Page 244 of The First Time
Chapter Seven
The limo ride back to Blake's place is slow and not at all fun.
He quizzes me on the biographic details of his life. It's not personal. It's facts, plain and simple.
His father died when Blake was fourteen, he went to Columbia at sixteen on a scholarship he didn't need, he graduated at nineteen. His company was up and running by the time he could drink legally in New York State.
It's like reading a Wikipedia entry. Even when he tells me about his hobbies, he lists then without tone or joy.
Blake plays chess and watches sci-fi films, but they don't seem to make him happy. Is Blake ever happy? I don't know.
He claims he loves his daily workouts.
That he gets all the satisfaction he needs from work.
That he takes great pleasure in cooking elaborate dinners in his free time.
But I'm not sure I believe it.
Blake never looks happy. Not with me.
By the time we arrive at his building, I'm grieving for the loss of joy in his life.
I've had it hard the last few years. But I do find pockets of happiness. Brunch with Lizzy. A great graphic novel. Running around city streets. Catching snow on my tongue. Lingering under the cherry trees. Sketching.
He leads me through his building's sleek lobby. Straight to the shiny silver elevator in the back.
He hits thepenthousebutton.
The doors slide together.
The elevator moves slowly. There isn't enough space in here for how much I want him. It's sucking up every ounce of oxygen.
Finally, the doors slide open.
We move through the hallway. He pulls out a key, unlocks his apartment door, and holds it open for me.
"Thank you." I step inside.
It's huge.
Four times the size of our place. It reeks of money.
Hardwood floors. Black leather couch, stainless steel appliances, thick oak table, floor-to-ceiling windows.
There's a balcony. An enormous balcony overlooking the park. I move towards it without thinking.
"Careful," he says. "It's cold out."
Somehow, Blake beats me to the sliding door. He pulls it open. Cold air rushes inside.
My dress blows in the wind. It would be gorgeous in a panel—a girl alone on the balcony. Or a girl with a beautiful man, her dress blowing behind her, his hand under her chin, his eyes on her.
Like he loves her.
Like she loves him.
But that part is fake.
