Page 141 of The Sinner's Sanctuary

He opts to wait in the car while I park on the side of the road, a safe distance from the property. Fortunately, the mission requires very little of me physically. There are several cars in front of my house. Multiple windows are lit. It’s a party, and I don’t need to know what that looks like.

For now, she’s where she said she was going to be doing—at least for tonight—what she said she’d be doing.

Christian was right. I didn’t learn anything from this. Having more than one friend over doesn’t mean she’s not more involved with one in particular. This was pointless, and I’m, as usual, an idiot when it comes to her.

Christian gives me a grim look when I get back into the car. “That didn’t take long.”

“I told you it’d be quick,” I say, ignoring his unspoken question.

“You gonna sleep better tonight?”

“Maybe. If you’re nice to me.”

40

CHRISTIAN

Since the Fourth of July, something’s come over me. Though I haven’t seen her, I’ve begun to hate Marianne Hayes with every fiber of my being, and while I’m in no way direct about it, I’ve turned into whatever I think Gibson wants or needs at any given moment. In short—a simp. A slut. A constant source of distraction and temptation. My pick-me energy is off the charts.

We’ve been back in Manhattan over a week. I’ve made it a point to stick to our schedule during daytime hours, and I’ve tried not to go out of my way to make myself too available, figuring if I’m slightly harder to get, I’ll be on his mind more. I’m not very good at it, though.

For example, when Jericho and Joe invite me to dinner with Jeremy and Larry Friday night, I invite Gibson, too. He says he needs to be at the club, though.

Do I believe him?

Not really. The club seems to run itself. Am I hurt?

That’s the thing.

I am.It makes me feel stupid for asking. It makes me wonder if he’s sick of my face and needs a break. And it makes me realizehow the complete opposite of that is true for me. I want to be with him all the time and asking him out was my version of putting my heart on my sleeve. I’m not angry he turned me down, just confused.

I don’t even end up going to dinner. I order take out and eat in my apartment writing about uncertainty and inevitability. Fate and missed chances. I haven’t thought about God in a while.

Going through some of my old journals, especially the ones I’ve filled since I’ve been living on my own, I can trace my search for meaning. There’s even a poem about when I met Drew—more specifically about a month into hanging out when we’d begun texting more regularly, and then later when I had the thought about him moving in. I almost hadn’t asked because I realized I was already taking him for granted—assuming his continued presence in my life.

And if he did move in, then maybe it would ruin everything. I’d discover some dealbreaker about him, or he would about me. I didn’t want to mess with our easy vibe by knowing him too well. I didn’t want to fall into the trap of counting on him. I needed a sign, and I wasn’t getting one. Ultimatelyheasked because he needed a place to stay, and it worked out, but I didn’t count that as a sign.

I was like one of those guys onSurvivorlooking for hidden immunity idols, trying to read meaning or significance into all kinds of things—billboards I would pass, groupings of people I walked by on the street. In retrospect, I might have been losing it a little. I was working nights then, and the sleep deprivation fucked with me. Weirdly, having Drew around helped with that, too, and Ihavebeen able to count on him.

I don’t know. Maybe leaps of faith aren’t my thing. Maybe I’m the kind of guy who needs to be told what to do—lest I start inserting meaning where there shouldn’t be any.

I’m doing my best not to play games where Gibson is concerned. In fact, I’m trying to show him exactly who I am andhow I am, and I don’t consider any of this a test for him, but a way of testing myself.

I haven’t been in a romantic relationship since Trinity, and a good year of that was just straight grief, but grief does fade as life moves on. I’ve hung onto more than my fair share because I hate the way she died, and the fact that she wasn’t allowed to be happy while she was alive.

Because I developed a good friend group, I’ve been able to put off intimate relationships, using my time to process all the grief and guilt. I’ve had to learn not to compare everyone to Trinity. She was a sheltered seventeen-year-old girl, and rarely have I met anyone in New York who I’d describe as sheltered. But I do compare how I feel about someone to the way I felt about her, which is to say I wanted to know everything about her. I wanted her opinions and her sharp-witted jokes. I wanted to know her take on the world and what song she was obsessed with. I wanted her quick responses to texts and, yeah, her body next to mine.

When Drew once confronted me about my supposed inability to be in a relationship, I’d been offendedandhurt. He accused me of dropping people after a month, but I can’t remember a single person I went out with more than twice. He made it sound like I was stringing people along, when the truth is I wasn’t forming connections. It made me wonder whether he saw me at all.

There I was thinking I had bad luck or some kind of curse, and he thought I was throwing away opportunities left and right. But looking back on my journals from those days, it’s clear I have the ability to form connections—even love people. I just haven’t met the right person. But in fairness to myself, I just turned thirty.

When I told Gibson I wasn’t looking for a relationship, it wasn’t because I’m opposed to being in one. More like I don’t want to force one for the sake of a steady plus one. I have no problems going to sleep alone. It’s better than sharing a bed with a stranger.

But I think shallow hook-ups made me complacent. In a way, I’d given up. And I can blame losing Trinity or say it’s just too fucking hard in this city, but it’s more realistic to say that when you’ve slept with as many women as I have—it’s pretty fucking disheartening when none of them are the one.

And yeah, maybe there have been too many times I thought my ability to fall in love died that night with her while I was asleep. But I feel something now, and the person I feel it for probably isn’t the one. Which sucks. Probably isn’tdefinitelythough. So I’m not giving up because he’s habitually devoted to someone else. He’ll have to push me away. I’m in no way ready to let him go.

According to Gibson, Marianne is still in the Hamptons, but he’s more keyed up than ever—checking that doors are locked, encrypting his emails, changing passwords. He’s constantly asking me to move meetings around and get his accountant to come in. It’s gotten so ridiculous, I finally broke down and called Olivier myself to see if he told Gibson something else I don’t know about.What am I missing here?

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