Why did I walk into the pool?
If we leave all of this behind in Austin, if we go back home pretending it never happened, I'll be devastated. But if we carry on … what'll happen then?
Adrian knocks on the connecting door.
"It's open," I tell him.
He walks in, and sits down on the edge of the bed. "I'm sorry I said you were complicated."
A preemptive apology? From Adrian?
The world must be turned upside down.
"I'm not upset that you said it," I tell him, staring at the blank TV screen. "I'm upset that it's true."
I can see his dim reflection reaching out to me, so I go. I let him take my hand, and I sit down, and he puts his arm around my shoulders and says nothing.
Finally, he speaks.
"This whole thing is complicated. It's not your fault. I wanted the part of Natalie to be played by someone I could trust. I think Kara wanted to do it. She never brought it up, because she knows she can't - she already runs in these circles, she's known as herself. I think she's unhappy that someone else got to do it, instead of her."
I'm shaking my head. "Stop making excuses for her. Please."
"I'm not."
"You are. She likes you. Did you tell her that we're sleeping together? Did you tell her about the pool?"
His tone is mildly offended. "Of course not. But she's not an idiot."
"She didn't like me the first moment she saw me. So if she didn't know … "
Adrian kisses my forehead. "I told you. It's got nothing to do with us. She's just unhappy with something she can't control."
A thousand questions rush and churn in my head. I want to ask him if all that stuff about us fooling around in the office was just dirty talk and fantasies. I want to ask him why Kara saw me as a threat from the very beginning, if he didn't tell her something.
"Come to bed?" Adrian asks, finally. "Just to sleep. I mean - unless you'd rather something else."
"Sleep sounds good," I admit. "Might have overdone it a little this week. I could use some recovery time."
"God, yes." Adrian grins at me, leading me through the door. "Does this mean I'm getting old?"
"A little," I tell him. "But it's okay. You've got enough money that nobody will call you out if you keep pretending like you're young. Make sure to wear lots of tight jeans and hipster glasses."
"I have been wondering if my eyesight's going," he admits, sitting down on the bed and pulling off his shoes. "I don't know, though. That's a bit of a commitment to the hipster uniform."
"Well, you can start slow, and work your way up. Start with a stylish beard."
"You think so?" He touches his chin, thoughtfully.
"Sure. It would suit you. Everything suits you."
"If only the senior partners weren't an average of nine hundred years old," he sighs. "They'll think I'm a dirty hippy. I'd better not."
I laugh, slipping out of my hideous dress. "Oh, goodness. Well you wouldn't want to cause a stir at the country club."
He groans. "You think you're joking, but the last time I played golf with them, one of them spent the whole time talking about how he thinks his great-great-great-great-whatever-granddaughter must be 'doing drugs' because she wants to get a tattoo. I was tempted to ask what drugs, just to hear him say something like 'crack marijuana.'"
Cackling, I fall into bed. "'Helen, I swear that child is snorting the blue crystals like I saw on the TV show.'"
"How'd you know his wife's name is Helen?" Adrian curls his arm around my waist, pulling me against his body. Spooning with my boss - go ahead and add that the list of things I never thought I'd do.
"Lucky guess. It was a toss-up between that and Brittany, which would of course apply to his third nineteen-year-old trophy wife."
"One day I'll snap, and kill them all with my five-iron. But until then, I've got to pretend that we can socialize." He sighs into my hair. "I know you think I'm bad, but you have no idea how lucky you are. Really."
I smile, a little sadly, into the darkness.
"I think I've got some idea."
***
The next morning, before our flight, I manage to sneak down to the gift shop and pick something up that I think will make him smile. I'm planning to save it for when we get home, when I suspect he'll need a reminder. But once we're settled into our flight again, champagne in hand, I'm already itching to give it to him - just to see his face.
I notice that he carefully avoids making eye contact with the flight attendant, and I feel kind of bad.
"Here." I plop the little bag on the table between us. "To start your hipster uniform."
He gives me a look as he unwraps the bag and unfurls the shirt. When he sees the writing - KEEP AUSTIN WEIRD - I get that chuckle I was hoping for.
"Good one," he says, folding it back into the bag.
The air is thick with the expectation of the conversation I really, really don't want to have. My stupid gift landed like a ton of bricks. That's it - I'm ripping off this band-aid now.
"So do you want to talk about what happens back home?" I hold his gaze, even though it makes me want to sink into the floor. Even if that means falling thousands of feet into the earth.
"What happens back home?" he echoes. "Well."
He clears his throat, and I just wait.
"We just need to keep things in perspective, that's all," he says. Like all businessmen, he's mastered the art of using a lot of words to say nothing. "You and me both, we've only got one speed. Don't do anything halfway. Ever. That's what I like about you. But it can get you into a lot of trouble, especially when it comes to … interpersonal … "
He doesn't want to say relationships. I can tell.
I still have no idea what he wants. How he expects me to behave.
"Just give it to me straight, doc," I say, resting my elbows on the table. He laughs a little, glancing at me, then down at the table and back.
"I can't, Meg. How could I possibly? I can't predict the future. I'm just saying we need to be careful. If you want me to draw up a ten-step plan of action for how we proceed from here, I can't. I'm not going to." He shakes his head. "It's complicated."
"Complicated," I repeat. "What's complicated about it?"
He glances at me, unfolding a newspaper. "Please, Meg."
It's going to be a long fucking flight. Unless I kill him before it's over.
***
When I get home, after I drop my bags on the floor, the only thing I want to do is collapse in bed. But my mind's racing, and there's no way I can possibly calm down enough to sleep.
I gave up on trying to get Adrian to tell me what the hell's going through his head. He buried himself in work for the rest of the flight, and I toyed with the idea of changing to another seat just to make a point about how rude he was being, but I just fumed quietly instead.
The next morning at work, I don't know what I'm hoping for. He'll just keep shutting me down if I try to talk about what happened in Austin. Of course, we don't need to talk about it. I'd just like to continue the activities, but he seems at least passively resistant to that, too.
For now.
All of my nice clothes are still dirty from the trip, but I wear one of the most flattering outfits I have. When I come in with his morning coffee, I take a moment to close my eyes and breathe in his scent. I've always liked it, but it means something different now.
"Here's your coffee," I tell him, softly, setting it down. He doesn't look up. "Do you need anything else?"
He shakes his head.
Fuck it.
"I seem to remember we discussed some other tasks you might need me to complete in the morning," I say, in the most seductive tone I can manage while my heart tries to escape my chest.
He closes his eyes, and sighs heavily.
Not a promising reaction.
"Meghan, sit down." He makes a gesture towards the chair. I do, smoothing my skirt, readying myself for the tongue-lashing of the century. And not in the way I was hoping for.
Adrian interlaces his fingers and looks at me. And he says the last thing I'd ever expect: "Any plans for Thanksgiving?"
What?
"I always have plans for Thanksgiving." I'm wincing at the thought; I can't help it. My family's holidays are about as frigid and hostile as they come, but it's better than spending them alone. At least, that's what I keep telling myself. "Why?"
"There's a book conference in London," he says. "Mostly for locals, as you might imagine from the scheduling. But we could make a big splash there."
We. Seriously? He's not even going to address what happened between us in Austin, and he's already planning the next trip?
"Well, I can't," I tell him. "I'm sorry."
I don't often take a hard line with Adrian, but in a fight between him and my mother, my mother wins. Every time. She makes him look like Mr. Rogers.