by Greg Johnson
She shook her head. “Philip…”
“May I come in?”
Later she would think, too, that he’d never looked more stunning: his dark hair combed back neatly, glistening; his black polo shirt accentuating his chest, his smooth biceps; his face tanned and gleaming. His broad forehead, the finely cut eye sockets, the prominent nose and thinly curved lips were so flawless in their masculine beauty they might have been drawn from an Italian sculpture. But he was very much here. Very much alive. Her confusion must have shown plainly in her eyes, her mottled skin. He cupped one of her cheeks in his warm, living hand.
She stepped back, looking around her, and not knowing what else to do with the roses, she dropped them on a nearby table.
“They’re lovely,” she said. “I guess they’ll have a vase somewhere, I’ll call the front desk…”
He came forward and kissed her, first gently, framing her face with both hands, and then less gently, massaging the small of her back as he pressed his mouth to hers, taking firm control of her limp, uncertain body. She closed her eyes, and with the same unresisting pleasure she’d felt when applying her lotion. She held him, too, first with a kind of tentative politeness, then with an urgency she did not question. Already his hands were undoing the thin strap between her shoulder blades.
He whispered, “This is a lovely swimsuit, but…”
She heard the flimsy shred of fabric drop to the floor. Even as they kissed hungrily Philip was easing them toward the bed. Step by step, urging her along. A kind of dance. He reached down with both hands, tugging his knit shirt upward along his smooth chest, and of course she helped him. They laughed briefly as they patted the standing dark quills of his hair back in place.
“You look so beautiful,” he whispered. “Your skin is so rosy and warm, I hope you’re not burned…” His jaw abraded that tenderest skin along the tops of her breasts, which indeed had gotten sunburned in the tiny new swimsuit, and though she winced, somehow the pain heightened her need for him, her hunger, her lust—whatever it was! Later she would decide it need not be named, merely avoided, but now she did not want to avoid it. When he’d dropped his khaki shorts and briefs to the floor, he knelt and tenderly lowered the bottom half of her suit, kissing her belly, her thighs, darting his tongue up between her legs so that her eyes closed and she parted her thighs, no shame, of course she wanted him, and then he rose and lifted Abby, and they both fell gently, again with a conspiring laugh, onto the bed, a tangle of dampened hair and heated, writhing limbs, mingled odors of her lotion and his cologne, muted groans and exhalations from their opened mouths when one drew away, only to be pulled back greedily by the other.
They fucked for half an hour, though it might have been half a day. Later she would tell herself yes, they had fucked, might as well use the plain, unvarnished term, they had not “made love,” for she did not love this man. In fact, she felt alarmed and angry all over again, when she thought about what he’d done, showing up here. And what she had done. But she hadn’t been able to deny him. Too much sun, too much self-indulgence, the easy formless atmosphere of Key West—she could blame all these things, or she could blame her own guilt-raddled soul. But did it matter? She had enjoyed that sex, that day, more than she’d ever enjoyed anything in her life.
Yet even in Key West pleasures come to an end, and after they’d lain side by side for several minutes, the sweat on their naked bodies slowly cooling, both of them staring up at the ceiling without saying a word, the nagging anxiety began to prod, like small but rude pokes at her abdomen, and she felt a renewed sense of alarm. By the time she rose and slipped into her swimsuit she was trying to keep the anger from showing in her narrowed eyes, her hard little smile.
She kept her back to him, pretending to fiddle with the roses. She said, “Come on, you’d better get dressed. Val could be coming in, you know. Any minute.”
“I saw her when I was looking for the room,” Philip said. “Out by the pool. She was conked out in one of the lounge chairs.”
“But still…”
Something in Philip’s voice caught her attention, made her frown briefly, but she couldn’t place what it was. And his phrase “looking for the room” troubled her. How had he known which room?
She heard him leap up from the bed and start dressing. “I’ll go and let another room, all right?” he said. “Your friend can have this one to herself.”
Abby dropped the roses; a thorn had pricked her finger, and she glanced down. No blood. Now the very sight of the flowers enraged her. She turned to face him.
“You shouldn’t have come, you know,” she said. “You’ve got to leave, Phil. I’m on a vacation with my brother and our friends. You shouldn’t be here.”
Dressed, tall and lean, his thick wet hair combed back with his splayed fingers, he looked absurdly handsome; she glanced away.
“What do you mean? I love you, goddamn it. I belong where you are.”
She felt a threat of tears bubbling up from somewhere, but she breathed deeply and kept them down. Frustration? Anger? Fear that she might love him, too, in spite of everything?
Could you love someone you hadn’t quite managed to like?
She said, “We’ll talk when I get back, all right? I—I guess I appreciate the gesture, the flowers, the trouble you took coming down here, but you shouldn’t have done it. It really wasn’t fair.”
He ran his slender fingers back through his hair, this time in frustration. His mouth wore a boy’s sneer of displeasure.
He said, “This is the thanks I get?”
She turned toward the door; she didn’t want to argue. He rushed forward and grabbed her arm.
“Listen, goddamn you. What is it you’re afraid of?”
She thought the threat of tears had subsided, but now they flooded her eyes and she tried to blink them out. She hated herself at this moment, but she hated him even more. Twisting her arm from his grip, she shoved at his chest with the heels of both hands.
“Get out!” she cried. “Get the hell out!”
She shut her eyes and wiped at her cheeks with her palms, like a child. She stood that way for several seconds after he’d slammed the door.
She hurried over and twisted the lock behind him, though knowing he wouldn’t come back. It occurred to her that the day before she left Atlanta they’d argued and then had wonderful sex, while today they’d had even more wonderful sex and then had an even worse argument. The thought consoled her, briefly. They’d come full circle. Perhaps it really was over, this time. Then the tears came again, and she stood for a long time with both palms pressed against her eyes, feeling alone and stranded in a hotel room in Key West.
It was their last day, and as they sat over a late lunch Connie rattled off the things they ought to do.
“On Sundays, the tea dances are fabulous,” he said. “First there’s the Marina, and then the La Tee Da.”
“The La Tee Da?” Valerie laughed. “That sounds festive!”
“My dear, it’s most festive or we wouldn’t be going. But somewhere in between we’ve got to dash back to the Pier House for the sunset—you girls must have the sunset deck experience, at least once. It’s not the least bit gay, but it’s fun all the same. We’ll take pictures and have a couple of drinkies. Then I’m going to take you all someplace fabulous for dinner—my treat, I insist. I made a reservation at both Cafe des Artistes and La Trattoria Venezia because I can’t decide which one. Then after dinner…”
They were happy to let Connie engineer their last evening in Key West. Throughout their trip Thom had kept his smiling but low-key demeanor, agreeing to anyone’s idea of what to do, seeming pleased to be here but unusually quiet, as though conserving his energy. During their lunch Abby had felt a pang of recognition, for as the others chattered about nothing much, Thom had reminded her of their father, presiding over their lively dinner table when they were young. Thom, Abby, and their mother had all been talkative, sometimes contentious, sometimes too loud, and though their father had said li
ttle, he’d always seemed, like Thom these past few days, at peace, sometimes putting in a gentle correction, responding to some outrageous comment with a tilted, dubious smile, but largely content to let the others’ talk and laughter wash around him. If Thom had turned into their father, would she turn into their mother eventually? This thought, coming to her shortly after they were seated at the sunset deck, struck her like a blow to the stomach.
“Shall we have one of those huge margaritas?” Connie said, pointing to a group at the next table.
Abby didn’t need to look. “Yes,” she said. “Definitely.”
The others laughed. Signaling the waiter, Connie held up four fingers and pointed to the next table; the waiter hurried off.
“You know,” Valerie said, reaching over to pat Abby’s hand, “you look so much healthier than that first day we met on the plane. You looked pale that day, honey, and worried. Remember how awful the weather was? First a thunderstorm, then that crazy snowfall…”
They were silent for a moment, as if stunned by the thought of snow here in the early-evening placidity of the warm breeze, the cloudless deep-turquoise sky above the water.
“I’d had a rough semester,” Abby said quickly, wanting to change the subject. She noticed how Thorn’s eyes had settled on her, assessing. She’d never liked being the focus of attention. Though she knew the gesture was obvious she pointed and said, “Oh, look at the sun! Over there!”
Obediently, the others turned and looked. People had begun to drift away from their tables, congregating along the deck railing with their cameras ready. Out on the horizon, the sun was a perfectly round orange ball poised a couple of hand widths above the water. The surrounding sky bore streaks of paler orange and gold, shading upward into gently bruised purples and deep blues that blended indistinguishably into the crisp blue-black of the sky with its early handful of winking stars. Abby breathed, deeply. She had not imagined the sunset would be so beautiful. She watched the stately movement of the sun as it descended, darkening now to a blood-ringed orange, staining the dark water where, near the deck, small triangular sails skimmed along lightly, as though innocent of the looming drama poised at the horizon.
“See what I mean?” Connie said proudly, as though he’d staged this event for his friends’ enjoyment.
“You were so right,” Valerie said. Her voice sounded dreamy and faraway. “Now I do sort of wish Marty were here…”
“And I wish—” Connie began. “Oh, never mind what I wish. Thom, what do you wish?”
Thom looked over, smiling. “I wish Carter were still here. And Roy. And about three dozen other people.”
“Oh, gosh, let’s don’t get gloomy,” Connie said. The enormous drinks had arrived, so he reached for his glass and took a long swallow. “What about you, Abby? Make a wish on the sunset.”
She smiled, keeping her eyes on the horizon. She’d been sipping her drink, too, and imagined she could feel its first effect, seeming to buoy her and the others as if they were suspended in air these few feet above the water, not anchored here on this deck, in these chairs. Now the sun was a bloody orb poised just inches above the water; people along the railing were exclaiming over the sight, their cameras clicking.
“At this moment, I don’t wish for anything,” she lied, for of course she was thinking of Thom and hoping he might somehow outlive them all.
“Oh, look!” Valerie cried. They craned their necks and finally had to stand, for everyone had risen and pressed forward, watching as the sun descended majestically into the water. It moved with such precision, like a wafer of blood slowly tugged below the surface by an unseen hand. Abby felt the tendons in her neck and shoulders straining as she watched the final topmost sliver ease down and down until, at last, amid a chorus of groans and cries from the others on the deck, it dipped out of sight. The crowd began to clap, and to laugh. It was a delighted but nervous laughter, and the clapping seemed less celebratory than a way to cover the anxiety—but maybe she was imagining this? Looking around she saw that everyone was smiling and nodding happily. Connie, Thom, and Valerie were smiling as they settled back into their chairs and yes, Abby was smiling, too.
“Wasn’t that wonderful?” Valerie sighed, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh dear, we forgot to bring our cameras!”
Connie pressed his lips together; it was clear that he’d meant to bring one. But he gave a dismissive wave. “Oh, who cares—we’ll remember it forever, won’t we?”
“Absolutely!” Valerie cried.
Neither Thom nor Abby spoke, but she knew her brother felt as she did. Connie was right, of course. They would never forget.
When the waiter approached and Connie smiled roguishly and again held up four fingers, no one protested.
They sipped the second enormous drink, and their conversation grew more general, disconnected. Abby felt her head spinning pleasantly, painlessly, and she was happy to sit here floating for a while and making forgettable conversation with Thom and the others. She noticed that the background music, some generic rock song she couldn’t identify, had grown louder, and the talk and laughter at the other tables had intensified, too, as if competing. As the sky darkened, the deck lights had flashed on, then dimmed, casting everyone’s face in a flattering rosy-pale glow. Connie looked lively and mischievous, Valerie was animated and laughing frequently, and even Thom looked better, as if invigorated by the alcohol, though he’d barely touched his second drink. He’d grown more talkative, however, and when Abby focused on the conversation she understood they were talking about one of Thorn’s old boyfriends.
“I could swear I saw him the other day,” Connie said, “driving up Piedmont. Are you sure he’s left town?”
“Not sure, no, but I hope to God he has,” Thom said. Idly, he stirred the little straw through his slushy drink. “He supposedly went back to New York to live with one of his relatives—his aunt, I think, or maybe one of his cousins.”
“Who are you talking about?” Abby asked, idly.
“Oh, Thorn’s evil boyfriend from last year—Edward,” Connie said. “Such a con artist he was.”
“Less a con artist than a psycho,” Thom said.
“But a gorgeous psycho,” Connie said, grinning sideways at Thom.
Thom nodded. “Yep. My own stupidity.”
Valerie gasped, “Oh, you mean he was the one…?”
“Yes,” Thom said. “He called and told me over the phone. ‘You might want to get tested, Thom dear. I’ve gotten a bit of bad news.’”
‘“Thom dear?’” Connie repeated. “What an asshole.”
“I didn’t believe his ‘bit of bad news,’ either,” Thom said. “I think he knew all along.”
Connie rolled his eyes. “Definitely a psycho. Too bad you can’t prove he infected you deliberately—you could get his ass thrown in jail.”
“Oh, this is awful,” Valerie said. “Let’s change the subject, please! Let’s talk about pleasant things.” She hiccuped; she’d slurred her words and actually said “theasant plings.”
Connie laughed. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s fun raking Edward over the coals, though.” He shuddered, then sipped at his drink.
Abby said, knowing she must be drunk or she’d never have asked this, “But did you love him, Thom? I mean, before you knew—”
“Before I knew he was a psycho? I guess I did. I thought I did.”
“I wonder if all actors are really that crazy,” Connie said. “Is that how they manage to play other people so well?”
Thom shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t care, at this point.”
“I dated an actor once, in college,” Valerie said. “Totally into himself—his looks, his own ideas. I could never get a word in edgewise.”
“And I…”
But Abby had stopped listening. Now she remembered what had struck her odd yesterday when she’d been talking with Philip: She was conked out in one of the lounge chairs, he’d said. The words had sounded strange somehow, and now she knew:
he’d used an American accent. Or had dropped his British accent. Just for that moment. She reached for her glass and took another sip, and her hand was not shaking.
“…last time I saw him was at that party Pace had, before Christmas. Remember that, Thom?” Connie was saying.
Thom laughed ruefully. “Yes, that doomed party. Poor Pace. And poor me—every one of my former boyfriends showed up. It was like they all had a conference call earlier that day and said, ‘Let’s spook the hell out of Thom!’”
“You poor baby!” Connie laughed.
The air around them had grown chill, and despite the alcohol coursing through her body, her dazed head, Abby’s blood had chilled, too. The others’ voices sounded distant, as though submerged—like the bleeding sun awhile earlier—under layers of water.
One day she and Philip had stopped at a bookstore where he’d bought several titles, and she’d stood watching idly as he signed his credit card receipt, “E. Philip DeMunn.” He went by Philip always, and didn’t encourage her to call him Phil. She’d asked what the E stood for, hadn’t she? More than once? And he’d given some coy response. “You know how we actors are. We have lots of names.”
Now she heard something. She felt something. Thom had leaned forward and touched her arm.
“Are you all right, honey? Did you drink too much?”
She regarded him through glassy eyes. Another odd thing had happened yesterday, but in their passion she hadn’t noticed. For the first time, Philip had not reached aside to the nightstand and eased a condom out of the drawer. They’d literally fallen into bed—wild and thoughtless.
She smiled, weakly. “No, I’m fine… I was just thinking about that party. Which one was Edward, Thom? What did he look like?”
Thom watched her, puzzled; his features seemed blurred, as if she were seeing him through water, too.
Connie said quickly, “Oh, tall dark and handsome. Sort of exotic-looking, I guess you’d say.”
Abby smiled vaguely. “Was he…British? I mean, did he come from England? You know, from—”
“Now, honey,” Thom said, frowning, “I know what England is. No, he isn’t British. Are you all right? You’re pale, your skin looks clammy. Do you want to go back to your room and lie down? Or should we go on to dinner?”