Just One Night, Part 3_ Binding Agreement(36)

“You never will be.”

There’s some truth to what she’s saying, but what bothers me is not that I’ll never be like Asha; it’s that I ever wanted to be. What bothers me is that if I stay at this firm, my future will be riddled with these kinds of conversations. I do have options, just not here.

Later that day I go into Mr. Costin’s office and hand in my notice.





CHAPTER 13





THE REST OF the day has a surreal quality. Mr. Costin had been flustered as he wavered between glee and terror. Was Mr. Dade upset about something? Was I?

No, I had answered. Everything was fine. But the office didn’t suit me; no, not the room, but the position, the firm, the life. . . . I had reassured him again after that, stumbling over my words as he fumbled his platitudes. There are logistics to think of, too. In a very short period of time I have taken to my job. Things are getting done; new approaches are being explored. It would be such a shame to throw all that away, and Mr. Costin knows it.

But he also knows that my leaving is a gift. It’s a gift to him and to many others who work here, people who don’t want to structure their lives and careers around the ocean’s tide. Understandably they’d rather live where they’re safe from the impending tsunami.

So we arranged for me to stay the next three weeks, to help with the transition. Having so much turnover in such a short period of time never looks good but we’ll make things as smooth as possible.

My only requirement is that Mr. Costin not give my job to Asha. I forced him to agree to that stipulation. It’s the last time I’ll flex my muscles here, in this office in this building. Surely this last abuse of power will add another chink in the delicate remains of my cracked morality.

It’s worth it.

I don’t go home when the day is done, and I certainly don’t go to him. Instead I drive around the city, let the lights of the night lead me in random directions, toward this shopping mall, this restaurant, this event that shines its spotlights into the air as if calling for Batman.

I don’t park, never stop for anything other than a traffic signal. I just keep driving until I get to a vaguely familiar alley, away from the lights and glaring marketing campaigns. I stop for a speakeasy called Wishes.

I’m hesitant when I get to the door. It’s just as white as I remembered it; the letters of the name are still just as red. As if wishes were made of blood.

I open the door. A man stands behind the bar, cleaning a glass with a cloth. Men and women talk among themselves; the music in the background comes from speakers, not live musicians. As I approach the bar the bartender makes eye contact with me, offers me an appraising smile. “What can I do you for?”

“What do you have in the means of scotch?” I ask as I prop myself up on a bar stool; my eyes only briefly flicker to the small plastic cube behind the bar, the one that overflows with precut slices of lime.

“I got a few,” he says, naming off a few brands, nothing as grand as what Robert and I indulged in while we were in Vegas. I shake my head and opt for a vodka tonic instead.

He places the drink in front of me in short order, a wedge of lemon in my glass, not lime. I pick it up, look at the little ring of wetness it leaves on the bar. I lay on that bar not long ago; salt had tickled my skin.

“Is Genevieve working tonight?” I’m not sure why I’m asking, not even sure why I’m here. Perhaps it’s because I want to understand. What happened to me? Was my night here really the turning point or a manifestation of a bigger decision that I had made even before Robert had led me through that door? A decision to embrace excess and abandon the conventions of society that I was taught to cherish?

Or maybe I was here for a more basic reason. Maybe I wanted to know what Robert and Genevieve had going on. Maybe I wanted to know how many women had been laid down on this bar, how many lovers they had shared. Had there ever been a time when it was just the two of them? Was it just the two of them now that I had walked away?

I smile up at the bartender, who is too busy counting out change to hear my question. I ask again and he looks up in confusion.

“Genevieve? No one by that name works here.”

“No?” I put my glass down, suddenly feeling a bit off balance. “The woman with the red hair—what’s her name?”

“We don’t have anyone here with red hair. We got a Janey; she’s Asian. Oh and there’s Andrew . . . guess you could call him a strawberry blond although most just describe him as balding. And there’s Henry and me, oh and Elsie . . . she’s Haitian. She’s something to look at. Black as the night with cheekbones so sharp you could cut yourself on them. When she starts speaking French, the tips start rolling in.