Maybe I’m justified in being most angry at Stephanie. I’m hoping that just by looking at her, I’ll know— in my gut. I have very, very good instincts about people. And right now, everyone remains a possibility. I know what you did. It was perfect, really— so vague and yet so precise. So many different ways to be interpreted.
Finally I see Stephanie coming back from her meeting, dressed in a dark pantsuit, looking elegant and powerful as she strides alongside two older men. Men who seem to be hanging on her every word. Of course they are. Everyone is always hanging on Stephanie’s every word. At the door, she stops abruptly, digging for her ringing phone. I know that’s what she’s doing. Because I’m the one who’s calling her.
When she can’t seem to find her phone, she gestures for the men to go inside. She drops her bag and crouches. Finally she manages to pull out her phone and looks down at the screen. A blocked number, of course. She jerks to her feet, throws her phone back into her bag but misses. It lands on the cement. She retrieves it, examining the screen— cracked, no doubt, in her temper tantrum.
She drops her face into her hands then. Wait— is Stephanie crying?
Huh. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Stephanie cry. Not once. Stunning Stephanie, smart Stephanie, successful Stephanie— maybe she’s not so perfect after all.
JONATHAN
SATURDAY, 6:42 A.M.
I opened my eyes to the rising sun, squinting at the light, sparkling gold over the Hudson, as I turned to my clock. Only 6:42 a.m. So early. And all I wanted was to sleep through the rest of this disastrous weekend. Things had already unraveled, between Finch and the fire and the contractors, not to mention Keith’s new friend, who he’d disappeared off to bed with, surely to get high. So far, this was an A-plus intervention.
And unfortunately, the stakes were even higher than I’d let on: my dad wasn’t just planning to call in his loan, he was planning to have Keith arrested for fraud. If Keith was in rehab, I thought maybe I’d be able to change my dad’s mind. Because my dad believed in people working hard, and in making amends, which was why our relationship was so complicated. My dad wasn’t a bad person. He was just rigid about things that— yes, thanks to his hard work and success— I had the freedom not to care about.
Occasionally, I could appeal to my dad’s softer side. After all, he dealt with me coming out even though it wasn’t easy for him. But if he found out about me going ahead and purchasing the Kaaterskill house six months ago, over his strong objections （he thought it was a reckless investment）， not to mention proposing to Peter （who he really did not like）， all bets were probably off. He might put Keith in jail just to make a point.
“You’re awake.” A voice right behind me.
I whipped around and there was Peter sitting on the edge of the bed, gray eyes glowing in the sun. He reached out to grip my calf in one of his strong hands and squeezed it affectionately.
“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“What are you doing here?” I asked, flooded with relief. Peter had explaining to do, of course he did. But I was still happy to see him.
“I should have come to begin with.” Peter shook his head.
Then he stood, tossed his jacket on the chair, and worked his way out of his shoes. Soon he was standing there naked at the end of the bed. I loved that Peter was warm and funny and full of life— that most of all. But it was his beauty I had been drawn to first, that night at the Waverly Inn, after he brought me my gin and tonic as I waited for Keith to arrive.
Peter crawled across the bed. “I missed you,” he said, pushing his weight hard against me, his mouth over mine. All of it, exactly the way I liked.
I woke up with Peter still curved around me, damp chest pressed up against my back, heavy leg slung over my thigh. I felt at ease for the first time since we’d left the city. Peter was distractible. And immature, though he was actually a couple years older than me. But whatever was going on, we could work through it.
The sun was higher now, no longer glinting off the water. Peter was snoring lightly, in that sweet way he always did after we made love: like a little boy, or a small dog.
I did wonder how close he really was to finishing up his book. And, yes, an agent had compared Peter to David Foster Wallace, but she’d only read the first chapter. I’d read the first two, and they were very good— I think. Honestly, they didn’t make that much sense to me, but what did I know? The problem was, Peter’s idea of “finished” and actually being finished weren’t always the same. This was the reason my dad didn’t like him. He believed, above all else, in finishing things. I should have considered this before: that attention to detail wasn’t Peter’s strong suit. This thing with the contractors could be a real problem.