The Futures(37)

Too soon, the cab had stopped. “Miss?” the driver said.

“I—” I stopped, looked at Adam. Both of us were breathing hard.

He glanced down at his lap. “You should go in, Jules. It’s late.”

“I don’t have to. You know.”

“Let’s just say goodnight for now. I’ll call you in the morning, okay? I promise.”

He kissed me good-bye, less urgent and more tender. Then he reached across the seat and opened the door. I watched the cab pull away, heading west toward the park. I shivered and pulled my coat tighter around me.

When I lay in bed that night, next to an already sleeping Evan, I was aware of something. After Jake Fletcher, I had been racked with guilt. It had happened the summer before freshman year of college, while we were on Nantucket with our families. Rob was my boyfriend at the time. I didn’t have to face him for another two weeks afterward, which gave me time to collect myself, to replay the memory—Jake and I, high and drunk, sneaking down to the nighttime beach, him tugging down my shorts, me not wanting him to stop, so helpless in the face of his attention—over and over and over, until eventually it became something that happened to a different version of me. I decided, on the ferry ride home, letting the wind tangle my hair and the salt spray sting my eyes, that I didn’t have to tell Rob. It was a stupid mistake, but it was just sex. As soon as it was over, when Jake rolled away from me and I was aware again of the cold sand sticking to the back of my legs, I realized that it was never going to happen again. The guilt formed a high wall in my mind, and the memory lived behind it, drying and shriveling with age. Sometimes I almost managed to forget it entirely.

But this, with Adam. The feeling that washed over me as I lay there next to Evan—it wasn’t guilt. It was more like a beginning than an ending. A book cracked open to the very first page. How could I feel guilty about something that was so clearly meant to happen?

Part 2





Chapter 7


Evan



In mid-November, Michael stopped by my desk.

“You’re coming with me and the rest of the team to the conference in Vegas. The flight is at five. Go home and get your stuff and take a car to the airport, terminal four. Travel is e-mailing your ticket now.”

I glanced at my watch—2:34 p.m.—and started shoving things into my bag. “So I’ll see you—” I started to say to Roger, but he had his headphones in and refused to meet my eyes. Uptown, I packed as fast as I could, then sprinted down the stairs to the waiting town car. I called Julia from the car and told her I wouldn’t be able to make dinner—it was her birthday that night, but she seemed to understand, which was a relief. They were calling my name on the PA when I ran up to the gate.

“Right over there, Mr. Peck,” a chirpy flight attendant said, pointing at the remaining empty seat in the business-class cabin, next to Roger.

“Too bad,” Roger said without looking up from his BlackBerry. “Thought this train was going to leave the station without you.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Sir?” the flight attendant said, offering a tray with a flute of Champagne. “Just let me know if I can get you anything else. We’ll be taking off shortly.”

The flight attendant was cute and perky and available, exactly Roger’s type, and I expected him to make some crack about it. But he kept his eyes locked on his phone, his mouth shut. Roger had been bragging about this for weeks. Spire was sending a small team to a global investing conference in Las Vegas, and Steve, the head of our macro group, had been so impressed with Roger’s work that he invited him along, too. A first-year analyst had never gone to one of these conferences before. You didn’t get to jump the line like this, not unless you were exceptional. My stomach had churned at the thought. Well, I was working on a deal that would dwarf a trip to Vegas soon enough. Let Roger brag all he wanted.

But there I was. Ruining Roger’s week, to boot. I counted six people from Spire, scattered through the cabin: Steve, Brad, and Chuck, all from Spire’s macro group, plus Roger, Michael, and myself. This had nothing to do with my work, but I supposed that Michael would fill me in eventually. I finished my Champagne, settled in, and closed my eyes. Business class. I could get used to this.

A hand on my shoulder shook me awake, and Brad’s face came into focus. I’d only spoken to him in passing before. He was Korean American, in his thirties, had a PhD in applied mathematics from MIT, a mind like a thousand-horsepower engine. He’d made the company an enormous amount of money over the years.

“So here’s the deal,” Brad said, addressing me and Roger while he scanned his phone screen. “Travel tried to get new rooms, but the hotel is sold out because of the conference. So Evan, you’re going to be in Roger’s room.”

“The hell?” Roger snarled. “Are you serious?”

“Suck it up, sweetheart. Chuck and I have to share a suite, too. Michael took Steve’s suite, and Steve is taking mine.”

“There better be separate beds,” Roger said. When Brad left, Roger finally snapped. “What the fuck, Peck? Why are you even here?”

“I don’t know. You heard it. Michael only told me a few hours ago.”

Roger looked like he wanted to punch me in the face. The plane’s engines hummed in the background. “Whatever it is y’all are up to,” he said, clenching his fists on his armrests, “you sure have a way of pissing other people off.”