Page 58 of The Irresistible Distraction

I look up into his long-lashed eyes. “This is too much, Brody.” It’s tempting to leave it there, to not clarify, but I continue. “And by this, I mean . . . everything. The getting to know my son, the talking to him without asking me first, the coordinating with my friends about things like Vera’s dogs, which I’ve somehow allowed myself to forget, the fudging presidential suite.”

“Sebastian ships us, though.”

I scrunch my face, and Brody holds up a hand in surrender.

“I’ll be better. And as for the rest of it . . . it’s one day.” Brody opens his arms, asking for a hug that I nod and step into. He smooths my ponytail down and then tugs on it a little. “You can let me take care of the dogs and the details and enjoy yourself for one day, can’t you?”

17

PURE WISH FULFILLMENT

It turns out I can enjoy myself, turn off my brain, and go on vacation as Real Sophie as opposed to Vacation Raquel.

So I do.

I enjoy the hell out of the next day, all of which is pure wish fulfillment.

While Sebastian has his two-hour chess lesson—which I swear I didn’t even realize was a thing, that people pay money for their children to improve at chess—downstairs in one of the hotel’s office spaces, Brody rushes me upstairs, where we divest ourselves of our clothes as if it’s a race, flinging clothes onto the floor, because this isn’t real life and I don’t have to worry about the laundry afterward. It is, shockingly, the first time I get to see the man completely naked. That first night, it was too dark for me to appreciate (or really, marvel at) the tattoos that are spread out along his chest, trailing up his back and along the upper part of one arm.

Brody makes a joke about it, telling me that after reading the short story “Memento Mori” and then watching the movie Memento, he decided he too wanted to tattoo clues on his body.

“But Guy Pearce was tattooing clues to his wife’s murder,” I remind him.

“You’ve seen it?”

His joy is so immediate that I feel awful dousing it. “Not a lot of time to watch movies, but I . . . read synopses, learn about trivia sometimes, that the director and author were brothers—and I took a film class that assigned the classics.”

Brody kisses me quickly and fiercely before resting his forehead on mine. “God, that’s really you in a nutshell.”

He moves from where he was a moment ago, and I feel the loss of intimacy keenly as he lies next to me, clearly taking a step back. “What do you mean?”

“The sacrifices you’ve made, to be a good friend and daughter and neighbor. I mean, that’s really the saddest fucking thing I’ve heard, okay? That you read synopses because you don’t let yourself watch movies, that you fall asleep while other people watch.”

“You’re making too much out of it.”

“Metaphorically, I’m not. Trust me when I say I come from a world where everyone is, by habit and training, far more self-motivated.”

Disliking the direction our time together has taken, I reach a tentative hand across his chest to trace some of the tattooed formulas. “I don’t want your pity.”

“Good. Because I don’t pity you.” He cranes his neck to look down at me, easily trapping my wandering hand in one of his. He stares up at the ceiling as I watch unidentifiable emotions pass across his face. “But since you’re not ready to hear the rest . . .” He pauses. “Unless you’re ready to talk feelings?”

I shake my head, not meeting his eyes, wishing there was a graceful way to say, Please, sir, could we go back to the sex now? To the not-thinking portion of this non-date that I thought I’d signed up for.

“Let’s talk about my tattoos, then.” He kisses me on my open mouth. The tattoos shift as he turns toward me, a half smile on his full lips. “So one day, I’m a hundred and fifteen years old because that’s how far science has advanced, but I’ve started to forget things or have developed dementia—what would still be crucial to remember? What would you need to remember, even if you didn’t have the ability to?”

It’s beautiful. I silently trace the constellation tattooed across his heart. The individual stars are so small you’d almost mistake them for freckles if you weren’t paying attention, if you didn’t know where and how to look.

“What is this?”

“Ophiuchus, one of the largest known constellations but particularly difficult to find.”

One of his hands is trailing along my naked body again, smoothing down my waist in a way that makes it harder to talk, though clearly, given our past times together, this is Brody’s preferred way of multitasking, because he’s a man who enjoys the talking every bit as much as the touching. It’s all foreplay to him. My breath comes out on a gasp as he circles a breast. “Why, uh, is it difficult to find?”

“The individual stars are considered faint, and it’s surrounded by brighter and more well-known ones, your Scorpius and Hercules.”

He’s quiet as I focus on tracing the pattern, wondering whether that’s how Brody felt, engaged to someone like Vi Shindler, best friends with a man like Lucas Murray. But it feels simultaneously too serious and also . . . unnecessary. I don’t need him to verify the layers I’ve already witnessed, that live beneath the bravado.

So I ask about the other tattoos across his body, surprised by the wide variety. Along his lower ribs is a quote: Faith is taking the first step even if you don’t see the whole staircase.