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“Good night, kiddo,” he says, and hangs up.
I gently replace the receiver. I go to the futon and sit with my knees to my chest, rocking back and forth. My face screws up, and tears trickle out of the corners of my eyes.
Miranda was right. Men do suck.
Chapter Sixteen
Ryan sneaks out at five in the morning. I keep my eyes squeezed shut, pretending to be asleep, not wanting to look at him or talk to him. I hear his footsteps cross the floor, followed by the squeak of the door. Get over it, I scold myself. It’s not a big deal. They had sex. So what? It’s not my business. But still. Doesn’t Ryan care about his fiancée? And what about Maggie and her two boyfriends? Are there no limits when it comes to sex? Is sex really so powerful it can erase your history and common sense?
I fall into a fitful sleep and then a deeper one. I’m in the middle of a dream in which Viktor Greene is saying he loves me, except that Viktor looks just like Capote, when Maggie startles me awake.
“Hi,” she says cheerfully, as if nothing untoward has happened. “Want some coffee?”
“Sure,” I say, the whole rotten evening coming back to me. I’m drained and slightly angry again. I light a cigarette.
“You’re smoking a lot,” Maggie says.
“Ha,” I say, thinking about how much she smokes.
“Did you notice I quit?”
Actually, I hadn’t. “When?” I defiantly blow a few smoke rings.
“After I met Hank. He said it was disgusting and I realized he was right.”
I wonder what Hank would think about Maggie’s behavior last night.
She goes into the kitchen, finds the instant coffee and a kettle, and waits for the water to boil. “That was so much fun, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah. I had a great time.” I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
“What’s wrong now?” Maggie says. As if I’m the one who’s been constantly complaining.
It’s too early for a contentious discussion. “Nothing. But Ryan’s in my class—”
“Which reminds me. Ryan is taking me to a movie. By some Chinese director. The Seven something?”
“The Seven Samurai. By Kurosawa. He’s Japanese.”
“How do you know?”
“The guys are always talking about it. It’s like six hours or something.”
“I don’t think we’ll last six hours,” she says slyly, handing me a mug of coffee.
One night I can excuse. But two? No way. “Listen, Mags. It’s not a good idea if Ryan comes here tonight. Samantha might find out—”
“Don’t worry.” She settles next to me on the futon. “Ryan said we can go to his apartment.”
I pick a floating grain of coffee from my brew. “What about his fiancée?”
“He said he thinks she’s cheating.”
“So that makes it okay?”
“Jesus, Carrie. What’s your problem? You’re so uptight.”
I take a sip of coffee, willing myself not to react. “Uptight” is the one thing I pride myself on not being. But perhaps I don’t know myself so well after all.
