I follow her into the kitchen, where she leans against the counter holding the vodka against her heart. I study the label depicting white birds flying over a glass sky. “What do you mean?”
“Well, let’s think,” she says solemnly as she opens the bottle. “You were a good girl dating a controlling asshole and then you had an affair, and then you got engaged to the asshole, break up with the asshole, and couple up with your lover. All that in less than thirty days?” She raises her blonde eyebrows. “That might be Guinness worthy.”
“And exactly what world record would I be setting?”
“Most transformation ever achieved by one Harvard grad during the month of March? Can we make that a category?” she asks. She hops up on the counter. “Do you have ice cream?”
I hesitate only a moment before going to the freezer and pulling out a pint of Stonyfield Vanilla. Simone unceremoniously digs out scoops for both of us and drops them into my blender before drowning the ice cream in the clear alcohol and blending it all together into something that reminds me of false innocence.
“You’ve already been drinking,” she notes.
“Yes,” I admit.
“But you’ll drink more?”
I nod and she smiles, pouring the drink into two gracefully curved water goblets. “That’s a change, too. Tell me, Kasie, does this mean you’re finally willing to relinquish some of your precious control?”
“I’ve been relinquishing control to Dave for years.”
“True.” She sips her drink, purposely giving herself a milk mustache to make me smile. “But that was like getting on a merry-go-round. You many not be controlling the plastic horse, but you know where it’s going. That ride’s over, so I guess I’m asking, are you moving on to the controlled thrills of the roller coaster, or are you ready to leave the amusement park altogether and try skydiving?”
I shake my head. “You thrive off risk; I don’t.”
“Oh? And what makes the newest rendition of Kasie Fitzgerald thrive?”
It’s a complicated question and I meditate on it as I swallow the sweet taste of sin. I think of what it feels like when Robert is inside of me. I think of the energy he fills me with, the intensity. In those moments the world becomes brighter even as the darkness inside me is expelled. In those moments I’m skydiving, breathing in the clouds, relishing in the thrill and danger of the fall. Perhaps that’s what it is to thrive.
Or is it when I hold the corporate world in my hands? It’s no wonder that I fantasize about sex while mastering a boardroom. It’s a different but related thrill. Falling versus flying. And what about Robert’s proposal . . . and it is a proposal, controlling the world, making up the rules as we go and forcing others to bend to our whims. He’s proposing that we reshape the universe, make ourselves gods. If I were to give in to that, which of course I could never do, would I thrive?
“You don’t have an answer,” Simone whispers. Her voice is hushed and touched with awe. “Things really have changed, haven’t they? Not too long ago you had an answer to everything.”
I laugh out loud, “I thought I did.” The drink is making my consonants softer, a little harder to understand. “Turns out I didn’t even know the questions!”
Simone reaches forward, brushes my hair back behind my shoulders then lets her hands slide down the edges of my silk lapel. “Relax,” she whispers. “You’re beautiful when you’re vulnerable.”
“And when I’m strong?”
“You’re gorgeous.” Simone’s hands float back down to her sides. I’m seeing the room through a soft-focused lens. Simone is the one who is gorgeous as her fingers stroke the stem of her glass. Her life has always been luxuriously simple. My eyes follow her hair down to her neck where for the first time I spot the small bruise that’s been left there. A mark of triumph left by a recent lover. “Who gave you that?” I ask knowing that whoever it was probably won’t be around for long. Simone has a habit of choosing easy, unambitious men who can act out her fantasies without touching her mind. It’s fun at first, until it gets boring.
She raises her fingers to the mark and smiles reverently. “My first ménage à trois.” She giggles. “I think his name was Joseph and she called herself Nidal. It’s a lovely name, isn’t it? Nidal. A boy’s name given to a girl . . . it suits her.” She lets the word slide around on her tongue.
I hesitate. I’m not the only one who is changing. Simone has never crossed that line before. “Did you . . .” My voice trails off, unsure of what to ask. “What did you do?” is the question I finally settle on. I’m not sure I want to hear anything she’s too scandalized to volunteer. After all, Simone isn’t scandalized by much.