How It Ended: New and Collected Stories - By Jay McInerney Page 0,124

obvious sincerity made it interesting. She was expecting him to be glib. “Sometimes that's what I think about my writing,” she said, “like I should give it up for something practical.”

“I thought that piece you did for Black Book was really insightful,” he said, surprising her. “The one about the new chick lit.”

“Wow, I'm, like, amazed.” So much so that she was suddenly talking like a moron. It didn't occur to her until later that he'd probably Googled her the night before, after she first called. Still, it felt good, knowing that someone besides friends and family had read it.

He asked how she'd gotten into writing, which led her to explain that Kyle had been her writing teacher.

“Huh. How long have you two been together?”

“A little over a year.”

“It's very cool of you to throw a party for him. I'd be so blown away if someone did that for me.”

“Nobody's ever thrown a surprise party for you? You don't seem like the kind of guy who's been totally deprived of female attention.”

“Not the right anybody,” he said, looking at her with an intensity that made the remark seem significant.

Once again she found herself blushing. “I guess I should be getting back,” she said, swilling the rest of her drink and rising to her feet.

“If you have any questions, just call,” he said, handing her a card.

Kyle went to his office on Monday, giving her a chance to make some calls. She sent the invitation out by e-mail at noon, and though she'd requested RSVPs by the same means, some of their friends, knowing they had separate lines, started calling her with acceptances just as he returned from campus. She had to keep her voice down and keep the conversation general while he puttered in the next room.

She was pleasantly surprised when Toby Clench called, having doubted he would come. One of Kyle's students at NYU a few years ago, he'd gone on to publish a wildly successful novel, and since then his teacher's feelings had oscillated between pride and jealousy. Kyle's own novel, published six years before, had been a critical success, but it hadn't been featured on the cover of the New York Times Book Review, as Toby's had, nor had it been optioned by Brad Pitt's production company. But Toby's meteoric debut had certainly raised Kyle's profile, because he routinely cited his mentor in interviews.

“I'll be coming in from London that afternoon,” Toby told her, “but for sure I wouldn't miss it.”

“Kyle will be so pleased,” Sabrina said. “I'll put you by someone sexy and smart.”

“I hope that means I'll be sitting next to you,” he said.

She heard Kyle's footsteps approaching the bedroom door. “We'll just have to see,” she said, lowering her voice.

Kyle appeared in the doorway as she put down the receiver. “S'up?”

“Nothing.” Her voice sounded high and false—the squawk of a seabird.

He smiled. “Need anything? I'm going out for a pack of smokes.”

“I'm fine.” How could he not notice her discomposure?

“See you in a few.”

She was relieved that he hadn't noticed anything, but after the elevator door closed behind him, she wondered if he'd always been so unobservant. In class she'd often heard him invoke Henry James's prescription for writers: “Try to be one of the people on whom nothing is lost.” He also had it on a typed index card tacked on the bulletin board over his desk.

She was pleased, though, to nab Toby for the party. That was a coup. And she'd definitely seat him next to her; after all, he'd asked. And as the hostess, she figured she was entitled to sit beside the smartest and most entertaining guy at the party. She'd loved his book. Sure, it had become fashionable to say Toby's novel was overrated—she'd heard Kyle say it—but in her opinion that was just jealousy talking.

The answering machine was a problem. She kept meaning to get the service from Verizon, but for now she turned down the volume whenever she left the bedroom, worried that Kyle might overhear something about his birthday. She kept the RSVP list in the bottom drawer of her desk. Suddenly she wondered if he ever looked through her things, or, for that matter, wondered about her life beyond the sphere of this loft. She considered the few stories he'd written since they'd been living together: The women in the stories weren't terribly complex, really. There was a recurring neurotic, mendacious, narcissist type that represented his old girlfriend. And then there was the nice girl,