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“Duddleston sent out an e-mail,” she answers from the living room. “It just said you’ve left the company. No explanation. They were already putting your files in boxes when I left.”
Lincoln takes down the teapot and drops in two little pillows of tea. He rewashes two cups, scrubbing to erase the coffee stains on the inside. That’s odd, he thinks—back when he had a job he wouldn’t have taken the time for the extra cleaning. “Where did you tell them you were going just now?” he calls out over the running water. “It won’t do your career there any good if Duddleston thinks you’re up here giving me solace.”
“I didn’t tell them anything,” Amy says from the living room. “I didn’t have to because I quit.”
Lincoln shuts off the faucet and goes to the living room. “You’re shitting me,” he says.
Amy has shed her jacket and kicked off her shoes, and she’s sitting in a corner of the sofa, her legs pulled up beneath her. “What else could I do?” she says calmly. “It was as much my fault as yours.”
“Yeah, but you still had a job.”
“I couldn’t stay under those circumstances.” Her chin thrusts out; her eyes spark. Lincoln has come to recognize that look of defiance. “Sexual harassment?” she says. “What kind of an opportunistic cynic do you think I am?”
He sinks into the nubby chair. “Not at all...” he starts, then falters. What exactly did he expect? That she’d know that life constantly serves up injustices to others, but that it rarely avails anything to sacrifice yourself, at least beyond a few expressions of pity, perhaps a message of condolence? In other words, that she’d react as he likely would in her place? “What did Duddleston say when you quit?”
“He said I was making a mistake. That it wasn’t my responsibility, which of course is bullshit.”
“And your book?”
“Canceled. Which is stupid, too. As if the fact that we fucked has anything to do with the merits of the book.”
“Yeah,” Lincoln says, echoing her disgust, though in fact it had occurred to him that the fucking—or, more accurately, the anticipation of it—had been the antecedent of some of their best writing/editing sessions.
“I think the water is boiling,” Amy tells him.
When he returns with the tea, Amy explains how they were found out: Matt Breeson, that tedious suburban pop who likes trying to outsmart a good mystery, happened to notice that both Lincoln and Amy had submitted credit-card statements that contained simultaneous charges from the Lunker Motel in Lac du Flambeau, Wisconsin. Neither employee had claimed reimbursement for the expense, but the match was there to see, listed on the bills, along with a handful of expenses (highlighted by yellow Magic Marker, as per company policy) that indeed belonged to Pistakee. Was this disaster foreseeable? Lincoln’s MasterCard bill had been three pages long, with scores of charges (he was still adjusting economically to the separation from Mary). Amy had never before put in for expenses, but in an emergency a few months ago, she’d used her Visa card to buy ink for the printer in Duddleston’s office. Neither Lincoln nor Amy had given a thought to the risk before turning in the documents. When Breeson saw the contemporaneous charges, he called Mrs. Lunker, who was happy to acknowledge the attractive young couple who had spent every night in Lincoln’s room.
“How does Matt get off pawing through our credit card bills?” Amy asks indignantly. “There’s a privacy issue there.”
“We were idiots,” Lincoln tells her, and Amy can’t really argue with that.
As they talk and finish the tea, the midday sun fills the living room with a dense, sweet light. Lincoln’s perspiration has dried, and even though he knows he probably smells bad, he has that salty, baked feeling—satisfying in a languid way—you get after swimming in the ocean and drying yourself in the warm sea air. Amy’s blue jeans show off the taut curve of her hip, and several layers of T-shirts emphas
ize her breasts. Her short, brown hair is slightly tussled, and her low-maintenance makeup regimen has left her face fresh and vibrant. Lincoln realizes that the events of the morning have flummoxed his perceptions, but he thinks she’s never looked more alluring.
“What are you going to do now?” he asks.
“Who knows?” Amy says. “Duddleston said I could keep the advance, so I’ve got a little cushion. I can always be a waitress for a while. I suppose I’ll go back to school eventually.”
“In English?”
She frowns. “I’m sort of down on books right now.”
“Maybe you should send your manuscript to an agent,” Lincoln suggests halfheartedly.
“No,” she declares simply. “This is enough.”
Lincoln rises and moves toward the sofa. Some impulse, exposed by trauma, pushes him to her. “Do you realize what we have been through together over the last six months?” he asks.
Amy stiffens and puts her feet on the floor. “Don’t sit down,” she tells him.
“Why?”
“Just don’t, John. I know where it’s heading.” She hops up from the sofa and grabs her coat from the closet.
“But what difference does it make now?” he pleads, aware of how pathetic he sounds.
Amy talks while she slips into her coat. “Look, John, this has been an incredible experience. But one thing that is abundantly clear is that we are terrible for each other. The combination brings trouble. Bad chemistry, or something. I can see that clear as day, even if you can’t.”
