hard, while the other tugs at my sash. I suck in my gut as the robe spreads wide, but he only kisses me harder, my throat, my shoulders.
Out flew the web, and floated wide;
The mirror crack’d from side to side;
“I am half-sick of shadows,” cried
The Lady of Shalott.
Why Tennyson? Why now?
I haven’t felt this in so long. I haven’t felt in so long.
I want to feel this. I want to feel. I am so sick of shadows.
Later, in the dark, my fingers brush his chest, his stomach, the line of hair trailing down from his navel like a fuse.
He breathes quietly. And then I drift away. And I half dream of sunsets, and of Jane; and at some point I hear a soft tread on the landing, and to my surprise, I hope he comes back to bed.
Sunday, November 7
56
When I awake, my head swollen, David is gone. His pillow feels cool. I press my face to it; it smells of sweat.
I roll to my side, away from the window, from the light.
What the hell happened?
We were drinking—of course we were drinking; I pinch my eyes shut—and then we made our way to the top story. Stood beneath the trapdoor. And so to bed. Or, no: First we hit the landing floor. Then bed.
Olivia’s bed.
My eyes bolt open.
I’m in my daughter’s bed, her blankets wrapped around my naked body, her pillow dry with the sweat of a man I barely know. God, Livvy, I’m sorry.
I squint at the doorway, into the dim of the hall; then I sit up, the sheets clasped to my breasts—Olivia’s sheets, printed with little ponies. Her favorite. She refused to sleep on anything else.
I turn toward the window. Gray outside, November drizzle, rain leaking from the leaves, from the eaves.
I cast a glance across the park. From here I can gaze directly into Ethan’s bedroom. He isn’t there.
I shiver.
My robe is smeared across the floor like a skid mark. I step from the bed, gather it in my hands—why are they shaking?—and swaddle myself. One slipper lies abandoned beneath the bed; I find the other on the landing.
At the top of the stairs, I take a breath. The air is stale. David’s right: I should ventilate. I won’t, but I should.
I walk down the stairs. At the next landing, I look one way, then the other, as though I’m about to cross a street; the bedrooms are quiet, my sheets still disarranged from my night with Bina. My Night with Bina. Sounds filthy.
I’m hungover.
One flight down and I peer into the library, into the study. The Russell place peers back at me. I feel as though it’s tracking me as I move through my house.
I hear him before I see him.
And when I see him, he’s in the kitchen, sucking water from a tumbler. The room is shadows and glass, as dim as the world beyond the window.
I study his Adam’s apple as it bobs in his throat. His hair is scruffy at the nape; a slim hip peeks from beneath the fold of his shirt. For an instant I close my eyes and recall that hip in my hand, that throat against my mouth.
When I open them again, he’s looking at me, eyes dark and full in the gray light. “Quite an apology, huh?” he says.
I feel myself blush.
“Hope I didn’t wake you up.” He raises his glass. “Just needed a refill. Got to head out in a minute.” He gulps the rest of it, sets the glass in the sink. Drags a hand across his lips.
I don’t know what to say.
He seems to sense this. “I’m gonna get out of your hair,” he says, and comes toward me. I tense, but he’s making for the basement door; I move aside to let him pass. When we’re shoulder to shoulder, he turns his head, speaks low.
“Not sure if I should be saying thanks or sorry.”
I look him in the eye, summon the words. “It was nothing.” My voice is throaty in my ears. “Don’t worry about it.”
He considers, nods. “Sounds like I should be saying sorry.”
I drop my gaze. He steps past me and opens the door. “I’m heading out tonight. Job in Connecticut. Should be back tomorrow.”
I say nothing.
When I hear the door shut behind me, I exhale. At the sink I fill his glass with water and bring it to my lips. I think I can taste him all over again.
57
So: That happened.
I never liked that expression. Too flip. But here I