Page 41 of Brooklynaire
“God, that was dumb,” she’d mumbled at about four in the morning. “What were wethinking?”
I’d muttered an awkward apology as I’d pulled on my pants and fished the condom wrapper off the floor. For a dozen years we’d avoided doing that, and suddenly I knew why. Alex and I have no chemistry. At all.None.
In my defense, she started it. But I should have knownbetter.
“Didn’t you bring a date tonight?” I ask Alex now, trying to stay present. “Where’s…” I search my memory, but can’t come up with a name. Two weeks after our stupid hookup, Alex had made a point to tell me she was dating someone new. I’d taken that as a good sign—and as a friendly gesture meant to put me at ease so we could get past our moment ofidiocy.
I thought we’d gotten past it,anyway.
“…Jared?” she supplies. Then she makes a face. “I tossed him overboard last month. It’s not going to workout.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, and mean it. Alex faces the same challenges meeting people that I do. She can’t really trust anyone. Only it’s slightly harder on her because she’s actually trying to date. A couple of years ago she confided in me that she wanted to get married before age thirty-three, so she can have a baby before thirty-five. As if matrimony were another business goal we could run past a team of analysts forevaluation.
But there are no flow charts for getting married. PoorAlex.
She waves a dismissive hand. “No big deal. There’s other fish in the sea.” But her laugh isbrittle.
Ouch. I flag down the bartender and order a second round. “Another ginger ale, Bec? And you never did tell me what you were drinking.” I point at Alex’sglass.
“Just a club soda, please. I need to stay sharp so I can hustle money from rich, oldermen.”
“I’m pretty sure you could do that drunk orsober.”
“Thanks.” Shesighs.
Rebecca knocks back the dregs of her first drink and sets the glass on the bar. In contrast to Alex, Rebecca seems like her old self tonight. Her color is good and her eyes sparkle. She swings her feet on the barstool, and then tells me a terrible joke. “A ship carrying blue paint and a ship carrying red paint both crashed on an island. All the sailors were marooned.” Shewinks.
“Another Bingley special,right?”
“Indeed.” She’s lost that squinty expression of fear I saw on her face last week. I’m so ridiculously relieved. And it’s hard not to stare at her, particularly at the smooth curve of her shoulders in that strapless dress. All that skin, just begging to be kissed. The neckline of her dress is heart-shaped, and I just want to trace its outline with mytongue.
God, the things I want to do with her. What would she sound like when she wasaroused?
Wearing tux trousers is a blessing rightnow.
I pick up my second glass of Scotch and make an effort to look Alex in the eye while she’s speaking to me. I hold up my end of the conversation. But it’s not easy. I used to do a better job of controlling myself in Rebecca’s presence. But ever since her accident I’m incredibly distracted. It’s not enough to know that she’s doing better. I’ve been spoiled by her company lately. It’s made me greedy forher.
Alex finishes telling me some bit of industry gossip she heard at a tech conference. For the first time ever I’m struggling for conversation with one of my oldest friends. Rebecca must feel it, too, because she slides off the barstool. “I want to feel the sand between my toes,” she says. “Shall we take a little walk before the ticketholdersarrive?”
“Why’s that?” Alex sips her drink with afrown.
“We’re at the beach. If I’m near the ocean, I want to actually seeit.”
“Brooklyn is near the ocean,” Alex says under herbreath.
Even though Rebecca is edging away from us, she’s still heard the comment. “You know, I passed the fourth grade, too. But my desk doesn’t overlook the Far Rockaways.” She carries her soda glass a couple of yards away, to the line where the hotel’s perfect lawn becomes beach sand. “Ah, that’s it.” She shimmies in thesand.
I walk over to join her, scanning the dark horizon. I see a ship at sea in the distance, its lights allaglow.
Becca digs a trough with her toe. The sun has set, but I can still tell that her toenails are painted a shiny purple color. I want so badly to run my hand up her smooth ankle and explore the texture of herskin.
Fuck. Do I have it bad, orwhat?
“This is the best bar I’ve ever been to,” Becca says with a smile. The wind whips up, lifting her dress a couple of inches, showing off her knees. A few more of my brain cells jump ship in sympathy. In the breeze, Rebecca clasps her hands over her barearms.
“Are you cold?” I can’t help but ask. I sound like mymother.
“Not cold enough to ruin the line of this dress with awrap.”
