Page 85 of Pick-Up
“You could say that. Rough in all the right ways. You?”
I choose my words carefully. “It was quiet.” That’s true!
She pushes her sunglasses on top of her head, then fixes me with an appraising look. I think I detect a glimmer in her eye, about what I am unsure. Then, she stretches her arms above her head and yawns with gusto. “Okay. I gotta motivate.”
“Sounds good. I’m heading out.”
“Ethan just left for a jog,” she says, crossing to her room. “I can’t believe he went running again this morning. Except I can.”
“Except of course he did.” I laugh. Knowing what I do, I’m even more surprised (and not surprised) than Stephanie. I didn’t take down that pitcher of rum punch alone.
Last night, when I climbed into my fluffy cloud bed, I hadn’t come down so easily from the night. And I’m not just talking about the fact that I was peeing every fifteen minutes. That’s simply what you do when you’ve had two children and two liters of alcohol. No. I’m talking about something much more insidious: images of Ethan flashing through my head, spiraling me into equal parts embarrassment and longing. His finger tracing my jaw. Trailing down my neck. The roughness of his five-o’clock shadow against my cheeks. His muscles flexing under my palms, giving new meaning to the termdad bod. His other hand encircling my waist with untempered urgency, tugging me toward him, before the iguana made its untoward advances up my thigh.
Whether I wanted to admit it or not, drunk me obviously wanted to sex him up. I couldn’t think about his lips searching mine, the taste of punch on his tongue, without dying a little. But, first of all, that didn’t mean a tryst—even what promised to be a great one—was worth complicating the job opportunity. And, second of all, maybe more important, if I’m honest with myself, what happened last nightdidn’t mean he was all in either. Maybe he had his own reservations. Once the iguana interrupted, it’s not like he made a move to resume or tried to convince me to stay. He didn’t invite me into his room when we got back to the house or even kiss me goodnight. Instead, he got really quiet.
Yes, so he was clearly attracted to me in that brief moment on the beach. He said I was great—when he was drunk. But the reality of a deserted island is that there’s not a lot of competition. How would he see the idea of “us” in the real world? Was he currently lying in his own bed on the other side of the wall, spiraling with regret?
Plus, this shoot is important for him, too. His job hangs in the balance. Maybe, like me, he has misgivings about getting distracted from the task at hand.
By the time I fell asleep, I was convinced that we were both under the influence of vacation goggles. Once we got home to our kids and his ex and school drop-offs and pick-ups, this would all fade away into something otherworldly, a moment in the recesses of our minds colored by a sense of escape. When we got home, the way he wore his perfect T-shirts, the way they rode up, offering a glimpse of tanned skin that made me wonder what lay beyond, would be just like seeing any other neutered Brooklyn dad with his Park Slope Food Coop tote bag and slumped shoulders. (Tote bags are a real libido killer.)
Today, we’re shooting outdoors. I plod over to the set holding my sandals in my hand. I am soaking up every sensation, all too aware that tomorrow I head back to reality.So soon?Peter, Jackie and Derek are already at the yoga pavilion, which sits on a short rocky cliff jutting out over the water. And it is arresting. The sky is almost indiscernible from the water at present, a mass of blue and green with a clarity I could only dream of possessing.
Since Charlie hasn’t yet arrived and we are basically set up, Jackie and I decide to put the branded mats to good use and do some sun salutations before we get started. It feels amazing to stretch. We are in mountain pose; we reach for the sky; we hang down to the ground; we are in plank, in up dog. And all the time, the water glistens againstthe horizon. Another magic moment. A “rose” in our day as Bart and Nettie would call it.
It’s not until I’m upside down, in downward-facing dog, that I spot Ethan between my legs. He and Charlie have walked up together, bathed in sunshine, a couple of J.Crew models with matching sustainable water bottles out for a stroll. And, for all intents and purposes, I am currently sticking my ass in their faces.
Today’s T-shirt is white.Fuck. It is my kryptonite. I know it the moment I see it. Salted caramel sauce, books that make you laugh, TV shows about teen love, last-minute tickets to any play, a hot dog with mustard at a sporting event, candy at a movie, chips and salsa after a day at the beach, any cocktail with foam, well-built men in perfect white T-shirts. These are the things I cannot resist. I will spend the day trying to look anywhere else.
I break my pose and come down to my knees. “Oh, good! Charlie’s here,” I say, intent on diverting my own attention. “We can start!”
He waves, crossing to check in with his assistant.
I stretch my neck from side to side.
“You injure yourself?” Ethan asks.
“No,” I say, giving myself permission to glance at him. Just for a second, I swear. “I’ve got a kink.”
As I hear it come out of my mouth, I realize I’ve done it again.
“A kink,” he says, eyeing me. “Good to know.”
Jackie giggles.
I glance around, worried that the others might suspect something happened between us. But it’s business as usual. Because he’s casual, relaxed. A hand in his pocket. Like last night never happened. Or like it happened and he’s good with it.No big deal.
Fine. I too can feign chill.
“Okay, people,” Derek intervenes, always on task. It’s a lucky reminder to stop staring. “Are we ready to start?”
“Peter,” I say, standing up from my mat. Professional Sasha is back. “Who did we choose to shoot for this location? For the yoga sequence?”
He shrugs. “I already got you and Jackie, and it looks great.”
My face flushes hot. “Me? But I wasn’t supposed to be featured!”
“You guys did make it look good,” says Derek. “Against the horizon, it’s like—infinity yoga.”
