Perfect on Paper

by Janet Goss

  But Billy wasn’t responsible for the dreaded fifth puzzle. Not that it wasn’t challenging. I stared blankly at the clues for several minutes, refusing to look at the countdown clock, before I cracked the northeast corner. Kevin had been right. It was hard.

  But not all that much harder than a typical Saturday puzzle. I filled in the last of the squares with two minutes remaining on the clock and a strong hankering for a cocktail—or twenty.

  Billy had been hovering on my side of the room, collecting papers from contestants, for the duration of the tournament, but he always retreated to the judges’ chambers to score puzzles in between rounds. Finally, when I finished the Six—which wasn’t by him, either—with a respectable time bonus, he dashed over to retrieve it.

  “Don’t disappear on me tonight,” he whispered. “You hurt my feelings yesterday.”

  “We’ll see.”

  With a sly smile, he leaned in closer. “By the way, I checked into my room just after lunch—2611, in case you felt like stopping by.”

  I walked out of the ballroom, reeling off sets of random numbers in my head in a desperate attempt to addle my memory. No good could come from retaining the information I’d just been given.

  By the time I reached the bar, I was woozy from lack of nourishment.

  “Dana! Over here!” The smokers had commandeered a large round table just inside the door. I ordered a burger and a double Dewar’s and gave myself permission to relax.

  Not everyone was able to do so. Patrick, seated next to me, was rocking back and forth with a dazed expression. “Jook,” he muttered every ten minutes or so. “Fucking jook.”

  Since vice tends to beget vice, I wasn’t surprised to discover that the smokers were an enthusiastic band of imbibers. In fact, I was dangerously close to blotto when Billy turned up around nine thirty.

  “Where you been?” I slurred, wondering how there could be two of him standing before me.

  “Judges’ dinner. By the way, congratulations.”

  “For what?”

  “Didn’t you see the rankings?”

  “They’re posted?”

  “You’re in ninety-ninth place. Told you you’d do great.”

  “Ninety-ninth?!”

  This called for a drink!

  I celebrated long into the night with my tobacco-loving brethren, all the while keeping an eye on Billy, who was doing likewise with me. As I’d expected, he was in great demand, but eventually he made his way over to the bar, where I was settling my tab.

  “Come on upstairs,” he said.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Not to my room—there’s a constructors’ party up on the fourteenth floor. Got some people I’d like you to meet.”

  “But I’m not a constructor.”

  “Themes and clues,” he said, taking hold of my elbow and ushering me toward the exit. “That’s close enough.” As we passed the smokers’ table, Kevin stuck out his tongue to mimic a panting dog.

  After we’d entered what Billy referred to as “the palindromic room 1441,” I found myself in the company of what was quite possibly the highest concentration of brainpower—and beer bottles—on the planet. Most of the name tags I was able to make out bore the appellations of legends. What was I doing in their exalted company?

  “Should’ve known Moody’d be the only one who could get a date for this soirée,” said a goateed leprechaun whose puzzle had appeared in last Sunday’s paper.

  “This is Dana,” Billy announced. “Be nice to her—she’s a rookie. Dana, I’d like you to meet—let’s see—Wendy LaBron… and that’s Hank Blob… our host, Spider C. Fop.…”

  It took a moment before I was able to cut through my alcohol-induced fog and figure out what he was doing: anagramming the names of each constructor, right there on the spot.

  If I’d thought I was out of my league in the ballroom, that was nothing compared to this. I meekly accepted a beer, even though I was already drunk enough to know I’d wake up feeling as if I’d participated in a prison riot. Oh, when would I learn that Benedictine never, ever made an appropriate chaser for multiple double Dewar’s on the rocks?

  I took polite sips from my bottle of microbrew while a hot debate raged over the merits of the day’s Five puzzle.

  “The fill was lively, but the difficulty was hardly on a par with last year’s Moody,” said—well, Wendy LaBron, as he’d been dubbed for the evening.

  “You flatter me,” Billy countered. “Mine was a cakewalk compared to the one you provided a few years back.”

  I finally managed to drain my bottle. “Listen,” I said. “It’s been a genuine honor to meet you all, but I’ve got that Seven puzzle to solve tomorrow morning. I’d better be on my way.”

  “Already?” Spider C. Fop looked insulted. “You just got here!”

  “Sorry. The nine a.m. start time would be tough enough without the hangover I’m anticipating.” I shrugged on my jacket and rose from my seat at the foot of the bed.

  Billy got up, too. “I’ll walk you downstairs and put you in a cab.”

  But once we were inside the elevator, he pushed the button for twenty-six, not L.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  JUDAS PRIEST

  “Hey!” I reached out to jab the button for the lobby, but Billy grabbed my wrist and pulled me up against him. I couldn’t tell him to stop; that I had no intention of going to his room, because he was kissing me and whatever willpower I’d had was gone, vanquished by alcohol and exhaustion and euphoria.

  “Don’t say no, Dana,” he pleaded when the doors opened onto the twenty-sixth floor. “I’ve been waiting such a long, long time for this.”

  He was irresistible. There was no way I could stand inside that elevator and travel twenty-six stories away from him.

  Not until later, and that was such a long, long time from now.

  We stumbled into the hallway, kissing and crashing into the walls of the corridor leading to room 2611, even though of course it was wrong and of course I should have been anywhere in the world but there. He fumbled with his key card, and finally we were inside and on the bed, moaning out loud with relief. The room was in shadows, with only the lights of the distant city glowing faintly outside the windows.

  “That was torture,” he said, peeling off my jacket and easing me back against the pillows.

  “What was?”

  “All day. Last night. Watching you out of the corner of my eye when all I wanted to do was this.” He ran his hands all over me, his whole body pressed tight against mine.

  I reached up under his shirt and let my fingertips buzz along the surface of his skin. Maybe I’d regret this—of course I’d regret this—but not right now. If losing Ray Devine had taught me anything, it was to stay in the moment and go after what I wanted, before it was gone forever. And god, I wanted Billy Moody, and this was the moment.

  But this would have to be the only moment. “Billy,” I said, “this is… just for tonight. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “I’m not going to turn you down, but—no. I don’t.” His smile flashed in the half-light. “I think you’re the one who doesn’t understand.”

  “Billy…”

  “Tell me about this boyfriend of yours. Tell me why he’s so much better than me.” He had his hand halfway down the front of my jeans, and it was about to get soaked.

  “He’s… sexy,” I slurred, shuddering when I felt his fingers. “And he… loves me.”

  “Well, other people could love you, too, you know.”

  Wow, I thought. I’ve been in this room—what? Four minutes?—and he’s already made me come.

  Twice.

  Then the strangest thing happened. I experienced déjà vu—which, coincidentally, had been the fill for 1-Across in that day’s Three puzzle.

  “Listen, Dana,” Billy said. “I know I’m probably about to screw up your life, but I just can’t help it.”

  There. That was it. My transgression-in-waiting had just been sancti
oned from beyond the grave. Ray had spoken those exact words to me, just before he’d kissed me for the first time and made me fall in love forever.

  Then again, I probably could have justified the regime of Kim Jong-il at that heated moment. Billy and I undressed each other in slow motion, hands shaking with anticipation. Finally he was poised high above me, my legs wrapped around him, every molecule of my body screaming, Now, now, now.

  He hovered over me, making me wait. “What’s your boyfriend’s name?”

  “Hank.” A wave the size of several oceans came crashing down on me.

  “What is it?”

  “Hank.” Oh Jesus.

  “What is it?”

  “Oh, Billy.” Billy Billy Billy.

  I hadn’t intended to spend the night, but by the time we’d finally had enough of each other, sunlight was filtering through a gap in the curtains and someone was banging loudly on the door.

  “Shit! Who’s that?” I dove for his flannel shirt at the foot of the bed.

  “Don’t panic—I ordered room service.”

  “When did you find the time to do that?”

  “Right after I checked in. Filled out the card and hung it on the doorknob.” He tugged on his jeans and went to let in the waiter.

  There were two of everything on the overloaded tray—plates of bacon and eggs, coffee cups, racks of toast. I would have taken offense if I hadn’t been so hungry.

  “Don’t you think all this is a bit… presumptuous?”

  Billy let his pants fall to his ankles and grinned. “Power of positive thinking.”

  I hadn’t stood a chance last night.

  He came back to bed and stayed there until our breakfast was cold.

  The spray from a hot shower finally enabled me to redirect my focus to something other than Billy Moody. What had I done last night—not to mention three times this morning?

  And what was I supposed to do next?

  There was no question of our physical compatibility.

  But I had that with Hank, too.

  Billy seemed convinced we belonged together, and not just in bed.

  As did Hank.

  But Billy and I had… some sort of bond. A mental connection that was beginning to make me wonder if he could read my mind.

  “You know, I was just thinking—‘multiple orgasms’ is fifteen letters,” he said as I was going in to shower.

  “I was just thinking, too. ‘Indefatigable’ is thirteen,” I replied, quickly pulling the bathroom door shut so he wouldn’t make me late for the final puzzle.

  I turned off the water and reached for a towel. Maybe Billy was right. Maybe we really did have something here.

  By the time I was in the elevator, a queasy feeling was growing in the pit of my stomach, and it wasn’t attributable to the cold scrambled eggs I’d just devoured. What had I been thinking, befriending two gay men at this tournament? They’d take one look at Billy’s shirt, which I was wearing with its too-long tails tied in a knot above yesterday’s jeans, and know exactly where I’d wound up last night.

  Kevin sauntered over as I was ordering another cup of coffee at the bar. He looked me up and down with a smirk and tugged on one of the flannel tails.

  “Nice outfit… Daisy Mae.”

  Patrick—or “Jook,” as he’d changed his name tag to read—was right behind him. He peered closely at my face. “You’re glowing,” he said. “I loathe you.”

  “You guys…”

  They burst out laughing.

  “Oh, honey,” Kevin said. “I know you’re in ninety-ninth place, but you walked away with the trophy this weekend. You’d better be prepared to tell us everything after the Seven puzzle.”

  They went outside for a last-minute cigarette, and I made my way to the ballroom.

  The bride in the crossword-patterned gown I’d spotted on Saturday had upped the ante for the final round. Today he was Janet Leigh from Psycho. The butt of a dagger sprouted from his head, and a metal ring around his neck supported the weight of a bloody black-and-white-gridded shower curtain.

  “Isn’t it hard to solve with that thing on?” I said.

  In response, he pushed his hands through two hidden slits in the curtain. “It’s all in the planning, baby.”

  I reclaimed my seat from yesterday and listened to the chatter around me. Speculation was running rampant as to whether Billy had constructed our upcoming puzzle.

  “No way. He’s much too hard for the general public.”

  “And his puzzles almost always run on Saturdays. I bet you he did the fifteen-by-fifteen for the championship final.”

  “Oh man. Can you imagine trying to solve a Moody on that stage, in front of six hundred people?”

  I pulled out my phone, thinking I’d check my messages. On second thought, maybe that wasn’t such a good idea. Elinor Ann would be wondering how yesterday had gone, and, more urgently, where I’d been last night. And Hank—

  A pang of guilt hit me hard. He didn’t deserve my betrayal, no matter how irresistible Billy was, or how attuned to each other we might be.

  I sighed. Would I ever learn to think before I—

  Just then Billy squeezed my shoulder as he passed by my chair on his way to the front of the room. I watched him join the cluster of judges, losing my train of thought as I recalled all the things we’d done last night. All I wanted to do was take him home and do them all over again. And again. Forever.

  Oh god, I thought. Billy’s right. He is the man I’m supposed to be with.

  It took a whopping five minutes before I found out how spectacularly wrong I could be.

  The public address system was activated, and the announcement everyone had been dreading came through the speakers. “The seventh and final puzzle of this year’s tournament is by W. W. W. Moody.”

  Immediately a chorus of lament filled the air. Billy defensively covered his face with his hands, grinning furiously. He was flat-out adorable. Maybe he could ask the front desk for a late checkout and…

  The judges fanned out to distribute the puzzles, with Billy making a beeline for my row. As he laid the sheet of paper before me, he leaned in and whispered, “Just take as long as you did the first time.”

  Just—what?

  But he was gone, down at the other end of the table.

  It wasn’t until I flipped over the page and came face-to-face with shaded boxes of crossed words that I understood the meaning of Billy’s statement.

  That son of a bitch.

  My initial impulse was to get up and walk out of there, effectively incurring a score of zero for my final puzzle. But then I thought about Billy’s instructions: To take the same amount of time as I’d taken when I test-solved this very puzzle.

  But I hadn’t timed myself. Had I completed it in my usual twenty minutes or so, or had the Moody factor lengthened my solving time?

  The only way to be completely fair was—well, there wasn’t a way. Billy had seen to that.

  That son of a bitch.

  Even though it had been years since I’d needed a full half hour to solve a Sunday-sized crossword, I finally determined that was how long this one would have to take. Nobody in this ballroom should be penalized because I’d been given an unfair advantage—even though I’d never asked for it, and I would have given anything not to have it.

  I’d been so overjoyed, and so inspired, by the prospect of finishing in the top hundred. How could Billy have done this? And why would he have thought I’d be willing to cheat?

  Oh. Maybe because I was a cheat. What better word to describe me after what I’d done last night?

  Traitor. That was an even better word. So was bitch. So was slut.

  It took me about fifteen minutes to fill in all the squares, mainly because a number of my rewritten clues had been rewritten yet again, but also because every minute or two I’d stop cold, overwhelmed with anger and hurt. And remorse. Couldn’t forget remorse.

  Billy had wisely opted to work the other side of the room. I could
see his blond head bobbing between tables as he retrieved papers. I kept one eye on him and one on the digital countdown clock, wishing it would hurry up and tick off thirty minutes so I could finally refer to this entire, horrible episode in the past tense.

  At last I walked through the revolving doors of the hotel, where a cluster of smokers lay in wait next to their preferred ashtray.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Patrick said, blocking my path. “We’re expecting a full accounting of your evening, young lady.”

  “I… can’t. I have to get home right now.”

  Kevin took note of my morose expression and nudged his friend. “Let her go.” He turned to me. “We’ll see you next year, right?”

  “I—I don’t know.” All I knew was I had to get out of there before Billy came looking for me. “I’m sorry.” I raced down the street toward the subway before any of us could exchange email addresses, or even goodbyes.

  A train pulled into the station, and I sank into a seat. I’d be safely at home soon. I just had to hang on for twenty more minutes.

  But when I got to Ninth Street, I discovered a limo idling in front of my building—one that looked suspiciously similar to the one Sandro had arranged the night of the gallery party. I hadn’t even pulled out my house keys before Lark flung open its door and came flying toward me, shrieking in excitement. “We did it! We got married!”

  Terrific.

  Sandro emerged from the backseat, a sleazy grin on his face and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot in his hand. “Please,” he said, handing me the bottle. “We celebrate, no?”

  “Uh, no,” I replied. “I really can’t right now.”

  Lark latched onto my arm with both hands. “Please, Dana? We’ve been waiting for over an hour—I was scared to ring your doorbell again in case you were sleeping. Can’t we please, please just come upstairs for one tiny little glass?”

  Sandro chuckled and gave his bride a look that was so patronizing, I wanted to bash him over the head with his own champagne bottle. “Please, Dana. I beg of you—my bride, she insist.”