Page 20 of The Sinner's Sanctuary

“I write. Journal. Poems?—”

“Ah. Right.”

“It’s the way I’ve always processed things,” I say, looking at him again.

Gibson’s hair is all out of order, and it makes him look even younger. How he’s my father’s age, I have no idea. Dressed in a white henley with the sleeves shoved up, his forearms are what catch my attention this time. Tan, olive skin with the lightest dusting of dark hair. A delicate line of tiny moles that almost look like they were drawn on ascend from his outer wrist nearly to his elbow.

His hand loosely holding his glass is masculine with perfectly structured fingers and neatly trimmed nails.

I have to admit what he shared with me before I went down my own tragic memory lane made him about a thousand times more interesting than I ever gave him credit for, as vague as it was. It’s one thing to be obscenely wealthy and oversee a sex club on the Upper East Side, but to be devoted to someone who wants nothing to do with him makes me wonder what truly drives him. Does he think she’ll change her mind?

He wasn’t specific about their “arrangement,” but I assume the marriage is open to an extent. What that means to him, I’m curious about.

“What kind of poetry do you write?” he asks.

“Is that like asking what genre of novel?”

He chuckles. That smile again. “I guess. Is it a dumb question? English was never my strongest subject in school.”

“Blank verse and free verse mostly. I’ve written some songs, too, but I’m not particularly musical.”

“How long have you been doing this?”

“I don’t know. Junior high? Whenever the existential angst set in.”

“Ah. Puberty then.”

That makes me laugh. I hope this conversation is accomplishing its intended purpose—making him less uneasy or whatever he called it earlier. Nervous, was it? I can’t remember. “How are we doing?” I ask.

He gives me a lazy smile I sort of like. “Better. How do you think we’re doing?”

“Also better. Are you happy?”

“Yeah, this is great.”

“Actually, I meant—you know…”

“Oh—am Ihappyhappy? Why do you ask?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I figured with enough money you could just buy a good day whenever it started to look like one’s not going your way.”

“Can’t buy everything,” he says.

“I’ll take that as a no.”

“Take it however you want.” Gibson sits forward and grabs more food off the tray, arranging cheese, meat and a pomegranate spread on a slice of bread before shoving the entire thing in his mouth. I eat more, too, following his lead and stuffing toppings into the end of a baguette.

We eat in silence for a few minutes, and then I go inside to get water.

He follows. “I have a side hustle downstairs I’m going to check in on,” he tells me as I open the refrigerator.

“I might go for a walk, then.”

“I thought you might join me. It’s part of my business.”

“Oh.” I didn’t realize it was an invitation. “You want to tell me more about it?”

“It’s another club. But it’s a bit different than the one at Gramercy.”

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