“So, what do you do when you’re not cooking pasta?” she asked.
“I’m a writer,” he said. “For a website, right now. I do investigative reporting.”
“Impressive,” said Abby.
“And what do you do when you’re not at bachelorette parties?”
She paused, reminding herself that she’d never see this guy again, that she could tell him anything she liked. She thought about making up a story, saying she was in medical school, or in law school, or learning to be a teacher, or that she was a grad student, which had been the truth at one point, years ago. Instead, she said, “Right now, it’s a little bit of this, a little bit of that. I’m still figuring it out.”
“It’s a lot,” he said. He’d been rubbing her back, long, slow strokes, with the perfect amount of pressure, not too hard and not too light. “Come here,” he said, setting the bowls on his windowsill and more or less scooping her into his arms, until the top of her head was tucked under his chin, her cheek and right arm on his chest. “Your skin is so soft,” he said, his voice a low rumble that she felt in her bones. “Like velvet. Or satin. Whichever’s the soft one.”
Abby wanted to say the most ridiculous things. She wanted to call him honey and darling. She wanted to tell him that she’d never felt this way about anyone, and hold his hand, and cuddle him as he fell asleep. And the strange thing was, she thought it was possible that he wouldn’t freak out if she said those things; that maybe he was feeling the same way. Which, of course, was ridiculous. It could not possibly be true.
He started kissing her neck again, his hands still on her back, moving insistently, sliding down to cup her bottom, fingers spread wide, like he wanted to touch as much of her as possible. Like he couldn’t get enough. Like he would never let her go. Abby thought she had never felt so lovely, so desired, so treasured. “Sweetheart,” he said again, and that, even more than the pasta, even more than the orgasms, that had been the best part, the memory she’d tuck away to cherish.
He was holding her when she woke up for the second time. The sun was rising. Abby could see the faint light filtering through the slit of his window. She could feel a hangover pulsing in her temples, settling into her belly, and a wave of guilt, like scummy gray dishwater, rolling in with it. She imagined Mark sleeping blamelessly in his bed in Philadelphia, with his phone plugged into the charger beside him, the alarm set to wake him up in plenty of time for his shift at the hospital. She was sure that if she looked at her own phone, she’d find texts from last night: Say hi to everyone and Have a great time.
Sebastian muttered something and rolled onto his back. Abby looked down at him. She touched her fingertips to her lips, then pressed them quickly against his bare shoulder, a kiss by proxy. Quietly, she gathered her clothes and carried them to the bathroom—tiny but clean—where she dressed and splashed water on her face. She thought about leaving a note—Thank you for a lovely evening?—or her number. In the end, she decided not to do either. The night had been perfect. Abby didn’t want to taint it, and it seemed greedy to hope for more. She didn’t want to wait for a call that wouldn’t come. Nor did she want to meet up with him somewhere and watch him try to hide his disappointment when he saw her, without beer goggles, sober and in the light. Better to leave before anything could go wrong, to go back to her real life.
She stepped outside, wishing she could lock the door behind her, hoping that Sebastian would be safe. On the sidewalk, she called for an Uber, and watched the sun rise as the car drove her over the Brooklyn Bridge. Back in her hotel room, she chugged a bottle of water, swallowed two Advils she’d had the foresight to pack, and tucked herself into her bed. She fell asleep immediately and didn’t wake up until Marissa pounded on her door at ten o’clock to tell her they were meeting in the lobby in half an hour for dim sum, and that Abby needed to get up, because Marissa wanted details of her night.
Abby kept it vague with Marissa, feeling, somehow, like if she shared too much about what had happened it would lose its luster, and sound tawdry or porn-y instead of the way it had felt, which had been romantic and magical. She managed the brunch, nibbling at pork buns and shrimp dumplings, honey-basted spareribs and congee, listening to the group moan about their hangovers or talk about the wedding, or their own husbands, and their kids.
She and Mark had plans for Saturday night. It was going to be their third date, which meant, she guessed, he’d be asking her to come home with him, unless she asked him to come to her place first. Mark had changed a lot since they were teenagers at summer camp, but he was still appealing, with the same sense of humor, the same sweet smile. Mark was plausible. Mark made sense. They had a shared history, similar backgrounds, and they lived in the same city. He’d been the first boy she’d ever kissed, the first boy who’d said he loved her. Maybe Mark didn’t light the same fires that Sebastian had; maybe she didn’t feel as desperately drawn to him. In spite of that—maybe because of that—Abby had no trouble imagining herself and Mark starting up where they’d left off, falling instantly in sync, moving forward smoothly and in tandem.
But God, last night had been so good. For the entire bus ride back to Philadelphia, Abby kept her eyes closed, and thought about how Sebastian had touched her; the sound of his voice, the way he’d looked at her. How it had felt to be so desired by someone who was, himself, so desirable. How perfectly in tune they’d been. It felt like, for a handful of hours, she’d stepped into someone else’s skin, even someone else’s life, and it had been wonderful.
Abby replayed every minute, from their first kiss to the last touch of her fingers to his shoulder, determined to inscribe every detail on her mind. When the ride was over, she deleted the photo of the guy’s license from her phone, pulled her backpack down from the overhead rack, stepped out into the diesel-scented sunshine, and headed south, toward her apartment, toward the dogs who’d be waiting for her on Monday morning, and the guy who’d be waiting on Saturday night.
Abby
Philadelphia August 2023
Give it to me,” Abby said in her sultriest voice.
Mark shook his head, feigning reluctance. “I don’t know. Are you sure you’re ready?”
“Oh, I’m ready,” Abby purred.
Mark hesitated, then pulled his phone out of his bag. “Okay, standard disclaimer. This is not my patient, or a patient at any institution with which I am affiliated. No one’s HIPAA rights were violated.”
“Just hand it over.” Abby reached across the table, palm extended. She was in a wonderful mood. She and Mark were at Estia, one of their favorite restaurants. He’d come with pictures, and they had the entire weekend ahead of them.
Mark shook his head, giving her a rueful look before handing Abby his phone. She turned it around and looked at the picture of a foot with a big toe’s nail that had gotten so long it had curved down, completely covering the tip of the toe, curving toward the sole. She squealed. “Ew!”
“Yeah, that’s one for the gallery,” Mark said modestly.
“How did that happen?”
“How does anything happen?” Mark replied. “You just decide to let it go for a few days. And then a few days turn into a week, and a week turns into a month, and the next thing you know…”