The Futures(48)

Afterward, we lay facing each other. Naked, sweat cooling, the room dim except for the glow from the streetlamps outside. He had one arm behind his head, and with his other hand he traced a line along my waist.

“I can’t tell you how long I’ve thought about that,” he said.

“Me, too.” I moved closer and buried my face in his chest, breathing him in.

“We fit together,” Adam said. “Look at that.” And it was true. Our bodies were made to be in this very position. He kissed me on the forehead and said, “Do you want to stay over? I make a mean breakfast.”

“I think I’d better get home. What time is it?”

“A little after one.”

“Can I use the bathroom?”

“Out the door and to your left.”

I showered, my hair pulled back in a bun to keep it dry. I opened my mouth and tipped my head back, letting the hot water run in. I had to stifle a laugh. Adam McCard. It had finally happened. The steam drifted through the bathroom, and the glass door of the stall fogged over, and everything else disappeared.

*

Monday, more than two weeks later. A few days after my birthday. I went for a particularly long run that cold November morning. As I came down our block, I remember thinking it strange that there was someone sitting on our stoop. Who had time to linger at this hour? It might be one of the homeless men who sometimes slept in the alcove outside the drugstore. I dreaded having to squeeze past him on my way inside.

As I got closer, I felt a prickle on my neck. It was Evan. Sitting there, on the stoop. How had I not recognized him sooner? He was staring at his phone and jiggling his knees in a fast bounce, his duffel bag beside him. I’d forgotten that he was getting back from Las Vegas that morning. Adam and I had spent the weekend at his apartment, which was the best birthday present I could have asked for. He cooked, we listened to jazz, and I sat on the couch reading and watching the Hudson flow past. “Evan should go out of town more,” he said when I emerged from the shower wearing one of his button-downs. “Where did you say he was again?” He was in bed, shirtless, wearing his reading glasses. He looked like Clark Kent. It was a Saturday night, and we were staying in. I slid under the covers. “Some conference in Las Vegas. It’s weird. Michael wanted him to go along at the last minute. It has nothing to do with what he’s working on.” Adam nodded, his brow furrowed. Then he relaxed. “Well, it works for me.” I’d finally gone home late on Sunday night. The creaking floorboards in our dark apartment filled me with a wretched loneliness.

I stopped a dozen yards short of our door. Evan still hadn’t seen me. He stood up, picked up the duffel bag, then put it down. He tilted his head to look up at the sky. He checked his watch, then paced a few yards before reversing course. Something was off. I suddenly saw him as any stranger might: unshaved, tired, puffy, anonymous. It’s an odd trick, to consider how different someone looks when you strip away the forgiveness of familiarity. I had always known Evan up close. I encountered him all at once, and that’s what I had always liked about him: no hidden tricks or trip wires. But right then, that November morning, I had the feeling of traveling back in time. Evan was becoming a stranger in front of my eyes. This man sitting on my doorstep was someone I had never met before.

I shivered. This was how bad it had gotten: I considered turning around to do another lap in the park, waiting for Evan to leave for work. But then he finally looked up and saw me.

“Julia,” he said, springing to his feet.

“Hey. How was the trip?”

He glanced over his shoulder, then up the street behind me. His eyes, when they landed on mine, were brimming with a new emotion. Panic? Fear?

“I have to tell you something,” he said, and he pulled me inside.

*

The long-awaited Fletcher Foundation gala had been the week before. I got there early, in charge of checking guests in upon arrival. I peered through the doors into the ballroom, which glowed softly, with white roses and candlelight on every table. Up on stage was Eleanor, clipboard and BlackBerry in hand. She wore a long black gown. Her skin had the slightest dusting of a tan.

Laurie arrived, looking exhausted. I had overheard snatches of her conversation with Henry Fletcher earlier that day. She was explaining that the gala had cost more than anticipated. Donations had dried up, returns from the endowment were down, and we were tight on cash for the rest of the year. The conversation seemed to go badly. “Yes, of course,” she had said, raising her voice. “Of course I know how bad the market is right now. But I’m telling you that we’re at real risk of—”

She paused, apparently listening to him. She spoke more quietly, and I couldn’t make out what she was saying. She sighed after she hung up. Then she shut her door, and it stayed shut for the rest of the afternoon.

“Oh, hello, Julia,” she said distractedly. She dumped her bag and coat on the checkin table. “Can you find somewhere to put these?”

The guests started arriving in a trickle, then all at once. I kept a smile plastered on my face, answering questions, directing traffic. A corner of my mind worried over Laurie’s mood. If things were as bad as she said, I wondered whether my job might be in jeopardy. A little later, Abby and Jake walked through the door. “Julia!” Abby said, coming over to give me a hug. “Holy crap. Woman in charge.”

“Hey,” Jake said, jerking his chin in greeting.