My Last Innocent Year(34)

“I forgot how complicated this all is,” he said. “All I see when I look at you is how young you are, and talented. What can I say that isn’t completely clichéd—this, too, my dear, shall pass?” I laughed through my tears, and it sounded strange, like trying to sing through milk. “Listen, I’ve met a million Andys in my life. Hell, I’ve been Andy. Let him sulk all he wants. It won’t be the first time someone’s jealous of how good you are.”

I was about to say something self-deprecating, but then I remembered what Joanna had said, about choosing to believe him, so I just said, “Thanks. But I’m not sure that’s all it is.”

“Oh. Are you and Andy…”

“No.” I looked down at the hat in my hands. “I mean we were—we did. But that was a long time ago. We decided to be friends—or, I guess, I decided.”

“That’s never easy.”

“I thought it was. But with guys—even when they say they forgive you, they never really forget.”

“I could say the same about women.”

“Touché.” I touched my forehead. “I can’t believe I just said, ‘Touché.’ I really should go home.”

I started to look for my coat again. “Is this it?” Connelly asked, freeing it from the pile. “Every day, you come in wearing this coat, and … How could you not be curious about a girl with a coat like this?”

“It was my mother’s. After she died, my father got rid of everything that belonged to her, couldn’t stand having any of it around. I grabbed it before he could throw it away.” I paused. “I never told anyone that before.”

“Why not?”

“I thought it sounded morbid, wearing a dead woman’s coat.”

He looked down at the coat, reverently. “Well, it is something.”

He lay the coat across his lap and stroked the heavy gray wool, the hood, the toggle buttons. In the dim light of the bedroom, his face glowed above his white shirt. Muffled party sounds traveled through the closed door: footsteps, the rush of voices. That we were alone in a dark bedroom, sitting so close I could see the place on his throat where he’d cut himself shaving, his wife somewhere nearby—all of this should have felt strange, but it didn’t. It felt so good to be near him, like slipping into a hot bath. He moved closer to me, and I felt his shoulder press against mine. I looked down and saw the edge of my bra peeking out of my dress. Connelly saw it, too. And then, without saying a word, he reached out and held my wrist, circled it with his fingers like a cuff. I was surprised at how easily the barrier between us was breached, that the lines I thought existed were really nothing at all. I reached out and traced the scar that ran up the back of his hand. The skin there was smooth and hairless, like a run in a stocking.

“What happened?”

“I punched a window,” he said. “Back when I was a poet.”

I wanted to ask him more but found I couldn’t speak. Connelly’s hand moved slowly around my wrist, his fingertips resting on the flutter of my pulse. Warmth flooded me. My breath became shallow, the sound loud and echoey in my ears. With his other hand, he reached out and touched my cheek. “You look so beautiful when you cry,” he said. And then he leaned over and kissed me.

He kissed me slowly at first, as if I might break, and I forgot all about Andy and his hat, which fell out of my hand and disappeared somewhere in the mountain of coats, never to be seen again. Anyone might have walked in and seen us, but I didn’t think about that. He kissed me and I forgot about Roxanne and Joanna and Tom, Andy and Kara, Debra, Zev. I forgot about Abe and his expectations, my mother and her coat and her broken, ravaged body, dead now, dust. Later, we would learn to be careful, secrecy part of the story we told about ourselves, but that night, the first night, we were bold. Everything distilled to the feel of his lips on mine, his hands on my face, the smell of him—woodsmoke and peppermint, and a hint of gin. He kissed me and I went liquid. The room was cold and dark, but inside I was fire, heat, blue, blue flame. He kissed me and I was awake. He kissed me and I was alive.

Suddenly, there was a crash, the sound of people running, gasps, raised voices. Connelly stood up and opened the door a crack. I could see everyone moving in the same direction, as if the house had been picked up and turned on its side.

“Shit,” he said. “I should go out there. Wait a minute before coming out.” I nodded. He smiled, then ducked outside. I counted to a hundred before standing up. I’d never been scuba diving, but I imagined this was how it felt to rise from the deep.

I nearly bumped into Whitney in the hallway. “What happened?” I asked.

“Something with Professor Fisher!” she said with glee she didn’t try to hide.

I pushed to the front of the crowd. Tom Fisher was standing in the middle of the kitchen, water dripping from his hair and onto the floor. His wool sweater hung down over his hips, revealing the edge of his boxer shorts. It took me a second to understand that he wasn’t wearing pants. There was a towel wrapped around his left hand, dark with what looked like blood.

“Tom.” Joanna was standing a few feet away from him. Roxanne stood behind her, one hand outstretched, ready to pounce. Andy and Kara were crouched down on the floor, picking up shards of glass and placing them carefully into a dish towel. The whole room reeked of gin.