If You Only Knew(86)

“My husband doesn’t know you’re here. And you’re right, it is.” I take a sip of wine. “We’re having a rough time.”

“You want to talk about it? I mean, I told you about my Anna Karenina moment. I owe you.”

I look at Gus’s nice face, the cropped hair, the omnipresent smile. “I’d rather not,” I say. “Let’s talk about anything but that, okay? I didn’t ask you to have dinner because I wanted to talk about my husband, or make him jealous, or anything like that. I asked you because I couldn’t think of a nicer person.”

He puts his fork down and looks at me for a long moment. “That might be the best compliment I’ve ever had,” he says. Then he smiles and continues eating, and there’s a warmth in my heart that has nothing to do with the wine.

* * *

When we leave the restaurant, it’s nearly midnight, and Tribeca now pulses with music from clubs and restaurants. “Feel like going anywhere else?” Gus asks.

I hesitate. “You can come back to the hotel. The roof deck is all mine.” I feel foolish as I say it. A scorned wife spends lots of money to punish her husband. How original.

But the view from the deck is stellar. Liberty Tower is beautiful and poignant, the Woolworth Building stately and grand. I bring up a bottle of wine and Gus opens it, and we sit in our chairs and don’t say anything, just look at the lights and listen to the sounds from the city below. I take off my shoes and wrap up in the soft throw the hotel has so thoughtfully provided.

“Rachel?”

He never shortens my name. Most people do. “Yeah?”

He gives me a long look. “I just want to say something. You know I always liked you. Had a crush on you.”

“I actually didn’t know that until you asked me out.” A blush prickles my cheeks, and I’m glad for the dim lighting up here.

“Well, I did. I still do.”

I look at him, but that’s it, apparently. “I like you, too, Gus. But I can’t do anything about that. I’m still married.”

“I know. I wouldn’t want you to. But I wanted to say it anyway.” He sits up. “And with that awkward parting salvo, I should probably go.”

I walk him to the door. “I’m really glad we did this.”

He smiles. “Thank you for calling me. It was an honor.”

Suddenly, there’s a lump in my throat. “Good night, Gus.”

“Take care.”

He kisses my cheek, and for one second, I think about turning my head and kissing him on the mouth.

I don’t. I close the door instead.

Whatever happens, this night is a little jewel for me to tuck away. A perfect night with a kind man who liked me and still does, more than ten years after he first asked me out. Who tried nothing, but was simply honest and charming and nice.

Then I go into the bathroom and wash up, hanging up my red dress with care. Floss. Brush.

There was a night before the affair, when I was brushing my teeth before bed, and Adam came into the bathroom and felt my ass and said, “Do you even know how beautiful you are?” and I laughed, because I had a mouthful of foam. I remember how lucky I felt, that my husband still wanted to feel my butt, still came on to me.

What happened to that guy? Was it because I fell asleep one time? Am I somehow responsible for this affair?

Lovely Gus aside, I’m married to Adam Carver. He took vows, but so did I. And in a flash, I realize that his affair hasn’t killed my love for him. It muffled it. Embarrassed it. Shamed it. I’m so stupid because I still love you.

The woman at dinner, flirting so easily with a cute guy, sitting next to Robert De Niro... She’s nice, sure, but she has a husband and three children and a foundering marriage.

Tomorrow is Monday, but I’ll be going home. I belong home, in Cambry-on-Hudson, in my white house with the blue shutters, with my daughters.

I still might belong with Adam, too.

Jenny

When I wake up in the morning, it’s because there are three little warm bodies snuggled next to me. They rose at five, which is Satan’s hour, as everyone knows, so I wooed them into cuddling with me so I could doze a little longer.

And think of Leo.

My whole body curls with happiness. We kissed for hours last night, the couch springs squeaking, a delicious state of horniness and warmth. We talked, too, murmuring sometimes, laughing. Ate ice cream around midnight. Kissed some more. And when he left, he pushed me against the front door and gave me a long, hot, lingering kiss. His hands slid down to my thighs, and he picked me up against him and I wrapped my legs around him, my back pressed against the door, and if it wasn’t the horniest moment of my life, I don’t know what was. Then he let me slide down against him, his hands going to my hair.

“Make sure your rent is on time,” he murmured against my mouth, and then he smiled and was gone, and I staggered back to the couch and collapsed there, grinning like an idiot.

“Auntie? Auntie? I have to go baffroom,” Rose says now, breaking me out of my reverie.

“Okay, baby,” I answer.

It’s raining outside, a steady, gentle rain. Monday, so the school bus rattles and sighs up the street, collecting the neighborhood kids. The girls don’t have nursery school on Mondays, so it’s just them and me for now. And maybe Leo, because his lessons won’t start until 2:30 p.m.