Just One Night, Part 2_ Exposed(39)

“I gave it to him.”

A flash of approval, maybe even relief. “Let’s go to my place. We’ll order Chinese food and talk. I know you want to trust him, but we have to be prepared.”

A dry leaf falls on my shoe. The tree doesn’t need it. It has plenty of other greener and healthier leaves to adorn its branches. This leaf here is dead. It must have died on the vine, well before it detached itself.

But I wonder if the tree will miss it anyway.

“I think I’d like to spend the night at my place,” I say.

“All right, I’ve never been to your place—”

“No, Robert, by myself.”

For a moment I can see his confidence waiver, he thought my days of pushing him away were over. Maybe they are, but tonight I need to mourn for a relationship that died on the vine.

I put my hand on his arm. “Monday I’ll come to you, or you can come to me if you like. But I’m tired, Robert, in so many ways. You need to give me a few days to recover.”

He nods, understanding. “My car’s parked in the lot on the next block. Walk with me there; there’s something I want to give you.”

I nod and walk by his side. At some point he takes my hand, rubs his thumb back and forth over my bare ring finger. It feels weird, holding hands in public like this. In fact it still feels wrong.

But how much time have I spent fantasizing about being in a relationship with this man? Sailing away with him, scaling the Mayan pyramids, making love on the floor of the Musée . . . in my mind Robert and I have been a couple for some time now.

And yet I never imagined us walking down an LA street holding hands.

“Was Asha a problem today?” he asked.

“No, not Asha. Today it was Tom who treated me like a hooker.”

The words came quickly to my lips before my mind had time to engage, before it could remind me of who I was talking to.

“Tom . . . Love? What did he do?”

This is a story that needs to be significantly watered down for Robert. I’m not sure why, but I sense that it would be best if I appear unfazed. Unfortunately I can’t repress a shiver when I recall the interaction. “He’s just being Tom, that’s all. Now that he has confirmation about the nature of our relationship, he . . .” My voice trails off as I try to think of the best way to summarize everything.

“He what?”‘

“It’s not a big deal,” I say quickly. “It’s just going to take some time to remind him that my personal life is none of his business. I can handle it.”

Robert’s grip on my hand tightens but he doesn’t say anything. No verbal response is probably the best response I can hope for.

We reach the parking lot and I break out in skeptical laughter. “This is where you parked your Alfa Romeo 8C Spider?” The lot is a little run down. Cars are tightly packed together, the wind pushes bits of litter over the gravel surface; it does not speak of luxury.

“I gave the attendant a little something extra to take care of it for me,” Robert says and gestures to the far end of the lot where only one car is parked.

I try to speculate on how much “a little extra” is and I wonder if it’s necessary. There’s something intimidating about Robert, even when he’s not trying to be. I can’t imagine anyone trying to test him by screwing up his $300,000 car.

He walks me over and opens the trunk that is about the size of a hatbox. He pulls out a couple of dress shirts, considers them both before handing me one. “Sleep in this until I see you next,” he says. He throws a fleeting look at the lowering sun. “Put it on as soon as you get home. Wear just my shirt, nothing else. Think of me.”

I take it in my hands, lift it to my nose. It smells slightly of his cologne. I smile my consent. I will sleep in it, and thinking of him has never been a problem.

He opens the passenger door for me and tells me he’ll drive me back to my car. I begin to protest, telling him that I’d rather walk, but he insists and I give in easily.

As he starts up the engine I realize that when it comes to Robert, I quite frequently give in easily.

* * *

WHEN I FINALLY get home, it feels oddly empty. I have lived alone since college, but before all of this, I was able to fill the empty space with plans and expectations. On the coffee table are travel magazines to help Dave and me plan our next vacation. And there on the wine rack is the bottle of expensive Merlot I planned to bring to a birthday party for one of Dave’s coworkers. Upstairs is a calendar with each day jotted out in perfect detail with lunch meetings and date nights, next to it a list of potential clients I’d like to promote my firm to, earning their business and impressing the partners.