The Futures(56)

He had me take West 12th to Bleecker, then hang a right and loop down to West 11th. Finally, on a street lined with town houses and trees, Michael had me pull over.

“Up there, on the right,” he said. “The house with the green door.”

Before he climbed out of the car, he leaned over and pressed on the horn. The sound blared through the quiet. Michael paused outside the car, one hand on the door, then ducked through the frame to look at me. “Good talk, Evan,” he said. “See you on Monday.” The door closed with a satisfying thump.

The door of the town house swung open. A figure, silhouetted by the light from the front hall, moved out on the stoop. She was petite and curvy, with wavy hair. Brown hair. I remembered the pictures of his wife from his office: a cool blonde, sleek and slender. Michael kissed this other woman, reaching down to grab her ass. She smiled and swatted his hand away, a joke they shared. Then they stepped inside and closed the door.





Chapter 10


Julia



“Is Evan going to join us this year?” my father asked. He and my mother were on speakerphone in the car, driving back from an event in Boston. It was the week before Thanksgiving.

“I’m not sure.” Evan had spent the previous three Thanksgivings with us, so it was only natural they assumed he’d come this year, too. “He’s been so busy. He might not be able to take the time.”

“Julia,” my mother chimed in. “We really need to know. Jasmine is planning the menu and doing the shopping now.”

“Yeah, I know, but his schedule is so unpredictable.”

“We understand, sweetheart,” my father said. I could picture him shooting my mother a look. She didn’t understand the world of men and their work, and the precedence it took. Lately, strangely, Evan’s stock had gone up with my parents; he had a job at Spire, therefore he was a person of substance. “Evan has to do what he has to do,” my father said, respect in his voice. “Good for him. Give him our best.”

“Ask him again tonight, Julia,” my mother persisted. My father sighed in the background. “This makes things complicated.”

Didn’t I know it. The truth was I hadn’t asked yet. To not invite Evan seemed cruel, but having him there seemed even worse. I hoped, in the days leading up to the holiday, that the obvious solution would present itself. Evan would preempt my question and tell me he had to stay in New York and work. I just couldn’t get up the nerve to ask. We’d barely spoken since his return from Las Vegas. Our silences had grown denser, colder. I’d been surprised it had gone on so long—a day or two, maybe, for Evan to gather himself and save face, but a whole week? I had underestimated Evan. Or maybe I overestimated him. Why should I have been surprised that he had a breaking point, just like everyone else? A point at which he no longer wanted to bother—a point at which he stopped caring, as I already had, weeks earlier?

On Monday night, four days before Thanksgiving, Adam cooked dinner for me at his apartment. I had stopped being coy, stopped pretending at early mornings and other excuses. I wanted him all the time. It was the best sex of my life—in the shower, on the dining-room table, in every corner of his beautiful apartment. Sometimes I worried about the loss of control. I was in too deep; I was getting sloppy. Making all the clichéd mistakes that people make when they have affairs. But then I fell for the biggest cliché of all: I thought I was different. It was going to be different with us. What Adam and I had ran deeper than the physical, I was sure of it. I felt like I was finally beginning to understand myself, that I was finally seeing in myself what Adam had seen all along. Potential. Something bigger and better. A chance to live a different kind of life.

I got home around midnight on Monday, figuring I had a few hours to spare. Evan didn’t usually leave work until two or three in the morning. But as I approached, I noticed the light shining from beneath our door and the dull garble of the television coming from inside. I smoothed my hair, tugged my clothes straight, wiped away the last traces of lipstick. I’d been putting more effort into my appearance lately, but Evan didn’t notice.

He was sitting on the futon, staring at the TV. Among the beer cans dotted across the coffee table, there was a plain manila envelope. Evan reached for the remote to mute the TV. Then he turned to look at me, like an afterthought.

“Where were you?”

“Out with coworkers.” I hung my coat on the back of the door. I’d had the excuse ready to go for weeks. It was the first time I’d had to use it. “We got a late dinner afterward.”

The room smelled like beer. Evan shifted forward in his seat, tenting his fingertips over his mouth for a moment. Then he reached for the envelope on the coffee table and held it between his two hands.

“What is that?” I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me.

He cleared his throat. “Michael and I finally talked about Vegas.”

He turned the envelope over, examining the other side. There was no postage, no writing or marking on it. I wondered what he was looking for.

“No one’s getting bonuses this year,” he said. “We’d all known that for a while. Some of the guys were pissed. They were counting on it. But it wouldn’t look right, not in this economy. Bad optics, you know.”

Optics. This was not the Evan I knew.