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“It has over three hundred thousand miles on it,” Carey reminds him. “I don’t know why you don’t just replace it. It’s nickel-and-diming you to death.”
“Because a new truck would cost more, and by the time I’m done it’ll practically be brand-new,” he tells her.
I envy him the ability to fix his own car. I learned from my parents, whose motto seemed to be Why do it yourself when you can hire someone to do it for you? My dad still leases a new BMW every three years; I’m not sure he or Mom has ever changed a tire.
Sometime in my mental meandering, they finish their call, ending it with promises to drag their other brother, Rand, out with them soon.
“Sorry about that,” she says, standing from the desk and closing the laptop.
“I’m sorry I interrupted.” She waves me off, and in an effort to keep my attention on her face and not her legs, I add, “He seems nice.”
“He’s a grumpy old shit, but he’s all right.” She laughs. “We hardly ever see each other, so this is generally how we keep in touch. You might have guessed he’s not much of a texter.” She motions to her robe and points to the bathroom. “Just a second.”
I give the room another once-over, noticing the row of bras and underwear swinging in the breeze of the air conditioner from where they hang over the headboards of both queen beds.
“Have you been doing laundry in here?”
The door opens, and she steps out in a pair of jeans and her Dolly shirt, her hair tied up in a hasty bun. “Yeah, sorry,” she says, crossing the room to retrieve them.
“Don’t be sorry. It’s resourceful.” I recognize the blue bra and it makes my mouth go dry.
“I’m almost out of clothes,” she admits, giggling again as she pulls them down one by one. “I’m sure this explains why I’m always wrinkled. Let me just …”
She jogs back to the bathroom, so she misses my quiet “You’re perfect.”
When she returns, she sits at the edge of the bed. She’s stripped off the comforter, and I’m reminded of the last time we were in a hotel room together. The memory echoes across my skin in a heated, frantic pulse.
I give myself a few breaths to look at her. I wonder if, when she’s watching a show, she mimics every expression the actors make on-screen: happy, sad, confused, delighted. Right now I feel like she’s mimicking me, with wide, exploring eyes.
If memory serves, we decided in San Francisco that we aren’t kissing anymore, but for the life of me I can’t remember why. In fact, I can barely remember why I came up here in the first place, but now that I’m here, I really just want to press her back into the mattress and let her have her way with me again.
She looks away, breaking the tension. “I was impressed today,” she says.
I blink back into awareness. “Oh, on the bus?”
“Yes, Señor Bossypants.”
This makes me laugh. “There were a few seconds there when I thought Melissa might walk over and punch me in the dick.”
Carey falls back on the bed in laugher. “I thought the same thing,” she says, pushing up onto her elbows. “But no. It was good. I think we need to be bossier with her. Otherwise she’ll get away with everything.”
The reason for my visit comes back to me, and it occurs to me now that it might be a terrible idea. Obviously I can barely be around Carey without wanting to be touching—how will I do over candlelight? But Ted’s napkin promise looms large in my memory.
“Well, relatedly,” I say, “I was thinking that it might be a good idea for us to have dinner at a table near the Tripps tonight. Just to keep an eye on things.”
Her eyes gleam with playfulness. “You don’t trust them?”
“Not for a second.”
When she wrinkles her nose, teasing, my stomach takes a lovesick dive. “So you’re asking me out on a fake date?”
“If you’re up for it.”
Carey chews her lip, eyes narrowed as she takes me in. “Yeah. I think that’s probably a good idea.”
My skin flushes, and now I am sure that this was a terrible suggestion. She just threw a T-shirt on; she clearly isn’t wearing a bra. A drop of water rolls down her long, smooth neck, and I want to lick it off and then fuck her into next week.
But I suppose if the Tripps can spend this meal pretending to be infatuated, I should be able to spend it with Carey, pretending not to be.
At exactly 6:35 p.m. a waiter at El Gaucho is pouring me a glass of zinfandel while a smiling and camera-ready Melissa and Rusty Tripp sit just a few tables away. The restaurant is perfect: it’s connected to the hotel and filled with the kind of Melissa-approved soft-focus candlelight that makes everyone look great. They’re even seated next to a window, and if one of the photographers outside just happens to snap a few photos of the intimate dinner? Well, that’s even better.
