Neither surprises me. The only time he’s spent the night was when he was physically incapable of leaving.
The suite was bare when I entered, bereft of any luggage or personal belongings. The space feels even emptier now, only me in a huge bed. Wherever Lev actually sleeps during his trips to Chicago, I’ve never seen. Never will.
I flop back onto the soft mattress with a sigh, replaying moments from last night in my mind. I dread the aftermath of these evenings as much as I look forward to their start. I know they’ll end like this—him gone and me alone. I’m so tired of being alone. I think about the stretch of separation ahead duringthe limited time we’re together, anticipating the inevitable outcome, like maybe that’ll make its arrival hurt less.
It never does.
And yet I don’t alter any part of the pattern. I do the same thing over and over again. The definition of insanity. The behavior of a masochist.
I drag myself out of bed when light starts to sneak through a gap in the curtains, making a half-hearted attempt to straighten the sheets before continuing into the bathroom. I wipe under my eyes with a tissue, swish some complimentary mouthwash, use the toilet, swipe the travel hand soap after smelling it, and then go in search of my clothes. My dress, rather. I find it in the first place I look—hung neatly in the closet beside my wool coat. My heels are lined up beneath, tights tucked inside the left one.
My underwear is missing.
I blush, recalling Lev shoving the black thong into his pants pocket. He’s never once suggested I’m more than a reliable lay to him. Can you fuck someone for eleven years without forming any attachment? Does a man steal your thong as some souvenir simply because the sex is good? Is it possible to fall in love and live a full life without that person?
I’m choosing to believe the answers I want to be true because the alternatives are too unfortunate to contemplate. Because I don’t have anyone to ask for input or to speculate the truth with.
I pull on my dress, zip it as high as I can reach, cover it with my coat, and step into my heels after stuffing the tights in my pocket. Grab my phone and pick up the plastic room key. Ghost my finger along the edge as I survey the messy bed and spotless room, wondering if the trace of smoke in the air is real or my imagination.
I pick up the glass next to the lamp, peering at the thin layer of vodka coating the clear bottom. Lift it and drain the final drops, the sweet, sharp taste mixing with the mint flavorlingering on my tongue. I set the glass down and sigh, scanning the room one final time before walking toward the door. Slip into the silent hallway. Not even the cleaning staff is around this early.
The elevator is empty when it arrives. So is the luxurious lobby. This is one of Chicago’s fanciest hotels, somewhere I could never afford to stay on my salary.
I deliver the extra room key to the yawning clerk behind the front desk, then tighten the belt of my coat and head outside.
The air is frigid, February’s chill exacerbated by limited light as the sun slowly rises. Downtown office buildings block most of its ascent. It must have been even colder when Lev left. I’ve never woken before him, the intoxicating combination of orgasms and liquor more powerful than any sleeping pill.
I flag a cab and relay my address, staring listlessly out the smudged window at the gray snow piled on the side of the street. A record amount has fallen this winter.
It was snowing again when I arrived at the hotel last night. Overnight plows already cleared the streets, the asphalt a few shades darker than the frozen sludge on either side.
An unpleasant surprise waits outside my apartment building. Jude—I can tell it’s him from the bump in his nose, especially obvious when looking at his profile, not to mention the omniscient Cubs cap—is pressing repeatedly on the buzzer.
I almost face-plant into a filthy snowbank; I’m so anxious to hustle to him after paying the driver.
“Jude!”
He glances my way, thumb finally lifting from the button.
I jog closer, nearly losing my balance on the salted sidewalk. I hardly ever wear heels, and running is even more unusual. When exercise sounds appealing, I swim.
Jude appears pleased to see me for approximately two seconds. Then he registers what I’m wearing and immediately frowns.
“What are you doing here?” I ask breathlessly, reaching him.
I tighten the belt of my coat again, but it doesn’t matter that he can’t see my sultry dress. The heels and the coat that he knows I reserve for special occasions—not to mention my arriving home at this hour—suggest plenty.
“What areyoudoing?” Jude sounds hurt, not angry, which is worse. “You only waited two weeks to move on?”
I don’t know how best to answer that, so I don’t.
It’s not just Jude. All of my past relationships share a pattern of ending whenever Lev visits Chicago.
Jude scoffs in response to my silence, shoving his hands into his pockets. Waiting for an explanation—exactly what I don’t want him to do. I want him to leave so I can sneak upstairs before Isabella wakes and asks where I was all night.
I yank my belt a third time, wincing as the wind nips at my bare legs, waiting too. For him to give up, for him to go home. I was honest when we ended; I just withheld one (major) reason why.
For a long time, I thought I was a decent person. I hold my arm out when someone’s rushing to the elevator. I coordinate extra practices with my fellow violinists to ensure everyone performs at their best. I donate a large portion of my income to charitable organizations that need it more than I do.
