The Futures(70)

The afternoon plunged into darkness.

At some point I got up to use the bathroom, wobbling in my heels. In the hotel lobby, people came and went. It was nighttime. My head spun as I sat down on the toilet. I propped myself up with one hand against the stall. Later, minutes later, hours later, in front of the bathroom mirror, I tried to fix my reflection in one place, but it danced and wavered no matter how hard I stared.

I spun around and stumbled back into the stall and threw up. The bile came in miserable waves. With one hand on the toilet, then one on the stall, I pushed myself up like a fever-weak patient. I rinsed my mouth in the sink and hunched over the basin, watching the water swirl around the white porcelain before vanishing down the drain, wishing I could follow it down there, away from all this.

*

In the time that has passed since that day, I’ve asked myself, over and over, whether I was aware of what I was doing. Aware of what I was setting in motion. Did I think it was the right thing to do? Did I know the impact it would have? I ask myself now: Is guilt determined by outcome or by intent?

I woke up the next morning in Adam’s bed, and I knew this wasn’t a regular hangover. The headache and dizziness and dry mouth were compounded by a nagging awareness. I had done something wrong the night before, something not on a continuum with the cheating and the white lies. But, amazingly, I got up and went about my normal routine. I drank two glasses of water, took a long shower, dressed. I pushed the previous night to the back of my mind and I walked out the door. I didn’t even say good-bye to Adam, who was sleeping soundly. Outside, the sidewalks were white from the blizzard. The doorman hailed me a cab, and we flew across the silent snowscape of Central Park. It was early, and the snow was pristine, unmarked by footprints and sled tracks. I had no idea—no conscious idea—of the turning point I had just passed. One chapter of my life over, another about to begin.

Time has made it worse. It isn’t just regret for that afternoon, for the things I shouldn’t have said to Adam. It’s the bigger realization that the entire thing was a mistake. Last year is like a movie starring somebody else. It’s a scene in time lapse, sped-up and frantic, everything moving too fast to grab hold of. That girl, the girl who existed from July to December—she wasn’t the person I had been before. She tricked herself, twisting the reality around her into something different. She was looking at it all wrong: like it was a plan finally coming together. She should have known better. The signs were always there. But there was something narcotic about the fantasy I was living, the idea of becoming someone else. No one had told me that doing these things could feel so good. They could feel so good that they blocked out everything else. They put to sleep the part of me that should have been watching.

*

The afternoon plunged into darkness.

“Jules, babe, it’s okay. Shh.”

I was crying again.

“I’m sick of it. I’m sick of him. He told me all this like it was my problem, too. He dumped it on me, and I’ve been carrying it around for weeks.”

“What is it? What did he tell you?”

“Spire. It’s this deal they’ve been working on. It’s messed up. It’s rigged. They’ve been lying about it the whole time.”

“Who has? People at Spire?”

“His boss, Michael. Evan is part of it, too. He went along with it.”

“Michael Casey, you mean? Shh, Julia, it’s okay. I’m here. I’m here.”

I was still crying, hot and angry tears.

“I’m so si-si—sick of him. He’s an asshole.”

“Tell me what Evan told you. How was the deal rigged?”

“It’s Michael. He knows people. Government officials in China. He bribed them to let them import from the Canadians, to get around the taxes.”

“How did he bribe them?”

Did I notice Adam reaching for the notepad in his pocket? Did I register his one-handed scribbles under the table? Did he even do this, or am I trying to rewrite the past, to insert a screaming siren for my former self, to make her sit up and notice what she was doing?

With his other hand he held mine, rubbing his thumb across my palm.

“Jules. Did Evan say how they bribed them?”

“Immigration. Canadian immigration paperwork. Spire and WestCorp helped the Chinese get their papers. That’s why they went to Vegas. I could kill him. He’s such an idiot.”

“They got papers for the Chinese, is that what you’re saying? In exchange for getting them visas, these officials are letting them export their lumber to China? Jules? That’s what you’re saying, right?”

“I hate him. Hate him.”

“Julia?”

*

Saturday, the day after. There was a feeling clinging to me that refused to be brushed away. A hammering in my heart. In the cab across Central Park, from Adam’s apartment to mine, I texted Abby. My phone buzzed with her reply a minute later. Oh, Jules, I’m so sorry. Are you okay? Can you still make it tonight? I’m so sorry.

The cab let me out. I brushed the snow from our stoop and sat down. My dad picked up the phone. My mother was out, walking the dog. How was I? What was going on? I told him everything, including what Adam had said about Fletcher Partners’ investment in the new start-up. When I finished, he sighed heavily. I could picture him in his study, the leather-bound books and diplomas lining the walls. Leaning into his elbow on the desk, rubbing the bridge of his nose where his glasses sat. Finally he said: