Page 92 of Come Back to Bed
“You can have your own wing,” he says gallantly, as he brings up the real estate website. “There’s a pool and spa and a pond and a garden and a stunning view of the mountains.”
He ain’t kidding. The house is nearly four thousand square feet, on three acres of land. Aside from the luxury pool and exterior kitchen, the surrounding area does remind me a lot of Vermont.
“I need you with me, Bernadette. I’ll pay you more, I understand what it would mean for you to have to pick up and move, but…I can pay you more attention out there too.”
“I don’t…I don’t understand exactly what you mean.”
He places the laptop on my lap and puts more distance between us on the sofa. “I don’t either, I’m afraid. All I have are my feelings and longings and confusion. I see how you look at me differently, lately. Is it too late?”
“Too late for what?”
“To start over. You and me. I don’t know how to approach this.” He waves at the space between us. “There are boundaries, and I’ve always wanted to be respectful of them. But I need you to know that I think about crossing them. Do you understand?”
“Sebastian, I…This is a lot to take in.”
“I know. I know, I’m sorry about that. You have time to decide about the move, of course. But I do need you to come with me to the new house on the weekend. It’s empty. I’ll need help finding people to decorate and set everything up the way I like it. You know what I need. I need you to help organize and orchestrate things. I don’t need you to pack or anything, of course, I’ll hire people to do that.” By that, he meansI’llhire them.
“You need me to go with you to Hudson Valley this weekend?”
“Are you unavailable?”
“Um. No. I mean, I’m not unavailable.”
“Good. I’ll drive. We’ll get two rooms at the inn that I’ve been staying at. It’s really wonderful. As Anita would say, it’s so quaint you’d just shit yourself. Or if it makes you uncomfortable…”
“No, it’s fine. That’s fine. I can go. On the weekend, I mean.”
Fucking Sebastian Smith.
What is happening?
My crush has been oh so crushed. I was besotted with him for years, and now I’m not. So why do I feel the need to go home, put on my Fleetwood Mac and listen to “Landslide”over and over while weeping? I’ve been so preoccupied with Matt that I’m just now realizing the youthful admiration I had for my boss is dead and gone. What’s left is a professional respect, and to be honest, annoyance that I had wasted so much time obsessing over him.
Yes, it was an obsession.
There, I said it.
And yet—I am his work wife, and while it would be difficult for him to find a replacement for me, it would be damn near impossible for me to find another job like this if I decide that I still need a job like this.
I am so tired all of a sudden.
When Matt texts me to let me know that he’s already in the Upper West Side because he had a meeting uptown, I tell him I’ll be home soon. It seems to take about a month to get from Tribeca to my building this evening, for some reason. The train runs late, everyone and his cousin is out walking around, and tourists are finding the exact perfect spot to stop and take pictures right in front of me.
I hate everything.
When I turn the corner onto my street, I stop in my tracks.
The statuesque woman with the great hair who’s exiting my building is definitely Vanessa. She doesn’t see me as she crosses the street. She looks—not happy, exactly, but optimistic. And the opposite of me. She’s the glowy Instagram-able cherry on the shit-cake of my day.
I wonder if Matt called her to let her know that he’s moving to Brooklyn.
I wonder if he askedherto move there with him.
It doesn’t make any sense that he would, after the past month we’ve spent together, but not much about this day makes any sense to me so far. Maybe his parents hated me. Maybe after I left the restaurant his parents encouraged him to get back together with Vanessa.
I trudge up to the fourth floor, just wanting to get this over with. When I get there, I see Matt in the hallway, approaching my door. He’s holding a small envelope, about to bend down to place it through the crack. When he sees me, and registers the look on my face, he slides the envelope into his back pocket.
“Hi,” he says, hesitantly.
“Hi.”
“You’re back.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Oh God. It’s come to this. This is all we have left to say to each other.
“I saw Vanessa,” I blurt out. I keep my eyes locked on his, expecting him to look away, or reveal something that I don’t want to see—guilt, regret, shame. Instead, what I see is relief. What I feel is anything but that.
