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She looked confused at my confusion.
“Yeah, pick,” she said, searching the room for a picture of Tim, my fiancé. “Joe or—”
“His name isn’t Joe.”
JoJo grinned.
“Pick either Isn’t-Joe or the sexy, hunky Irish tattoo artist.”
I laughed even though it wasn’t fucking funny.
“That’s not a choice,” I said.
JoJo nodded.
“I agree,” she said. “Mason all the way.”
“I’m marrying Joe— I mean, Tim. Goddammit, JoJo. I love Tim. He’s given me all of this.”
I waved my arm at the massive Upper East Side apartment.
“He’s going to take care of me. Provide for me,” I said. “He’s nice. And he’s never hurt me. And…”
“And you’re married to someone else,” JoJo said, tapping the picture of Mason on the computer which I still didn’t really want to look at all that much. “Someone very different, it seems.”
I glanced at Mason out of the corner of my eye. A face I hadn’t seen in years. A lifetime ago. He was someone different. But so was I. Someone very different.
“That doesn’t mean I have a choice,” I said to JoJo, sniffling.
And yet there I was, pacing.
JoJo had left and I was alone and I was pacing. Pacing like I had a decision to make. Pacing like I had a choice.
The elevator at the front of the apartment dinged and I froze. What was I to do? Run to Tim and laugh and tell him all about this silly mistake from my youth? Set his team (army) of attorneys to fixing the problem? Move on like this was a simple accounting error on our taxes and open a bottle of pinot grigio, a real wine, from the real world?
Why did I even ask myself the question, because of course that was what I should do. If I wanted to marry Tim and if I loved Tim and if I trusted Tim enough not to leave me if he found out about this “indiscretion” (that’s what he would call it, I was sure), then there shouldn’t be any question at all.
And yet, I stood there. Frozen. Frozen even as the elevator doors parted and he walked inside. Even as he walked by me, leafing through the mail. Even as he went into the kitchen and said after a quiet moment, “You’ve been drinking?”
I was frozen but my heart was beating. Beating like I had a decision to make. Like I had a choice.
“Rachel?”
Tim’s voice came sharp from the kitchen. Like a displeased father. Not that I knew anything about good parenting.
Before Tim could call my name again, I kicked off my slippers. It was hardly anything, kicking off my slippers. Hardly anything at all. But it felt like leaping off a cliff. The floors were warm from the late afternoon sun, sure and steady beneath my feet, but it felt like I was suspended over open air. As I hurried toward the bedroom I tugged at the sash round my waist. I let the silk robe fall from my shoulders in the living room, let it pool behind me as I tiptoed down the long hallway lined with priceless art.
“Rachel?” Tim’s voice came echoing down to me as I wiggled out of my pyjama shorts lined with lace.
I wasn’t sure what I was doing. Wasn’t even really sure why. But for some reason I knew I had to. Had to tug the French designer camisole over my head. Had to let it flutter to the floor behind me as I hurried. Had to unclip the mother-of-pearl clasp from my hair and drop it at the edge of the bedroom as my hair cascaded around my naked shoulders.
I wasn’t sure what choice I was making. What decision there even was. But I knew I had to dart over to the bed as Tim muttered a, “What the hell?” in the living room. Had to messy my hair with my fingernails as I heard his footsteps getting closer down the hallway. Had to arrange myself for him as he (I imagined) paused to scoop up my panties with a finger. To study them in the dying light, all amber and gold and ruby. To continue on toward the bedroom slowly…
My heart was racing in a way that I didn’t quite understand. Tim had seen me naked before. Of course he had. He’d drawn his tongue against my nipples. Never his teeth. He’d unzipped my dresses in the soft glow of the streetlamps. Never tore it, clawed at it or ripped it. He’d fucked me in bed. Never against the wall, never outside the Upper East Side apartment, never in the glow of neon.
Tim was my fiancé. I loved Tim. I wanted to be with Tim for the rest of my life. So why was my heart racing like this was going to decide something? Like there was a choice and the choice was now?
I tried not to squirm as I waited for Tim to enter the bedroom, the end of his trail of crumbs, very expensive, very exclusive, very shouldn’t-be-on-the-floor-Rachel crumbs. I knew this was how I wanted him to see me, this was how I wanted to be seen: rounded hip high and prominent and cast in light, hair a wild cascade across my shoulders, eyes smouldering in the shadows. I tried to look at ease. Calm. Sexy. Not freaking the fuck out for no reason at all.
