I empty a good half of my second drink.
“Oh, of course,” I reason. “That makes sense. I can see both sides, is what I’m saying. I think your daughter has honorable intentions, that testify to, um, how well she was brought up, which is amazing. But if we’re being realistic, I agree with you on a logical basis.”
I can’t tell if I’m hallucinating, but I feel as though his shoulders ease a little.
“Creative fields are different,” says Jeremy.
“Exactly,” says the actor. “Real business is indifferent to business hours. You don’t tell Lorne Michaels or Mick Jagger that you clocked out because it’s five.”
“Amen,” says Jeremy with his palms raised.
“I worry about how delicate everyone’s becoming. I’m all for women’s lib. Civil rights. All of it. But everyone’s being ridiculous. Triggered this, triggered that. Some of these men are monsters, don’t get me wrong. Especially the ones going after underage girls. That’s despicable. They should be locked up. But most of the conversation seems patronizing. As the father of daughters, I know that it’s women who are the real ballbusters.” He chuckles as if imagining his girls kicking some creep in the stones. “No man would have to be told no twice is what I’m saying.”
Suddenly he pushes his chair away from the table. I wonder if it’s something I said. I hope to God Jeremy takes care of the check.
“Restroom,” he announces.
When he’s gone, Jeremy forks up several fries and the rest of his steak and shoves it into his mouth, then takes a sip of his drink. “I knew you’d cave,” he says, body language easing. “Fucking drama queen.” He wipes his mouth. “Where’ve you been anyway?”
I’m barely listening as I watch the room hum with novel energy as the actor walks by. As soon as his back is turned, heads duck low, people excitedly mouthing his name to each other. It’s as if gold coins are trailing in his wake. I can imagine them telling the story of the sighting to their friends. I wonder if I’ll feature in it at all. Some Asian girl, they might say. Not his wife, they’ll say, cheapening me. Far in the corner, there’s a phone out, set low and at an angle. I know they’re taking a creep shot of him, and suddenly I feel protective.
“I’ll be back,” I tell Jeremy, vaguely aware that he’s talking to me about the apartment. I cross the restaurant quickly, and when I get downstairs, I see him. He’s posing with a group of three women stooped in a sorority squat for a selfie. When they’re done, one whispers close in his ear, red nails clutching the shoulder of his jacket. On his feet, he appears older. And rounder. He smiles his crinkly smile at the woman, and when they step out of the way so I can get to the bathroom, the actor doesn’t even glance at me. A flash of anger detonates in my chest.
The bathroom is a beautiful one. A hammered-tin ceiling painted white. More mirrors. Checkerboard tile on the walls. Iconic bathroom selfie lighting. I pee, feeling a little sad. Glad for my own story. I tell myself that I won’t go back home with Jeremy, wondering if I mean it.
I sigh, dreading the rest of the night, but when I leave the bathroom, he’s there. Waiting for me. I’m pleased to be chosen.
“You’re so nice to give those girls a selfie,” I tell him, wanting one of my own.
“When they stop asking is when you have to start worrying,” he says, smiling.
I gaze at the stairs, elated that we’ll be reentering the restaurant together, but instead of offering me his arm, he looks around furtively and steps closer to me. He holds my attention, and before I know it, his wet bottom lip is touching mine. Tentatively. I don’t know what to do, but I’m frightened, reluctant to appear rude and disrupt the story for both of us. As I’m kissing him back, as his old-man tongue—a creepy, surprisingly athletic protuberance—blankets mine, I wonder if he’ll still walk me upstairs.
“You know, my priest is Vietnamese,” he says, pulling away and grazing his lips to my temple. “On the Upper East Side. Tremendous sermons.”
I smile back and touch my lip. I realize that I’d thought he’d brought up his daughter as a signal. To indicate that he was safe. A family man. A silly dad.
He encircles my other wrist with his hand and gazes down at it. “I have an apartment in the city.” He pulls my hand and brushes the back of it against the warmth of his crotch.
I’m grateful that there is a staircase, Jeremy, and an entire restaurant standing between me and this imposing man’s car.
“I have school in the morning,” I tell him. He releases my wrist as I whip around and bolt. “Sorry.” I rush upstairs, marching on shaky legs, straight to the hostess area to demand my coat.
Come on, come on, come on. I’m scared to look, but the temptation is overpowering. I glance over my shoulder to catch Jeremy half rising, toothy smile frozen on his face, greeting the actor, who’s returned to the table. I can’t see the actor’s expression, the turn of his mouth or his words, but Jeremy laughs at whatever he’s said, and it stings. I know Jeremy’s a snake, but I didn’t think he’d serve me up in this way. When they return with my jacket, I throw them my last ten bucks, grab it, and run into the street.
Patrick calls. I let it go to voicemail.
chapter 39
“Sex,” proclaims June when I come home from school a few days later. “Sex,” she repeats, when she realizes any curiosity on my part is not forthcoming. She’s eating Stoneground crackers out of the box at the kitchen counter and spraying crumbs everywhere.
I’ve been too scared to go back to my apartment since the night with the actor. Jeremy’s texted twice complaining about the lack of hot water. I hadn’t expected him to check in on me, but the full extent of his selfishness is breathtaking.
The thought of sex turns my stomach.
“What about it?”
“I’m having it.” Sure enough, she shows me the highlighted word in her bullet journal. “I’m making a checklist to accomplish before November nineteenth.”
I pull out my phone and check my calendar. “What’s November nineteenth?”
“My surgery date.” She flips her datebook and shows that to me too. The violence of communicating with my sister is outrageous.
“But that’s, like, next week.”
“Week after next,” she says. “Tuesday. Seven thirty a.m. I got the first surgery of the day.”
“June.” I almost reach out to swat the cracker out of her hand. “Well, can I come?”
“If you want.”
“When did you make the appointment?”
“In Texas.”
“But I was with you the whole time.”
“Can we get back to talking about me?”
I shake my head, completely flabbergasted. “How are we not talking about you?”
“You’re talking about my organs,” she corrects. “I’m trying to tell you about things I want to accomplish.”
“Like sex.”
“Exactly.”
“How is that not talking about your organs?”
“Fuck you,” she says, laughing. “Wait.” June tilts her head quizzically. “Is a vagina an organ?”