These Girls (22 page)

Renee laughed, feeling her newly golden hair brush against her cheeks as she leaned even closer.

“You can’t go wrong with Cabernet,” she said.

“Really? Is that some kind of rule?”

“It is now. I just made it up,” she said, and he laughed.

“Are you hungry?”

“Always,” Renee said, then cringed. Why not shine a spotlight on her thighs?

But Trey just grinned and ordered a bottle along with a plate of fruit and cheese. “So tell me more about you,” he said, putting his elbows on the table and leaning forward. “I know you’re a Kansas City girl, but what brought you to New York?”

“I came here because I wanted to work in magazines,” she said. “New York seemed like the natural place to be.”

“Had you visited before?” he asked.

“Just once,” she said. “I was only a kid, but I loved it.”

“What happened?”

This was why Trey was such a good journalist; he never accepted the superficial answer. His eyes were sincere. He really wanted to know.

Renee took a deep breath. “When I was eight years old, my parents brought me here for a weekend,” she said. “It was Christmastime.”

She paused as the waitress poured the wine. Renee took a sip. It felt rich and warm on her tongue. There were three pretty women at the next table, and one of them kept glancing over at Trey, but he didn’t seem to notice. She felt herself relax just the slightest bit.

“We did all the touristy things—ice skating in Rockefeller Center. The shop windows at Macy’s. We bought cups of hot chocolate one afternoon and went for a walk in Central Park. I was just on the cusp of doubting that Santa existed. I hadn’t told my parents yet, but I wasn’t sure if I believed. I was thinking about it as we walked down a path in Central Park, and all of a sudden, in the midst of the best two days of my life, I felt so sad. I wanted Santa to be real . . . I guess in my heart, I still wanted to believe in magic.”

She was so caught up in the memory that she actually forgot Trey for a moment. She could feel her hands, warm in woolly mittens, wrapped around the cup of sweet cocoa with gooey
marshmallows dotting the surface. She could see her parents a few steps ahead of her, holding a guidebook and a few big red shopping bags.

“Suddenly it began to snow. You know those fat flakes that get stuck in your hair and eyelashes? And I stopped walking and just stood there. I was inside this park with trees and birds and squirrels, and yet I could still see the tallest buildings in the world, all around me. It didn’t seem possible; it was like I’d stumbled into an enchanted forest. And then I heard it.”

“What?” Trey asked.

“Sleigh bells. Just the faintest tinkling. Now that I look back, I think it must’ve been a horse and carriage taking passengers through the park. I hear them all the time nowadays. But in that moment . . . I just felt like New York made it happen. That New York made magic possible.”

“Do you still think that?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” she said. She looked up at him, began to gesture with her left hand, and knocked his glass of wine all over his shirt.

“Oh, my God!” she cried. “I’m so sorry.”

She didn’t even know how it had happened. She hadn’t seen the wineglass, hadn’t thought she’d gestured with enough force to knock it over. The waitress rushed over with extra napkins, but Trey waved away her concern.

“It’s actually a good look for me,” he said, dabbing at his shirt. His
white
shirt, of course. “People will think I’ve been shot, and I just brushed it off and kept going. It’ll be great for my reputation.”

“I’m so sorry,” Renee said. Her cheeks grew hot, and she could feel the looks from the girls at the next table. One of them giggled. Were they wondering what such a gorgeous, suave guy was doing with
her
? “I’m such a klutz.”

“C’mon, don’t say that,” Trey said. “You’re not.”

She’d screwed it up. She’d tried so hard to look elegant and be charming, and she’d succeeded for a grand total of twenty minutes. Why the hell hadn’t she at least suggested ordering white wine?

“I’m sorry,” she said again. She had no idea what to say, so she just sat there, trying not to cry.

She’d handled it all wrong, she realized a moment later. She should’ve joked instead of becoming self-conscious; they could have turned this into a funny story. But every time she looked at him, the ruined shirt was all she could see. It must have felt wet and uncomfortable, but Trey didn’t act the slightest bit bothered, which only made her feel worse.

“Do you know why I came to New York?” he asked.

She shook her head. She didn’t dare say anything or she might burst into tears. Trey poured her a fresh glass of wine as he spoke. Brave man.

“I have no idea,” he said. “I just knew I wanted to go
somewhere
. I grew up outside of DC, and I like cities. I thought about L.A., but New York was closer. I didn’t have a plan. I crashed on a friend’s couch for a few weeks. He was trying to make it as an actor, and I went to a few auditions with him, but I was terrible at memorizing lines. One of the parts I tried out for was being a journalist, who was interviewing a prisoner. I discovered I liked asking questions.”

He shrugged and layered a piece of cheese onto a cracker. “I went to a real prison, interviewed a few guys, and sold an essay to the
Times
about how playing make-believe taught me about something real.”

“Good thing you didn’t play the part of the prisoner,” Renee said. “What if you had liked that role?”

Trey laughed—a real laugh—and she felt infinitesimally better. Maybe she could salvage the night, after all.

And she might have been able to, if only—this was the
thought that made her want to fold into herself and disappear—she hadn’t had a second glass of wine, then a third, and then part of another. She’d tried to anticipate every detail of the night, but she hadn’t thought to limit her drinks, and her nerves made her consume them far too quickly. She’d always been a lightweight; two drinks left her buzzed and giddy. Three ushered her across the line into actual drunkenness.

By the time they left Morrells, she was clutching Trey’s arm. It was just nine o’clock; still early for New York. Trey’s coat covered his ruined shirt, and, suddenly, Renee felt like anything was possible, just as she had on that long-ago day in Central Park. But now it was Trey who made things magical. Plus he was hotter than Santa, she thought, and giggled.

“This was nice,” she said. She smiled at everyone they passed on the street; she felt expansive and warm and charming. She only hoped the red wine hadn’t stained her teeth; she’d been using whitening toothpaste all week.

“Let’s walk this way, okay?” Trey said.

She nodded; she would’ve followed him anywhere. He led her down one block and across a few more; then suddenly they were standing outside an entrance to Central Park. Since it was nighttime, they didn’t walk too far—just fifty yards into the park. Trey looked around while she stared up at him.

“You’ve got a better first-time-in-Central-Park story,” he said. “You know what mine is? I came here to go running and I tripped on a rock and sprained my ankle. Oh, and when I was limping home I stepped in dog crap.”

Renee smiled, but she wasn’t really listening. She was letting her eyes rove over his broad shoulders and the planes of his face. She loved his blunt nose and thick eyebrows and full lips. She thought about the way he’d listened as she excavated her long-ago memory, the way he’d joked when she ruined his shirt. And now he’d brought her here, to this magical place.

He was perfection.

Nothing could have kept her words from slipping straight out of her heart: “I’ve been in love with you forever.”

Her own voice shocked her; it shook with feeling. Trey took a step backward. He looked so shocked it might’ve been funny, in another context.

Oh, my God,
Renee thought, the happy buzz from the wine instantly evaporating. She’d done the one thing she’d vowed she wouldn’t. Dousing him with wine was nothing compared to this. She wished she could open her mouth and shove the words back inside. She had to say something, anything, to fix this!

“I just—I didn’t mean anything. Just, you know, I’ve had a crush on you. I’m a little drunk. All that wine.”

He came closer again, but something had changed in his face. “It’s okay. I have a little crush on you, too.”

If he’d meant it as a declaration of something—not love, but like, or even just lust—it would’ve been the perfect moment for a kiss. But his confession was a consolation prize. He didn’t reach for her.

Say something,
Renee ordered herself, feeling her pulse speed up. She needed to distract him from her words, which seemed to hang between them like a banner, but her mind was fuzzy from the wine and her panic, and she couldn’t grasp on to a coherent thought.

“It’s getting cold. Should we keep walking?” Trey finally asked. He tried to sound casual, but the tenor of the evening had flip-flopped. She could see it in his hunched shoulders and stilted attempts at conversation. Now he knew that she’d been playing a role, and that she wasn’t who she pretended to be. She’d scared him off.

I’ve been in love with you forever.
Who said things like that on a casual date?

They arrived at her apartment building far too soon, while she was still frantically trying to think of a way to repair the damage. “Don’t you want to come in?” she asked. She couldn’t help it; a tear rolled down her cheek. If she hadn’t ruined it before, she had now. She was sloppy, drunk, and emotional—any man’s fantasy.

“Renee.” He took her face between his hands. Her face was so cold, and his hands felt warm. A callus on his palm was rough against her cheek, and somehow that little detail made her cry harder. “I think you’re great. But I don’t want . . . I can’t be in a serious relationship right now.”

“It doesn’t have to be serious,” she blurted. She wasn’t lying; she’d take whatever she could get. Casual dates every week or two. Midnight booty calls. Anything. She just wanted a tiny piece of him, because maybe it would lead to more . . . The only thing she couldn’t bear was to lose him completely. She was pathetic.

“You deserve more,” he said. “I didn’t know you felt . . . I thought . . . Anyway, I’m not the right guy. I don’t think I can give that to anyone right now.”

“It isn’t me, it’s you, right?” she said. She tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. She’d handled this all wrong. If she’d kept it light and flirty and fun, things could’ve evolved naturally. But she didn’t have intermediate speeds. Everything about her was overkill; she ate too much, drank too much, talked too much. Why couldn’t she be different, just tonight?
Especially
tonight, when it mattered so very much.

“Look, I’m just kind of drunk. I’m not usually like this. I won’t do it again.” She would’ve said anything to keep him from walking away.

“You’re great,” Trey said. “God, Renee, I’m an ass. I didn’t know—”

“That I was so crazy about you?” Who cared what she said
now—it was too late. Her tears were coming faster, and her nose was running, too. Trey probably couldn’t wait to get away from her.

Some deep-seated survival instinct surfaced in Renee—an hour too late, but at least it helped her to end the night on a slightly less pathetic note. “I’ll see you around,” she said.

She walked through the main doors of her building and up the stairs. She unlocked the door with trembling fingers, entered the kitchen, and stood by the window overlooking the street. Trey was still on the sidewalk, his hands in his pockets.

At least she had that memory, that one tiny thing.

Sixteen

ABBY AND BOB WERE
careful. They never texted each other, wary about an evidence trail. Knowing that Annabelle picked up words quickly, they made sure to keep their conversations innocent. They never touched each other, either, unless she was asleep, and even then they forced themselves to break apart after a few moments. The temptation was too great; knowing they were in the same house meant it would be easy to sneak in a kiss before Bob left in the mornings, exchange messages during the day about how much they missed each other, fall into Abby’s bed tangled together during Annabelle’s nap, with the monitor close by so they could hear her if she woke up . . . They couldn’t risk it.

But one Wednesday night two weeks after their kiss, Joanna made it home by six. Bob had already cooked dinner, and Annabelle was bathed and in her yellow terry pajamas, the cute ones with a picture of a duck on her behind. Abby left at six-thirty, as usual, for her evening class. Twenty minutes later, Bob’s Saab pulled up next to her Honda in a parking lot that led to a wooded trail of Rock Creek Park.

“Did she believe you?” Abby asked as Bob opened her
passenger’s-side door and climbed inside. Bob had been planning to tell Joanna he’d gotten an emergency call from a client whose computer had crashed.

But he didn’t answer her; whether it was because he didn’t want to talk about Joanna or because he just couldn’t wait, Abby didn’t know. He reached for her and pulled her close. His lips were soft and warm, and she felt herself melting against him. The windows of the car grew foggy as Bob fumbled beneath her shirt.

“God, I want to feel you next to me,” he whispered against her mouth, sliding his hands down her belly. She could feel him trembling—or was it she who was shaking? He was so familiar to her, and yet so alien. She knew he liked his coffee with cream and lots of sugar, how young he looked when he napped on the couch, and the silly voices he made when he read children’s books. But the taste of him, the feel of his biceps beneath her hands, was intoxicatingly new.

“Me, too,” she said. Her voice sounded so husky it didn’t seem to be her own.

He drew back, inhaled a shuddering breath, and ran a hand through his hair. “Abby, I don’t know what’s happening. . . . I never expected to feel this way.”

“Hey,” she said gently. He was staring out the windshield, but she reached over and touched his chin, turning his face toward hers. The rough, sandpapery feel of his skin tickled her fingertips. “I don’t think either of us expected it.”