The Assistants(39)

I think he was expecting me to say, I do know that, but when I said nothing, he took my hands into his and squeezed them. “You’ve got your project with Emily and you’re trying to fight inequality, and here I am . . . what? Living in my parents’ apartment and working for the Titan Corporation. I wouldn’t blame you if you broke up with me right now.”

“I’m not going to break up with you,” I said. “I’d have to be crazy to break up with you.”

Shit. There went the Bu in GAnENsBu, right out the pied-à-terre window.

Kevin exhaled long and slow. “Well, it’s a relief to hear you say that. It’s like I’ve been living with this secret, and it’s been terrible, not knowing how you’d react when you found out, if you would lose all respect for me.”

“I can imagine,” I said.

“I feel so much better, now that it’s out in the open.”

“Good,” I said, longing for such relief.

“Are you still hungry enough for dessert?” Kevin bounced up from the sofa and disappeared to the kitchen nook. He returned carrying a stainless steel electric fondue pot, which he set up upon the floor.

(I hoped the fondue pot also belonged to his parents.)

“So,” he said. “What’s the latest with your project anyway? How’s it going?”

He handed me a skewer and uncovered a plate of bananas and strawberries that he must have spent half the day slicing into equal-size geometric shapes.

I tried to think. What had I last told him? “It’s going really well,” I said. “We’re, um, getting a lot more organized. More focused.”

Kevin stirred the pot of chocolate with a wooden spoon, waiting for me to say more.

“We’re focusing just on student-loan debt now,” I said. “Did I already tell you that?”

“No, you didn’t.” He paused his stirring. “That’s awesome. Can I get in on this? Law school left me about two hundred K in the hole.”

“Ha,” I said. “No. It’s going to be just for women, I think. Women who are underpaid. Assistants, like.”

“Oh, that’s understandable.” He nodded feministically. “You know, my mother would love this idea.”

“Please don’t mention this to your mother, Kevin. Seriously.”

He resumed his stirring of the chocolate. “I won’t. I’ll wait to let you tell her about it yourself, when you meet her.”

I just let that one lie.

“So do you have a website up and running?” Kevin dipped his pinky into the pot for a taste.

“Yes, actually,” I said, and then, “No. Not publicly. Not like that you can see.”

“Still in the beta stages?” he asked.

“Yup,” I said, whatever that meant.

“But you’ve got a mission statement and everything?”

“Oh yeah, totally. We have a total mission statement.”

Kevin let go of his spoon, but he remained kneeling down catcher-style, hovering over the fondue. “Well, when you’re ready to take it public,” he said, “I’ve got a few contacts I’d really like to introduce you to. Some friends who work for media companies that are a little more liberal than Titan. They’d be all over this.”

I had to put an end to this conversation immediately. The lie was becoming too detailed—but how did I stop it?

I leaned over and kissed him.

He pulled back, surprised. “You like that idea, huh?”

Jesus.

I shoved my tongue into his mouth, harder this time. New five-point plan:

Stop talking, stop talking, stop talking, stop talking, stop talking. (STSTSTSTST.)

I tried to get closer to him, to really go for it. I got down onto the floor, where he was, and wrapped my arms around him—this was going to work like a charm—but that damn fondue pot! It toppled over with a crash, splashing chocolate all over Kevin’s parents’ CB2 area rug.

“Oh my god,” I said.

“It’s okay.” Kevin tried to take my hands, but they were busy covering my face. “Seriously, Tina, don’t worry about it, I hate that f*cking rug. Look.”

I did look, just as Kevin kicked the remaining setup of fruit he’d so meticulously prepared for our dessert square across the room.

His parents’ chocolate-covered rug was now polka-dotted with strawberries. Sliced banana stuck to the sides of their fawn-colored storage ottoman. He kissed me on the mouth before I could laugh.

I grabbed his face and kissed him back, pulling him in closer.

He directed me toward the bedroom, but we’d made it only as far as the bookcase when he pushed me up against the wall. I fiddled with his zipper and he pulled off my shirt. We were naked in seconds.

And that’s how good I was at not having sex with Kevin at his Upper East Side apartment that night.





16




I HAVE A CONFESSION to make. No, not that one. It’s that my favorite part of sex is after it’s over. Which isn’t to say I don’t enjoy the act itself, because I do, very much—but what I really love is the holding afterward, the lounging, the supreme relaxation of That went well.

Sex with Kevin went mind-blowingly well, but it was our postcoital lazing that was the clincher for me. We spent all of Sunday sprawled in his bed in our underwear, laughing, watching videos on his computer, and occasionally having more sex. And the best part: we ordered from Seamless for every meal. Could I ask for anything more?