“Don’t go back to West Egg,” I said. “Come home with me. You may have your own room. I promise I won’t even climb into bed with you and keep you up.”
It looked like he might attempt to be chivalrous about it and insist on going home, so I scooted close to him on the bench seat, taking him by his shirt and planting a little kiss right behind his ear.
“Don’t make me ask again,” I murmured. “I’ll be cross with you.”
“Can’t have that,” he said with a faint smile, but when he tried to hold me close for a kiss of his own, I retreated ladylike back to my side of the car. I liked that he only sighed after it a little, and then he turned the car north on Park Avenue towards home, where Aunt Justine’s friends were just now breaking things up.
“Ah, that’s a nice one for you, Jordan,” cried Mrs. Crenshaw, who had after all killed her husband and replaced him with a soldier even prettier than Nick. Her imp, held by a delicate Tiffany chain dangling from her wrist, hissed speculatively at us, and I tugged my skirt out of the way. It was the delicate silk overlaid with sheer chiffon, and I was hoping to wear it to the party on Governors Island the next Saturday.
“Goodness, it’s been a while since we’ve seen you with a lad, my dear,” said Mrs. Baddicock sternly. “Do make sure he minds his place.”
“Of course,” I said, and left him there while I rang for Lara, Aunt Justine’s girl of all work. She shook out the guest room and even managed to locate a pair of striped pajamas that had belonged to the late Mr. Sigourney Howard. I took them from her and went to find Nick, who was having a nightcap with my aunt.
I paused at the doorway, amused at how they looked like a cartoon about flaming youth and severe age. Nick was looking quite debauched with his eyes glassy and his tie undone, while Aunt Justine, who had likely been drinking more than we had, gave him a cool look with her spine perfectly straight and her hair swept back in immaculate silver wings. He was trying to thank her for letting him stay, and she was telling him that it had nothing to do with her.
“Nick,” I said. “I’m being ever so domestic. I have some pajamas for you here.”
He mumbled something to my aunt and followed me to the room, where he took the striped pajamas from me with an awkward nod of thanks.
“I think your aunt hates me,” he said, sitting down on the edge of the newly turned bed.
“She might. I would say she doesn’t know you well enough to hate you yet. She probably only disapproves of you and dislikes you.”
“Wouldn’t that bother you?” he asked, and I smiled.
“It used to, when I was very young. Now it seems so much less important.”
“And what is important to you in your great old age?”
I let him take me by the hand and draw me to stand between his legs. He was of course older than I was, but in the soft light from the green-shaded lamp, he looked only my age or perhaps even younger. His hands rested lightly on the curve of my waist as he looked up to me. He was almost painfully in earnest and so very sincere.
I leaned down to cup his face in my hands, kissing his forehead gently. He was going to get even less sleep than we had thought.
“Being clever. Knowing things. Knowing myself best of all.”
“Miss Baker, I don’t think you’re always a very nice girl,” he said, reaching up to cover my hands with his. There was a teasing note to his voice, as well something that might turn into genuine affection someday.
For some reason, it made me draw back, my hands falling away from his like water. Being liked like that felt like a little too much in that moment. I would have to go back to my room for a while, among my own safe and familiar things, to mull it over before I decided if it was all right or not.
“I’m not a nice girl at all,” I said with a wink. “I’m better.”