No One Knows Us Here(45)

“Patience.” Leo enfolded me in his arms and kissed me, slowly. He ran both of his hands down my back, resting them on my behind. Then his hands wandered down, pulled up the edges of my dress. His fingers caressed the backs of my bare thighs and traveled up higher. I was prepared. I was wearing expensive underwear. I did this thing when I was with Leo. I committed to my role. My various mantras scrolled through my head. I am choosing this, this is my job, I couldn’t do much worse than all the other douchebags, etc. I wasn’t into him, but I wasn’t repulsed by him, either. I was pretending to be into him. Exactly as I had agreed to do.

Then Leo stopped himself. He removed his hands from under my dress and stepped back from me. He lifted up his palms, like he was surrendering, showing he was unarmed. “That goes for me, too. Patience.”

On the dining room table sat a white garment box, unwrapped, illuminated by the chandelier above. “I have something for you,” he said, lifting it from the table and handing it to me ceremoniously. It was heavier than I’d expected.

This was it—I had a feeling. Inside this box was his fetish, revealed after all this time. Some leather bondage gear. A schoolgirl costume. Something. Something so outlandish, my imagination was incapable of anticipating it.

I laid the box back down on the table. Remember why you’re doing this: Wendy. Whatever it is, you can handle it, the pep talk continued. Two and a half months down. Nine and a half to go. You can put up with anything for nine and a half months. Remember your training, I reminded myself. I’d been running over my lines in the mirror, complete with facial expressions.

Sex dungeon? No, Leo. I’m not shocked at all. (Eyebrows lifted, eyes wide open in innocence.)

You’re a furry? Really? I love animals. I donated to PETA one year, in college.

Golden showers? Cleveland steamers? (I had grimaced in the mirror—I couldn’t help it—and then quickly rearranged my features, creating a mask of smiling acceptance.) Let me spread out some water-resistant drop cloths.

Whatever was in the box, I was going to look excited to see it. I was going to look absolutely delighted.

One, two, three—in a flourish, I lifted the lid, like a magician performing a magic trick.

“Agh!” I shouted. Then I laughed, in an attempt to disguise my outburst as a screech of joy. “Are you serious?”

Leo’s pupils dilated a fraction. I recovered.

“Are you serious?” I said again. “Because I love it.”

We both looked down at the contents of the box. It was a pair of charcoal-gray sweatpants. A white T-shirt. And a navy-blue hoodie. All in my size.



Leo made me go back into his bedroom to change. I unzipped the dress and then didn’t know what to do with it. I decided to hang it in his closet. The silver dress dangled among an army of navy-blue hoodies. Cinderella at a ball of nerdy software developers.

Leo was waiting for me in the kitchen. He looked at me with approval. He clapped his hands together so loudly they sounded like the crack of a whip. I jumped. “Yes!” Leo raised both palms up in the air so I could give him a double high five. “Everything fit? I had to guess at your size.”

“It’s perfect,” I said. “Very comfortable.”

The kitchen island was piled high with groceries: flour, eggs, tomatoes, garlic, lettuce. He waved over everything like a game show host. “Okay,” he said. “So have you guessed it yet?”

“Guessed what yet?” I smiled at him coyly, playing along, like I was having the time of my life. I hadn’t prepared for this. Whatever it was, I had no clue.

“Guessed the surprise.”

“Give me a hint.”

“All right, all right.” Leo rearranged the groceries on the island, pairing the flour with the eggs and some other items: baker’s chocolate, butter, and sugar.

“You want to make . . . brownies?”

“We’re going to make a cake,” Leo said. “A birthday cake.”

“It’s your birthday?” I should have known this. I should have read it on his Wikipedia page, written it down, put a note in my calendar. Alejandro should have told me. Surely Alejandro knew.

“Don’t worry about it. I usually don’t even celebrate. This year is different.” He paused and gave me a meaningful look. “It’s like I told you—I’m tired of all this traveling. New York, San Francisco. Room service every night. It gets old. It’s a new decade. I want to do things differently.”

“Your thirtieth,” I said. “That’s a big deal.”

“I spent my twenties building my business. And it was great. No complaints. But I want more now.”

“Right.” I was nodding, smiling, like I knew where he was headed with this line of conversation, but then he was looking back at me with this expectant raise of his eyebrows, like he wanted me to respond, and I didn’t know what to say. “So this sweat suit”—I gestured to my ensemble of cozy knitwear—“and the chocolate cake . . .”

“It starts tonight. It’s my birthday, and this is how I want to spend it: with you.” Leo reached out to caress my cheek, but his hand hovered just inches away from my face, as if I were a statue he was afraid to break. He let his hand fall back to his side. “I want to spend it with you—here, at home, like a normal couple.”