“I’m here, aren’t I?” Sydney says. “Living in his house. Taking care of his kids. Playing Go Fish and cleaning up his mess. So.” She pauses. “You tell me.”
I hear Winnie say something soft that I can’t make out, and then they’re moving, their heels clicking on the tile, heading back toward the ballroom. I stand in that hallway with my back against the wall, my hands at my sides, and I can’t move.
He was my first.
I always thought we’d probably end up together.
I go back to the table and sit down. Banks asks me something about the upcoming road trip, and I answer him, but I have no idea what I say because every word that comes out of my mouth is automated. The rest of me is still standing in that hallway, hearing Sydney’s voice sayI thought he’d feel it tooand wondering how I spent fifteen years missing something this big.
The Uber ride home is quiet. Sydney is in the back seat next to me, and the wine has caught up with her. She’s past the warm, honest phase and into the drowsy, heavy-limbed phase, leaning against my arm.
Her head settles against my bicep. Her hand lands on my knee. Not gripping, just resting there, her fingers light against the fabric of my suit pants, and I can feel the warmth of her palm through the material.
The city moves past the windows. Lights, intersections, the late-night pulse of Manhattan thinning out as we cross into Brooklyn. The driver has the radio on low, a jazz station, and Sydney’s breathing slows against my arm.
I can’t help but think about what she told Winnie tonight. I had no idea she viewed our hookup as significant. It happened, and then it was never mentioned again. I was eighteen and terrified of what I felt and didn’t know how to say it. So, I said nothing. The nothing became everything, and here we are.
I don’t move. I let her sleep against me. The Uber takes a long route through Brooklyn, and I don’t care because every extraminute is a minute where she’s leaning on me, and I don’t have to face whatever mess I’ve made.
We pull up to the house. I pay the driver, and then I’m at Sydney’s door, opening it, and she blinks awake.
“We’re home,” I say.
“Mm.” She tries to stand, and her heel catches on the curb. I catch her arm, and she leans into me, her face against my chest, and laughs. “Sorry. I’m a little drunk.”
“I know.”
“Just a little.”
“It’s okay, Syd.”
I walk her inside. She’s leaning on me, her arm looped through mine. I get her upstairs and into the guest room. She sits on the edge of the bed and looks up at me with glassy, wine-dark eyes.
“I had fun tonight,” she says.
“Good.”
“Winnie’s great.”
“She is.”
“I told her—” She stops. Her face shifts, a flicker of something — caution, maybe, even through the wine. “Never mind.”
“What?”
“Nothing. I don’t remember.” She waves one hand and then reaches behind her back, fumbling. “Can you, uh — I need to take my bra off. I can’t sleep in this bra.”
“Syd.”
“I’m not asking you to undress me, Archer. I just can’t reach the clasp, and my arms don’t work right now.” She turns around and pulls her hair over one shoulder. “It’s under the dress. Just unhook it, and I’ll do the rest.”
I stand there for a second. Then I step forward.
My hands find the clasp through the fabric of her dress. I can feel the warmth of her back through the material, and my fingersare steady because I am a grown man, and this is a mechanical task. I am not going to make it into something it isn’t.
I unhook it. Two small hooks. My knuckles brush her spine through the dress, and she shivers—just once, quick—and I step back.
She reaches up one sleeve, does something I can’t see, and pulls the bra strap down her shoulder and out through the armhole of her dress. Then the other side. She drops the bra on the floor, lies back on the bed, and exhales like she just finished a marathon.
