Just One Night, Part 3_ Binding Agreement(29)

Last night he blindfolded me, tied me to the bed, made it so I was unable to experience anything other than the feeling of him, the touch of his fingers, the sound of his breathing, the smell of his aftershave, even the tickle of his five-o’clock shadow. Helpless, yearning, aching . . . and all for him. In that moment he was my world.

I stay at my place only when I have Simone over. I don’t know why but bringing her to Robert’s is an idea I’ve yet to become comfortable with. That part of my life is too private for me to share with my best friend, I suppose . . . or maybe I’m not ready for her to see what I’m like when I’m with him. Simone’s not the sort to judge, but this change in me . . . she’ll at least have an opinion on it, and I’m not sure I’m ready to hear what that opinion is.

I still haven’t told my parents about Dave. In fact, I haven’t even called them since the breakup and that was . . . well, a lifetime ago. They’ve called me a few times but I either don’t pick up or I come up with an excuse that requires me to cut the call short. So we’ve been communicating through e-mails and we’ve exchanged a text or two, but I’ve revealed nothing. I haven’t even told them about my new job and I’m certainly not prepared to tell them how I got it—as far as they’re concerned I’m still their perfect daughter doing all the things they have always wanted me to do. They don’t know about the change. They don’t know that the woman they know as their daughter is almost unrecognizable. It’s almost as if she’s gone.

Almost.

My hand shakes, just slightly, as these thoughts move through my mind but I quickly discard the contemplations and open another file. My security blanket is still made up of decimals and dollar signs and I find myself immediately soothed as I lose myself in their concrete comfort.

Yes, everything is fine.

* * *

I KNOW ROBERT is going to be working late tonight. He’s meeting with his engineers and marketers, who are preparing for the launch of a new and improved security system for individuals’ financial accounts, something to protect us when the retailers we shop with have their systems hacked by cyber-criminals. If it works, it will change the world . . . for those who can afford the change.

I decide to go out to dinner by myself. I haven’t done that for some time. I can go anywhere. I can eat at Urasawa, arguably the most expensive restaurant in LA and possibly the country, or Mélisse, a restaurant even the French admire for its quality of cuisine and ambiance. Getting a table at these places is normally impossible but if I call Robert, he’ll ensure they have a table waiting for me. He’s already given me power and wealth, what’s a dinner reservation?

But I don’t take advantage of his influence. Not tonight, not for dinner. Instead I go to Chipotle. I don’t know why—other than that its middle-class appeal and bare-bones décor offer a certain comfort of their own. There’s no pretense here, no airs; just decent, reasonably healthy food at basement prices. It’s a simple formula that has all the elements for corporate success and, well, corporate success makes me happy.

So I order an Izze and a burrito bowl with a side of guac and find a clean table in the corner where I can enjoy my meal undisturbed.

I’m only halfway through my bowl when Dave walks in.

Dave. My former fiancé, the man who almost broke me before I turned and broke his heart, the man who wanted to control me, mold me into the perfect Martha’s Vineyard–style wife, the man who values image and refinement above all else . . .

. . . the man who normally wouldn’t be caught dead in a Chipotle.

I study him from my corner as he gets in line. He doesn’t look good. There are dark circles under his eyes. He hasn’t shaved in a day, maybe even two. And he’s wearing jeans, not a suit. Dave lives in suits during the week. It’s barely six o’clock. There’s simply no way he went home and changed just so he could drive back into the city to go to Chipotle.

And yet he’s here.

He shuffles his feet a little as he moves through the line. I wait until it’s his turn to order before I get up, move closer without his noticing as he struggles to explain himself to the eighteen-year-old in the black shirt and white apron.

“I want a wrap . . . or, I guess you call them burritos here? Can I get one with meat that isn’t spicy; are they all spicy?”

“Get the pork.”

He turns, startled by the sound of my voice. His face colors once he registers that yes, I’m really here, seeing him like this.

“The pork isn’t spicy,” I explain. When he doesn’t answer, I look to his server. “He’ll have the carnitas burrito with brown rice and black beans.”