Page 40 of So Close

We leave the garage and merge into traffic. You focus on your phone again, typing dexterously with both thumbs. I look out the window, soaking in the city. The streets are congested, as always, although this time of morning can be exceptionally challenging. Cabs and town cars dominate, playing chase and chicken with buses emblazoned with ads for television shows and clothing. Pedestrians run the gamut from joggers to businesspeople in smart suits. Cones on the sidewalk warn of open cellar doors as an aproned man carries crates from the back of a delivery truck down the stairs.

There is music out there. Laughter. Meals shared with loved ones. Stories passing from one friend to another. Lovers engaging. New York is thriving; a million memories being created every millisecond. But I’m distanced from it all. It wasn’t that long ago I was dreaming of never leaving the penthouse, of being sequestered with you there forever. Now, I don’t think I can bear it much longer.

I sigh heavily and look away from the energy of the city. There are magazines in the mesh seat-back pocket. I thumb through them, findingForbes,Robb Report,duPont RegistryandPeople. The latter is so outside the others I pull it out and note that it’s the Sexiest Man Alive issue. Dwayne Johnson graces the cover in a white T-shirt and jeans. He’s gorgeous, but I disagree with the magazine’s choice. The sexiest man alive sits beside me and wants nothing to do with me.

As I flip through the pages, I note the wedding announcements of couples previously coupled with other people, advertisements for television shows I’ve never heard of, and movie sequels to unknown franchises. I’m so focused on how removed from life I’ve been that your photo within the pages catches me by surprise. You’re seated at a conference table in one of your exceptionally tailored suits. The shot is close in on your face. Your eyes smolder, and your sensual mouth is relaxed but unsmiling.

I snap the magazine closed and shove it back in the pocket. Then I lean my head back and close my eyes.

“You always get carsick trying to read,” you note absently.

It’s the first time you’ve tied the past to the present. I squelch the ridiculous hope that burgeons inside me. You can’t have it both ways: far removed and intimate. You’re going to have to make a choice.

“I didn’t sleep well, and I’m tired,” I retort. “Could’ve used a good workout. Something to make me sweat and wring me out.”

With my eyes closed, I catch your sharply indrawn breath. But the tone of your voice when you speak is casual. “The doctors say you should rest.”

“That’s all I’ve done for weeks on end now. I think I’ve rested enough.”

“You were in a coma, not taking a nap,” you bite out. There’s a pause as you rein in that unruly temper, and your voice is deceptively pleasant when you speak again. “And I’ll remind you that we have a home gym.”

“That’s not really the same thing, is it?”

Your silence is chilly.

“How about you?” I prod, opening my eyes and rolling my head against the seat back to look at you. “Did you sleep like a baby?”

Your gaze is locked on your phone screen. “How do babies sleep?”

“I don’t know. Should we make one and find out?”

A muscle tics in your jaw. “I slept fine.”

My mouth curves. “Liar.”

“Sheath your claws,Setareh.” You’re contained, with only the barest hint of anger in your voice. That level of control excites me, turning me on just as much as your incendiary rage.

In the silence that follows, I hear the muted sound of Janis Joplin urging her lover to take another piece of her heart. I reach down and raise the volume from the rear-seat controls.

For the rest of the drive, I consider my options. Time is a luxury I don’t have. I’ve borrowed, but my limited store is running out.

I’m so focused on my inner turmoil I scarcely pay attention to arriving at the hospital or making our way to the conference room.

“It’s good to see you looking so well, Lily,” Dr. Hamid says with a warm smile.

She settles into a desk chair at a black conference table with chrome legs. I mirror her on the opposite side. You won’t sit at all, having refused Dr. Hamid’s gracious offer with a curt shake of your head.

You’re pacing instead, with the methodical stride of calculating predation. You seem even taller as you loom over us, and your restlessness charges the room.

Are you afraid of doctors, love? Of hospitals? Does the smell of disease and decay turn your stomach? Does the prick of a needle sinking into soft flesh turn your blood cold?

It’s something I don’t know about you, one of the incalculably infinite threads that form who you are at the core. It’s those filaments, from phobias to fervors, that form the weaving of an individual.

I’ve come to accept that asking for reciprocation of my love is unfair. You don’t even love yourself. I don’t even love myself.

What a pair we are, intrinsically broken but tied to one another by desire and death.

“I apologize for running behind,” Dr. Goldstein says, entering the room with a leisurely air that belies his apology. He’s the psychologist who’s been testing and examining me, and he pulls out a chair one removed from Dr. Hamid.

---