Once I finished inspecting myself in the mirror, I took the heels off and lay down on our bed. I knew the outfit was sexier than I’d planned on, but it felt like some kind of insurance at this film-industry party. Dressing up and performing the role that everyone expected from me was comfortable. Beautiful girl should show up looking beautiful, right? I thought. Worse than arm candy is being invisible, right? Right? Nicki Minaj blasted from my phone. “Got a bow on my panties because my ass is a present,” she sang.
Now that I’m ready, might as well take a couple of selfies. I tilted my chin down, held up my phone, and checked myself on the screen as I clicked away. A text from S appeared at the top of my reflection: “15 minutes baby! Traffic was insane.”
I ignored him with a swipe of my finger. I selected one of the selfies, posting it on Instagram. “All dressed up, no place to go,” I typed, and threw my phone down next to me. I stared at the ceiling while Nicki continued to rap.
S arrived a few minutes later, all crinkled laugh lines and warmth. I eyed him, annoyed, as he climbed onto the bed next to me. “You’re an hour and a half late, asshole. It’s rude.” We’d had this conversation countless times before, and I was worn down by it. Who cares, anyway? I had a nice time getting ready, I thought. Besides, here he was, better late than never, smelling like the best kind of sweat and smiling at me, ready to love me up. What was the point of making a big deal of this right before a party where we’d be surrounded by hundreds of people? I wanted us to feel connected and maybe even have some fun, for fuck’s sake. Let it go, I told myself.
“I’m sorry, seriously, okay? I got the timing wrong. But I’m here now and I wanted to come home to see you and … have some time,” S said, pulling up my dress without taking his eyes off my face. He kissed my nose, and I giggled and then frowned. “Rude!” I said, and S laughed and began edging his way down my body.
“I’m so happy to see you,” he said, and he sounded so genuine I couldn’t help but feel a wave of love wash over me.
Later, S lay on my stomach and I wrapped my arms around his head, watching his curly hair rise and fall with my breathing. Eventually he got up and went to the bathroom, and I strapped my heels back on. As we headed out the door, switching off the lights and setting the alarm, I threw on a brown leather trench over my dress. “I just don’t want to be cold,” I told myself.
The party S’s agency was hosting was at a big fancy house owned by a former Beatle. Early on in our relationship, I’d told S that I hated parties like this. And he told me he hated agents. “They’re talentless and do nothing and ugh … just the worst.” Still, I struggled to understand his attitude to the film industry. I’d watch him take calls with his wireless headphones, laughing and sucking on his Juul, and I’d wonder: Had he been seduced by Hollywood or was he just working the system to succeed? The voice he used for these work calls was unfamiliar to me; even his laugh was different. The idea that he might actually enjoy the boys’ club of agents, producers, and actors bothered me. I was surprised at how repelled I felt watching him work sometimes. Or is this just him being good at his job? I wasn’t sure.
On the cab ride over, I felt uneasy. “Hey,” I said to S. “Don’t leave me tonight. Like, obviously, we can go have our various conversations, blah blah. But just, like, when we’re walking around? You know?” I put my hand on his knee.
“Okay, sure,” S replied, giving me a kiss on the lips. “No problem.” He looked handsome, dressed down in a crew-neck sweatshirt and black Timbs, the hair on his face at just the right length to accentuate his strong jawline.
One night years ago, before S and I had started seeing each other romantically, he met me and a group of my friends at a hotel party. “Come by and hang,” I remember texting him. It was all casual, but I knew how much I liked him the second he walked in the door. He was wearing black Timbs then, too, the same ones he wore to the courthouse when we got married.
I’d been drinking a lot that night and feeling light and fizzy in a good way. Even though we didn’t look at each other much, I always knew where S was in the room. I could feel his attention on me, even when I stole a quick glance and found him looking straight ahead, talking to someone else. I was shaking my hips to the music, knowing S was watching, when a guy came up and asked to take a photo with me. “Sure!” I said, bending over to put my drink down. He was thin and had an accent. I took him for a European tourist.