Monterey Bay(12)

“Oh.”

He excused himself and made the switch.

“You were right,” he said upon his return. “Bach is a far better choice.”

She scooted over to make some room for him on the bed. For several seconds, he didn’t move. Then it was just as before: a resumption of his earlier position, all four of their legs stretched out in chaste, nonconjoined parallel. At one point he started swiping his feet back and forth to the beat. After a bar or two, she joined in, and so it went until he purposefully broke the rhythm in order for their toes to collide. Negotiation, she remarked to herself. I know about this. So she made what she hoped was a persuasive counteroffer: flinging her entire left calf over his right shin. An error, though. It was too much and he was retreating now, his joints stiff, so she responded with the only remaining maneuver in her arsenal: doubling down and then some, tilting herself over and slightly up until her mouth was touching his.

He let her remain there for several seconds and then gently pushed her away. She sank back against the pillow, jaw grinding.

“Maybe it’s best to keep things simple,” he said. “The world already has far too much trouble as it is.”

“What makes you think I’m trouble?”

“Because I can’t seem to resist that sort of thing.”

She closed her eyes, certain it was all over. Whatever instinct had spurred her on was proving itself unreliable now, unsafe. But then she felt a hand on her leg—the same leg that was still crossed over his. Her eyes flew open.

“Margot Fiske,” he mused. “Sounds like something that should be on the marquee of a Left Bank cabaret.”

“I don’t sing or dance. And certainly not for money.”

“A woman of business. I know, I know.”

The hand drew the leg even closer to him, even farther apart from its twin.

“I thought you didn’t like trouble,” she said.

“Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes trouble is good. Sometimes trouble makes things show up.”

With his index finger, he pressed down on her kneecap as if pushing an elevator button. Then he was looming over her again. He looked at her for a while, appraising the stitches, savoring the sight of his own handiwork. Then his mouth was where his eyes had been, kissing the perimeter of the wound.

“Ouch,” she whispered.

“Liar,” he countered, moving his lips down the bridge of her nose and onto her mouth.

And this time, she realized, it was real. Earlier, when she had been in charge of the kiss, it hadn’t quite taken shape. But now the imbalance was being righted: form and function, all in one, just as he had said. The form of his mouth, the function of his hands, everything moving slowly and with lethal purpose. Once or twice, she found herself distracted by the smell of his beard, but not in a bad way. After several minutes, he pulled back. He took off his shirt, unfastened his trousers.

“There is a final question, though,” he said, head tilted, eyes downcast. “The question of . . . uhhhh . . . age.”

She felt her face turn a color: white or red, she didn’t know which.

“Not that I’m particularly hung up on that sort of thing. But in this case I feel like it might be best, you see . . . for all involved . . . just to be certain . . .”

“Guess.”

“Excuse me?”

“Guess how old I am.”

He brightened, visibly pleased by the challenge.

“You just turned twenty. This past spring.”

“Spot-on.”

He shucked his trousers to the floor and freed himself. She undid her own buttons as quickly as possible so that he wouldn’t see her hands shaking. Then a moment of genuine uncertainty. When his face vanished, she felt disappointed. But then his mouth made itself known again—not on her mouth this time, but on a different place, equally eloquent, equally unstable—and when he crawled back up the length of the bed and entered her, there was almost nothing in the way of resistance or pain. Nothing was being broken. If anything, it felt like diving into very hot water. His lips pulled, his hands worked, a blade-sharp knowledge consuming her from the inside out, his convoluted philosophies suddenly crystal clear. Time was passing, but there was no telling how fast, and when she finally stiffened and cried out, she saw light in the darkness of his eyes, his face slack with an emptiness she hoped matched her own.

When it was over, they lay there for a long while, her head on his chest. She curled her arms and legs into balls; she tried to make herself as small as possible. Soon, the sun was rising, the gulls screeching at it, calling it forth or pushing it away. Sea lions, too, what seemed like hundreds of them, barking like hounds. Beneath the ruckus, his heartbeat: the sound coming at her through a fortress of tendon and flesh and bone. Put it in a bucket, put it in your hand, squeeze it, and make it soft. He knew her name, but she didn’t know his. And the fact that this inequity barely troubled her was the first indication of something she hadn’t even expected to consider: that failure, as she had always understood it, might be something else entirely.

Then, a duet of sounds that made her jump. Footsteps climbing the exterior stairs, a voice calling her name.

She jerked away from the biologist’s body. He vaulted off the bed.

“You’ll want to freshen up?” he asked, dressing himself with remarkable speed. Her clothes still lay in a pile next to the pillow.