“If you continue standing here,” I said,” I’m going to assume that you do want to fuck tonight. If not, the door’s right behind you.”
The sound of her huffing was the last sound I heard before the door slammed so hard it rattled the mirror on the wall.
Unfazed, I contemplated what I wanted to write in my profile’s box. Over the past few months, I’d found disappointment after disappointment—wasting too much of my time and money on women who were not on the same wavelength as me.
And now it all made perfect sense. All those unnecessary dinners, late night conversations, and utter bullshit was about to end right now.
I didn’t need another relationship—those days were gone forever, and I would never spend more than a week talking to the same woman on the phone.
As the sun set outside the hotel room’s window, the perfect phrasing came to me, and I typed: One dinner. One night. No repeats.
Then I highlighted it and placed it in bold.
Staring at it, I realized how bare it looked, how someone might actually think I wasn’t dead ass serious, so underneath, I made things completely clear:
Casual sex. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Condone (v.):
To forgive, support, and/or overlook moral or legal failures of another without protest, with the result that it appears that such breaches of moral or legal duties are acceptable. An employer may overlook an employee overcharging customers or a police officer may look the other way when a party uses violent self-help to solve a problem
Aubrey
I sat in the back of the courtroom, listening to Andrew break down on the stand. Twice, when the defense purposely brought up Emma, he lost all composure.
Yet, as I saw the look in his eyes at the mere mention of her, of the “slip” of her name, I felt his pain.
I kept my head down the remainder of his testimony so our eyes wouldn’t meet, so he wouldn’t know I was here, and when the judge called for a short recess, I slipped outside.
Reporters were murmuring in the hallway, hoping he didn’t read any of their old articles about him years ago, and suddenly they were shouting questions.
“Mr. Henderson! Mr. Henderson!” They hounded him the second he stepped outside of the courtroom. “Mr. Henderson!”
He stopped and looked at them. “My name is Mr. Hamilton.”
“How do you feel about potentially sending your former partner and best friend away to prison?”
“He’s sending himself to prison,” he answered.
“Do you have any intentions of reconnecting with him while he’s behind bars?”
He ignored that question with a blank stare.
“Your name was cleared years ago and yet you still left New York,” someone else asked. “Now that everything is in the open for good, any chance that you’ll come back and re-open your firm?”
“I’m about to spend my last hour in this city on the way to the airport,” he said, pulling shades over his eyes.
The throng of reporters followed him out of the courtroom, and he slipped inside the car without a second glance.
Sighing, I pulled out my phone and re-read the messages he’d sent me this morning, somewhat regretting that I didn’t respond.
Subject: NYC.
I would like to see you one last time before I leave. Can I pick you up for breakfast?
PS—I really was going to tell you everything that night…
—Andrew
Subject: Your Pussy.
This message is actually not about your pussy. (Although, since I’m on the subject, it is number one on my list of favorite things.)
Come to breakfast with me. I’m outside your door.
—Andrew
As I was rereading that email, a new one popped onto my screen:
Subject: Goodbye.
—Andrew
I knew my lack of response was immature, that it was my fault that I didn’t get to see him before he left, but I felt as if he could’ve made more of an effort. And I still felt that he was wrong for not being open with me when he should have.
Leaving the courthouse, I headed home and thought about all the half-truths and lies that had swirled our relationship. Alyssa. His wife. My real name. His real name.
Everything we had was built on lies…
Letting tears roll down my face, I opened the door to my house, prepared to shower until I couldn’t cry anymore, but Andrew was standing in my living room.
“Hello, Aubrey.” He glared at me.
“Breaking and entering is a crime.” I crossed my arms. “Shouldn’t you know that?”
He said nothing, just continued glaring at me—looking me up and down.
“Don’t you have a flight to catch?” My voice cracked. “Shouldn’t you be spending your last hour in New York on the way to the airport?”