, seeming on the verge of speech, but a calculation is taking place. I am being appraised. His eyes are a watery cerulean but beady. Set against puckered lips and florid, chubby cheeks, with his glinting cuff links and enormous watch, it dawns on me that I’m talking to a royal class of piglet.

Anybody really can be made to look like anyone.

“Have you eaten?” he asks, gesturing to his plate, and when I nod, he nods as well. “I didn’t know we’d be having company. I’d have insisted on another table.”

“I’m sorry,” I falter. “I thought I was meeting y’all for drinks.” I glance at Jeremy, who refuses my eye. I get it. Every man for himself. This is an entirely new stratosphere of ambition for him. An establishment that outpaces all the cool downtown art kids.

The actor saws into his fish. “Well, then, let’s get you a drink.” He chews and raises his brows at Jeremy, who springs into action and orders.

I’m gratified at seeing Jeremy like this. So utterly dominated.

“Thank you.” I direct it to him, not Jeremy. “I wouldn’t have dreamed of interrupting your dinner.”

He glances at me just once. He’s done discussing it.

I clear my throat.

“You know, this place used to be crawling with celebrities back in the eighties,” he tells me. I have to lean in to hear him. I hold the neckline of my dress against my clavicle with my cold palm. “Marty, Bobby, Keith Haring, Grace Jones. John Belushi used to march straight into the kitchen, into the walk-ins, and make whatever he wanted. Tribeca was obviously different back then. So much cocaine.”

Jeremy laughs at the cocaine reference. A quick snort that makes the actor stop chewing and shoot a questioning look. As if to ask what’s the matter with him.

I’m surprised that Jeremy isn’t bothering to show him up. I wonder who this man is to him.

At no point does the man introduce himself or ask my name.

“I gather you’re from the South,” he says. I’m astounded.

“Texas,” I report dutifully.

He nods as if there’s a correct answer. “You said y’all earlier. What do you do for”—he conducts the air briefly with his knife and fork as if looking for a word—“work?” he finishes.

“I’m in school.” Our drinks arrive in low glasses. “For fashion.”

“But surely you can see that by how fashionably she’s attired,” says Jeremy. My face burns. I uncross my legs. Under the table, I finger the hem of my short dress. The actor smiles politely.

He raises his glass, so I raise mine and take a big sip. I could take it down in four healthy gulps and run out.

“How do you like your old-fashioned?” he asks with a crooked smile teasing at his lips. It’s famous, this particular smile of his. It crinkles his eyes, as if he’s finding humor in something just outside of your perception.

The cocktail burns a course down my throat and ends in a treacly cherry flavor. I nod appreciatively, licking my lips, turning my face away from him as I do.

“You know they invented the cosmo here?”

I take another sip. He tilts his chin up encouragingly while I drink, as if helping me along, and when I dab my mouth with a napkin, I’m rewarded with another curving of his lips. It’s the patronizing smile particular to super-celebrities doing Japanese instant-coffee commercials. The low-rent kind that come in cans.

I can’t help but stare at the hairs on his wrist, which curl over the metal strap of his huge, incredibly expensive timepiece.

“I don’t understand fashion, which I’m sure you can guess.” The actor’s eyes twinkle. It’s as if Jeremy isn’t at the table. “I’ve been wearing the same Brioni suits for the past thirty years. Maybe the occasional Loro Piana sweater. My daughter’s in school for the very same thing. She says I dress like a senator she’d never vote for.”

“At least it’s not Brooks Brothers.” I smile down at my hands.

“What’s your name?” he finally asks. I glance up. It’s as if there’s a floodlight pouring out of his eyes and into mine. I’m filled with warmth.

“Jayne.”

“With a y,” interjects Jeremy, and I hear the insult in it.

“Like Jayne Mansfield,” says the actor, ignoring him. “It’s a beautiful name.”

The actor gets me another drink, and I thank him, unaware that I’d finished the first. My gratitude knows no bounds. I can’t believe this important man, a man everyone in the restaurant leaves alone out of reverence, is paying such close attention to me. I’m jealous of his daughter.

“You seem like a resourceful young woman, Jayne,” he begins. “I have a question for you. My oldest, the one in design school, says unpaid internships are unethical. I can’t keep up with all of this”—he shakes his head—“PC business or this new sensitivity. I get it: Don’t take your Johnson out and start whacking off in front of the ladies—pardon the vulgarity—but why wouldn’t she take a position with a dear friend who can help her out? It’s who you know, not what you know, don’t you think?”

I’m grateful to be asked. “It’s about leveling the playing field,” I tell him carefully. “If the position is unpaid, it means that only people who can afford to work for free can qualify for it. It’s unethical because…”

I feel Jeremy tense beside me.

The actor wipes his mouth, sets the napkin on his plate. It seems to signal something, but I’m unsure of what.

“Believe me,” he says, smiling indulgently, crinkling his eyes, but not with any sense of levity. In fact, the sudden hardness in his look stops me short. “This isn’t an internship anyone else would qualify for,” he insists. “With or without money. If she can afford to work for free, why shouldn’t she? I can see it being unethical if she took a paying job from someone who really needs the ten bucks an hour or whatever it is.”

I empty a good half of my second drink.

“Oh, of course,” I reason. “That makes sense. I can see both sides, is what I’m saying. I think your daughter has honorable intentions, that testify to, um, how well she was brought up, which is amazing. But if we’re being realistic, I agree with you on a logical basis.”

I can’t tell if I’m hallucinating, but I feel as though his shoulders ease a little.

“Creative fields are different,” says Jeremy.

“Exactly,” says the actor. “Real business is indifferent to business hours. You don’t tell Lorne Michaels or Mick Jagger that you clocked out because it’s five.”

“Amen,” says Jeremy with his palms raised.

“I worry about how delicate everyone’s becoming. I’m all for women’s lib. Civil rights. All of it. But everyone’s being ridiculous. Triggered this, triggered that. Some of these men are monsters, don’t get me wrong. Especially the ones going after underage girls. That’s despicable. They should be locked up. But most of the conversation seems patronizing. As the father of daughters, I know that it’s women who are the real ballbusters.” He chuckles as if imagining his girls kicking some creep in the stones. “No man would have to be told no twice is what I’m saying.”

Suddenly he pushes his chair away from the table. I wonder if it’s something I said. I hope to God Jeremy takes care of the check.

“Restroom,” he announces.

When he’s gone, Jeremy forks up several fries and the rest of his steak and shoves it into his mouth, then takes a sip of his drink. “I knew you’d cave,” he says, body language easing. “Fucking drama queen.” He wipes his mouth. “Where’ve you been anyway?”

I’m barely listening as I watch the room hum with novel energy as the actor walks by. As soon as his back is turned, heads duck low, people excitedly mouthing his name to each other. It’s as if gold coins are trailing in his wake. I can imagine them telling the story of the sighting to their friends. I wonder if I’ll feature in it at all. Some Asian girl, they might say. Not his wife, they’ll say, cheapening me. Far in the corner, there’s a phone out, set low and at an angle. I know they’re taking a creep shot of him, and suddenly I feel protective.

“I’ll be back,” I tell Jeremy, vaguely aware that he’s talking to me about the apartment. I cross the restaurant quickly, and when I get downstairs, I see him. He’s posing with a group of three women stooped in a sorority squat for a selfie. When they’re done, one whispers close in his ear, red nails clutching the shoulder of his jacket. On his feet, he appears older. And rounder. He smiles his crinkly smile at the woman, and when they step out of the way so I can get to the bathroom, the actor doesn’t even glance at me. A flash of anger detonates in my chest.

The bathroom is a beautiful one. A hammered-tin ceiling painted white. More mirrors. Checkerboard tile on the walls. Iconic bathroom selfie lighting. I pee, feeling a little sad. Glad for my own story. I tell myself that I won’t go back home with Jeremy, wondering if I mean it.

I sigh, dreading the rest of the night, but when I leave the bathroom, he’s there. Waiting for me. I’m pleased to be chosen.

“You’re so nice to give those girls a selfie,” I tell him, wanting one of my own.

“When they stop asking is when you have to start worrying,” he says, smiling.

I gaze at the stairs, elated that we’ll be reentering the restaurant together, but instead of offering me his arm, he looks around furtively and steps closer to me. He holds my attention, and before I know it, his wet bottom lip is touching mine. Tentatively. I don’t know what to do, but I’m frightened, reluctant to appear rude and disrupt the story for both of us. As I’m kissing him back, as his old-man tongue—a creepy, surprisingly athletic protuberance—blankets mine, I wonder if he’ll still walk me upstairs.

“You know, my priest is Vietnamese,” he says, pulling away and grazing his lips to my temple. “On the Upper East Side. Tremendous sermons.”

I smile back and touch my lip. I realize that I’d thought he’d brought up his daughter as a signal. To indicate that he was safe. A family man. A silly dad.

He encircles my other wrist with his hand and gazes down at it. “I have an apartment in the city.” He pulls my hand and brushes the back of it against the warmth of his crotch.

I’m grateful that there is a staircase, Jeremy, and an entire restaurant standing between me and this imposing man’s car.

“I have school in the morning,” I tell him. He releases my wrist as I whip around and bolt. “Sorry.” I rush upstairs, marching on shaky legs, straight to the hostess area to demand my coat.

Come on, come on, come on. I’m scared to look, but the temptation is overpowering. I glance over my shoulder to catch Jeremy half rising, toothy smile frozen on his face, greeting the actor, who’s returned to the table. I can’t see the actor’s expression, the turn of his mouth or his words, but Jeremy laughs at whatever he’s said, and it stings. I know Jeremy’s a snake, but I didn’t think he’d serve me up in this way. When they return with my jacket, I throw them my last ten bucks, grab it, and run into the street.

Patrick calls. I let it go to voicemail.