All Our Wrong Todays(62)
“Okay,” I say. “I don’t know if you heard I was in the hospital?”
“Yeah,” Beth says, “I mean, everybody knows that.”
“Right. So, maybe I need to apologize if I said or did anything, you know, inappropriate last night.”
“Nothing we did last night was anywhere near appropriate.”
“Well, then I’m very sorry about that.”
“Why are you being like this?” Beth says.
“Like what?”
“Nice,” she says. “You weren’t nice last night. You were rough. And if you really want me to be honest, it made me feel shitty. It wasn’t sex. It was more like you were jerking off into me. That’s how you made me feel. Like I was something to come in.”
She wipes her eyes with her hand and I don’t know what to say or do so I don’t say or do anything except listen to her.
“You don’t even know,” Beth says. “I tried to play it cool this morning but I barely slept all night because I promised myself I wouldn’t get into a situation like this. Especially not with someone I thought I, like, admired or whatever. The whole point of going to architecture school is to build the world I want to live in and that’s how working for you made me feel. Like I could maybe be part of that. And now I wrecked it all.”
“Nothing’s been wrecked,” I say. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I don’t understand,” she says. “Last night you couldn’t even look at me when we . . . and now you’re like a different person.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“You keep saying you’re sorry.” Beth says. “You weren’t sorry last night. You’re my boss. You could make or break my career. What we did, it’s not the kind of sex I like. I just figured bad sex with an asshole is better than the other way it could’ve gone. And I’m not threatening you, okay? I know I went along with all of it. I just wanted it to be over. And all night, lying there, I kept telling myself, in the morning just act like it was no big deal and that will mean it really was no big deal.”
I’m very aware this is objectively worse for her than for me. I know that. But what am I supposed to say to her? Sorry, Beth, everything you’re telling me is terrible and heartbreaking, but it wasn’t me, I swear, it was the alternate version of myself I created by shattering reality? I don’t know if I have any right to feel devastated by what she’s saying, but I do. And roiling under that is the realization that John is not who I thought he was.
The thing is, I didn’t feel anything. I wasn’t shoved to the back of his consciousness, scratching and clawing to come out. I was just annihilated. I didn’t know I was even gone until I woke up and it was the wrong today.
Maybe it’s because I was so tired after staying up all night with my family. I was weak. I lost control. But it’s not just that John took over—it’s that he took over without any of me left in him.
I didn’t understand that until right now. I thought I was like a specter in his dreams. But now I see that I’ve always been part of him. Not just his imagination—his conscience. Without me, there’s no warmth or compassion in him. No human connection. I thought he was better than me, stronger, smarter, more capable. But we were in balance. He was in charge, hands on the wheel, but I was always there, guiding him to a standard higher than his craven drives. I don’t know how to make sure I stay in control. I could fall asleep tonight and wake up tomorrow as John and nothing that matters to me matters to him, because all he cares about is what he wants.
“I don’t like the person I was last night,” I say. “I know I look like him and sound like him, but I don’t feel like him and I hope I never do again. It’s easy to apologize the next morning when what matters is how I treated you last night. I hope I can find a way to make it up to you or, if you’re not interested in my apologies or regrets, then tell me what would make you feel respected. If it’s leaving you alone, that’s fine. If it’s something else, that’s fine too. Tell me what I can do and I’ll do my best to do it.”
“I was probably just going to go home and have a long bath and write an embarrassing blog post about you,” she says.
“If that’s what you want to do, okay,” I say.
“This is really confusing,” Beth says. “I mean, I’ve been interning at your office for six weeks and I didn’t think you even knew my name. I’d heard you had some, like, freak-out and ended up in the hospital, but then you give that big speech and everyone’s all, like, he’s a genius.”
“I’m not a genius,” I say. “That much must be obvious to you.”
“I don’t know,” she says, “what’s the definition of genius? All I wanted was for you to notice me. I came to work on the weekend in case you’d be there. And it worked. You noticed me. I had dinner with John fucking Barren and you actually listened to my opinions about architecture. I was so nervous, I drank way too much, and you kept ordering more wine, and you probably don’t even realize anymore how good expensive wine tastes, but I never drank a bottle that cost more than twenty bucks until last night. And you were just all over me and, I mean, it was flattering, mostly. But how the hell did I put myself in this situation? I’m doing my master’s degree. I’m trying to build a real career. I’m not the dummy who drinks too much and goes home with her boss.”