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He nudges the door open with his shoulder and gives me a light shove inside. I’m thrust into the situation. It’s a vast hallway, all limestone pillars and columns and rich beige carpets. Men in suits and expensive golf wear pass us by. Some of them nod in acknowledgment to Arsène. Everyone looks like variations of Paul’s Wall Street friends.
I follow Arsène’s brisk steps, trying to rein in my panic.
Sweat gathers under my armpits and on the back of my neck.
“What if I get caught?” I whisper-shout to him.
“Just say you’re Jupiter.”
“Jupiter?” I ask, confused.
“That you’re the cleaner. You know that Jupiter vacuums and absorbs comets and meteors? One estimate I read suggests if Jupiter didn’t suck objects into its sphere, the number of massive projectiles hitting the Earth would be ten thousand times greater.”
“That is . . . good to know.”
Arsène approaches a vast reception area.
“Cory, I need a private space for my nephew and me. What’s available?” He snaps his fingers to the man behind the reception desk.
“Mr. Corbin.” Cory smiles, typing on his keyboard. “I didn’t know you had any nephews. Is he from around here?”
“The sticks.” Arsène waves a hand. “It’s his first time in New York. He’s a little starstruck.”
He’s about to strike you in the back if you’re not careful.
“We have billiard room number two, or the tennis court.”
Arsène aims his hawkish gaze at me.
“Billiard room.” I drop my voice low. I’m great at pool. Rhys taught me when we were dating. We even went and won a few amateur tournaments together.
Cory, who hears me, gestures to the right side of the foyer. “Gentlemen, I hope you enjoy this establishment, and Manhattan.”
Five minutes later, we’re in an empty billiard room full of shelves laden with antique books and a fully stocked liquor bar. Leather upholstered chairs are scattered around us.
Arsène steps behind the bar, clearly in his natural habitat. “What can I get you for your troubles, my dear nephew?”
I look around me, still mesmerized. I hadn’t stepped into the world of the rich and corrupt since Paul passed away. I haven’t missed it, but I forgot how it made me feel. Like I’m wearing someone else’s skin.
“Anything I can’t usually afford.” I shrug.
“They don’t keep the exclusive stuff in the open bar. Let’s see.” He runs a finger over a row of bottles. “Will Bowmore do?”
I pin him with a what-is-that? stare.
Another devastating smirk. “Scottish. Single malt. More or less your age.”
“And how old do you think I am?”
“Twenty.”
“Eight,” I correct. Twenty-eight.
“You’re eight? Well, may I suggest a visit to the dermatologist? You certainly look past puberty, and now I feel all kinds of guilty for entertaining improper thoughts about you in Italy.”
He did, now? I push this little nugget of information to the back of my mind—there’s no trusting that it is true—and give myself a tour across the grand room.
Arsène pours a glass for each of us, ambles over, and hands me mine. I take a slow sip. The amber liquid is warm at first, scorching a path down my throat. Then a calm feeling washes over my limbs, like I just entered a relaxing bath.
He motions with the hand that holds the whiskey to the chairs. “Sit.”
“I want to play.”
I haven’t done anything fun since Paul passed. Now that I’m here, I’m thinking . . . why not? Everything else about this situation is strange. Surely, getting a game of billiards out of this won’t be such an awful betrayal against my late husband.
“I don’t.”
“Why?” I ask, gulping more of the liquid.
“I never play to lose.”
I find it refreshing that he doesn’t assume I’m a bad player, like many men did before him.
“You might not lose.” I lick the whiskey residue from my bottom lip.
“I will.” He seems completely at ease about his weaknesses, which is also interesting.
“How do you know?”
“You haven’t talked yourself into any corners so far.” He strides across the room, his back to me, and examines the bookshelves. “If you want to play, that means you’re good at it.”
Maybe it’s the whiskey, or maybe it’s just the fact I haven’t really interacted with anyone other than Chrissy, Arya, and my colleagues in a while, but instead of letting it go, I pick up a cue stick. After moving over to the fuzzy green table, I arrange the triangle rack on top of it.
“You little rebel,” Arsène says, picking up his own cue. “Fine, I’ll play.”
“It’s been a while since I did something fun.” I readjust my hat, tucking a ribbon of strawberry blonde hair back inside.
“What are we playing for?” he asks.
I think about it. “If I win, I want you to pay for a huge billboard sign and advertise The Seagull. You know, one of the fancy Times Square placements. Three days minimum.”
“I’ll do you one better. An entire week, best block available. And if I win, you quit,” he fires back, standing on the opposite side of the pool table from me.
