The Stranger Just One Night Part 1(34)

CHAPTER 13





THE NEXT DAY flies by. I can barely keep track of the hours, minutes, or seconds as they tumble into each other and roll past me. My team brings me their research, outlines of reports, ideas, concerns, and observations—all so I can weave them together into one beautifully cohesive presentation. It’s not an easy task and under different circumstances, it might have stressed me. But it doesn’t. I can’t be touched. The whirling around me is just buzz. It’s the confusion in Robert’s painting and I’m the lover, the strong one who can’t be thrown off balance. I study the profit margins of Maned Wolf’s European operations and I feel his kisses gently brushing against the back of my neck. I study the projections of the cyber securities division and feel him take my hand and press it into the mattress beneath us. I read the plans for new products and I smell his skin, feel his breath, sense his presence.

I’m obsessed.

And when Barbara buzzes my phone to tell me that Dave is calling, I almost refuse to take it. A hundred excuses play through my mind. I’m in a meeting, I’m out to lunch, I’m on the other line . . . or maybe I just don’t want to deal with the pain I’m about to inflict.

“Hi, how you doing?” his voice sounds apologetic, caring. Four benign little words but it’s all it takes to open that little door in my heart and usher in the guilt.

“I’m a little busy right now,” I say vaguely. Maybe there’s a way to get him to break up with me.

“I’m sorry, I don’t want to interrupt your day. But look, I know you’re upset with me right now and . . . well, if we could just talk it out. Tonight? At Ma Poulette?”

“I think I might need to work late.” If I could just convince him I’m not worth the effort. How do you get a man to give up on you after six years of commitment?

My cowardice is overflowing.

“Please, Kasie . . . just . . . I really need to see you tonight. You know the restaurant, right? The new one in Santa Monica? I’ll pick you up at seven thirty?”

Every statement is a question. He’s trying to appease and smooth the road ahead of us.

I hesitate as my thoughts twist themselves into shapes even I can’t make heads or tails of. I’m not on the road Dave is smoothing out anymore. The ground under my feet is loose gravel. There’s a sense of impermanence to it. And if I get hurt along the way, I don’t know if there will be anyone around to help me find my way back. This is the option I’m choosing. I’m pretty sure it’s the right choice for me but I can’t figure out why that is, so how can I explain it to Dave?

And do I really have to?

My cowardice has a strength that my earlier euphoria can’t quite match. The only thing that is clear for me is that I owe this man something. At the absolute least, I owe him dinner.

“I’ll see you at seven thirty,” I say.

Perhaps by then I’ll be brave again. . . .

God, I hope so.

* * *

THE DAY LOSES the surreal quality it had before. Suddenly I’m in it, rushed, critical, and as impatient as the second hand of the clock, always rushing to get to its next place. After a marathon of meetings, Barbara tells me that Simone called; she said it was important. But Simone’s idea of important usually involves a sale at Bebe. Besides, there’s no time to call her back. I rush home and get ready to break a man’s heart.

When I answer the door of my home for Dave at seven twenty-five, I’m wearing a white knee-length dress, sleeveless but not too low cut. It would befit any politician’s wife. My hair is back up; pearls wrapped in gold decorate my earlobes.

“You’re perfect,” Dave says as he offers me his arm.

Ah, that word again. I’m beginning to really hate it.

But I don’t say that as he opens the door of his Mercedes for me. It’s a nice car and it makes the statement Dave wants it to make, one of unobtrusive wealth and comfort. I think about the rush of adrenaline I felt as Robert’s Alfa Romeo rumbled beneath me, remember the thrill as it accelerated through the murky LA night.

Do those thrills last? Would I want them to?

But those aren’t the questions I’m supposed to be considering. I need to tell Dave the truth. Maybe over dinner, or before it, or after—maybe in the car on the way home. What is the etiquette for betrayal?

The guilt in my heart has a voracious appetite. It’s feeding off the leftovers of last night’s happiness.

One foot in front of another. That’s all. If I pace myself, everything will be fine. I will take care of this one grotesque task and then, in time, Dave will heal and I will feel carefree again, like I did in Robert’s arms. Yes, fine, I’ve broken rules, Dave’s rules, my parents’ rules, my own rules . . . but rules are made to be broken.