A car pulls up behind us. “What?”
“Is this a bad idea?”
“No. It’s a fantastic idea.” He moves toward me.
Again, I hesitate. What I want to say, what I can’t say is this: Will you hurt me?
I hear someone get out of the car behind us and open a door.
He threads his fingers in mine and slowly turns me around. Behind us, taking up three car spaces, is a white limousine.
“No!” I can’t believe it. “You didn’t . . . That’s not . . .”
It is. Number seven on my bucket list: sex in a white limousine, my tawdry teenage fantasy.
Elan grimaces at the open door, where a uniformed driver stands, waiting. “Let me go on the record as saying this is the most tacky car I have ever seen in my life. I hate it, I hate everything about it.”
“Oh my God.” I beeline for it, gliding my hands over the glossy ivory exterior. It is beautiful and silly and entirely over the top. I love it. “You’re insane.” I whack him with my clutch.
He grins, enjoying my reaction.
A limousine. He hired a limousine, for me. I wonder if this was the plan all along or, more likely, if this was the phone call.
I passed a test.
Elan gestures at the car. “Shall we?”
Through the open door, a minibar with champagne flutes, and leather, so much leather. Getting inside is a double-edged sword; I feel it, I know it. Because once we kiss—once we fuck—I’m not sure if I can stop myself falling—into like, or love, or lust, or obsession, or all four. But I can’t not do it. I have to get into the white limousine. I owe it to my sixteen-year-old self, bored out of her brain in Buntley, longing for a New York life. The life I now have.
I climb into the belly of the beast.
Here.
We.
Go.
24.
* * *
I wake to the sound of a shower. Soft sheets that smell clean, a tidal wave of morning light.
I’m in Elan’s king-size bed.
I stayed over.
My tongue has the texture and taste of shag carpet. Before my muddled brain can formulate its need, I see the elegant glass of water on the bedside table. I gulp the whole thing, wiping my chin as it spills down my bare chest.
Oh, hello boobs.
Apparently, I slept naked.
My dress, shoes, bra, and underwear are on the floor in a careless tableau: Still life, West Village, morning after.
I remember taking them off. Thank God I didn’t drink too much, because yes, I remember all of last night.
We hadn’t even opened the champagne before we started making out in a hungry, desperate way, as if we’d been waiting for this for years, not weeks. A new mouth on mine: demanding, experienced. Almost immediately, he pulled me onto his lap to straddle him, his legs spread wide across the black leather. He ground me against him slowly, his hips tilting up so we slid against each other. Heat through his hands as he clutched my thighs. I could feel his hardness through my slippery red underwear. His eyes were dark with desire as he yanked my left spaghetti strap undone. I gasped. My left breast exposed in bold red lace. The sight of it—or perhaps my willingness to be undressed—made him release a rough breath and a quick, pleased smile. I felt exposed, even submissive, on display for this man I barely knew. It turned me on. I was aching so much it almost hurt. I leaned forward to kiss him again, but he ducked his head, moving me back. Without breaking eye contact, he untied the other spaghetti strap. The black-and-gold material pooled at my waist. I was only in my bra. The good-girl cop in me knew I should protest or at least slow things down, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to. I wanted him to strip me bare. To take me, in the back of this limo. In one swift movement, Elan expertly undid the clasp in the front of my bra. The cups sprang aside. My breasts were completely exposed. My nipples were hard as diamonds. I was breathless. He leaned back against the leather for a long moment, appraising me. Then one hand found the small of my back and he almost shoved me to him. He consumed my left breast, putting the whole thing in his mouth. He rolled his tongue around it, sucking, greedy. I groaned. Not a stage groan. Not a groan for effect. A real, deep growl of pleasure. Then the right breast, his thumb pinching my other nipple. He played; he squeezed; he licked and bit as hungrily as if I was made of sugar. I saw stars. I was so aroused I couldn’t speak. His fingertips grazed the outside of my underwear. The sensation cracked through me like a gunshot. I bit back a yell. My teeth were clenched as he pulled my panties aside.
I realize now that my fantasy was never sex in a limo. It was being desired, in a way that was overwhelming and all-encompassing. Elan’s desire was confident and entirely unashamed. It was adult; it could teach me a thing or two. Waking up here in a man’s apartment in the middle of the West Village, I feel older. No one except Elan knows I am here. The possibilities of my life are as expansive as outer space.
The steam pouring from the bathroom smells like a fancy spa: masculine, musky, the smell of a $37 bar of men’s soap. The shower turns off. I quickly arrange the sheets around myself in the most flattering way, propping my head onto my hand. He walks out of the en suite bathroom, toweling his hair.
He’s naked.
I’m not one of those girls who hands-down loves the peen. I feel about penises the way I think I feel about children: not that into other people’s, possibly into what’s mine. To me, the penis is never going to win second prize in a beauty contest. It has the same sort of ugly charm as a Christmas sweater or a French character actor. But I’ve always felt quite affectionate about my bedmates’ appendages (we called Masher’s Captain Fantastico, which, looking back on it, does seem a little camp), and already, I feel a connection with Elan’s private eye. In its state of rest, decidedly midsize. But once the engine gets hot, his small, soft sword becomes a luxury SUV, sustainable by design with an intelligent start/stop system.
“Hey there,” he says.
“Hey yourself.”
I admire his taut little coconut butt as he strides over to a low black dresser. Underwear from one drawer, dark jeans from another. He pulls them on, smirking at me. “You talk in your sleep.”
“I do not.”
“Yeah, you do.” He disappears into a walk-in closet full of color-coordinated shirts on silver hangers.
I sit up, alarmed. “What did I say?”
He comes back out, holding two button-downs, one lavender, one white, both freshly laundered. “Which one?”
I point to the white. “What did I say?”
He heads back into the closet. “Something about . . . Barack Obama.”
I laugh, confused. Relieved. Then it hits me. I bet it wasn’t Barack Obama. I bet it was BRCA. The way I say it, all one word: Brack-uh.
There is nothing sexy about that.
My lover comes out in the white shirt. His eyes trace my limbs, under his sheet. “There’s more to you than meets the eye.”
I can see him picturing me in the back of the limo, thrusting, groaning, sticky with sweat. I let go last night, in a way I don’t think I have before. “I was pretty drunk.”
“Hey, own it. I feel honored.” He slips on his watch. “I made the bucket list.”
Is that it? Are we over? I’m okay with that, or, I can pretend to be. One crazy night, one more item off my list. And yet, everything in me wants to see him again. Do all that again. I want him to keep looking at me, the way he did in the back of the white limousine. Like I’m the only woman in the world.
“In a rush?” I ask, trying for “lightly.”
“I have a meeting.”
I pull the sheets tighter around myself. “It’s Sunday.”
He pauses, midway through running some product through his damp hair. His smile is patient. “I have a brunch meeting with Tim George, my business manager. I’d invite you to come but it’ll be boring, trust me.”
I relax a little and glance around the room. “Should I . . .”
“Take your time. H
ave a shower; hang out if you want. There’s pastries, and an overly complicated cold-press juicer.”
“Actually, I have to catch up with my ex.”
Not entirely true: Ash and I have plans to get coffee later this week, but I’m seeing my sister this afternoon. I say it because I want a reaction: intrigue, or better yet, jealousy.
“Okay. Sorry, I’m already so late.” He’s back at the bed, leaning over. I want him to kiss me slowly, passionately, but he does it quick, like I’m a friend. No more aziz-ams for me. “Last night was great. You’re great.”
“Great is a really boring adjective,” I say, disappointment and pleasure crashing inside of me.
He laughs. “Last night was . . . magnificent.” He’s left the room, calling from the hallway. “You’re splendiferous!”
The front door slams. I’m alone.
How should I feel about all this? Blissed out? Pissed off?
I settle on really fucking . . . great.
For now.
25.
* * *
My sister’s house is a circus. The front door is unlocked, and when I push it open, two children scamper past me, dressed as Ninja Turtles. “Siouxsie, Sal!” a female voice yells after them. “Don’t run on the road!”
There are more hyperactive children in the backyard, knees damp with mud stains. Storm, dressed in a makeshift fairy-princess outfit, chases two smaller boys, then spins around as they chase her, all of them squealing. In the living room, half a dozen chattering women are knee-deep in bubble wrap, boxes, mailing labels, and stamps. They are Boreal Springs locals, evidenced by their collective look of “I pickle my own vegetables.” Hippies, basically; harmless. One has a baby on the boob; several have unshaven armpits. I didn’t dress down today: I wore what I wanted. It was meant to be defiant. But in my black shiny leggings, purple lipstick, and cropped leather jacket, I am at best an overdressed city slicker, at worst, a clown. When I lift a tentative hand in greeting, they all stare a second longer than necessary.
“Lace.” My sister gets up, unthreading her fingers from a half-dozen mugs. “This is my sister,” she says to the women, crossing to give me a quick peck.
“Did you forget about our lunch?” I murmur.
“No.” This annoys her. “I figured you could help. I had a big order come in, last-minute.” You’d be forgiven for thinking this boon is a massive inconvenience. “This is Kathy from next door, Pam from my yoga class, Sue from the studio—”
They all smile somewhat quizzically at me, as if I am a bizarre piece of furniture Mara’s dragged home from a flea market.
“Lacey lives in Brooklyn,” Mara finishes.
“Ah,” the women say. This explains everything.
I touch Mara’s arm. “I was hoping we could talk.”
Studio Sue asks, “Mara, do you want the plates and mugs bubble-wrapped separately or together?”
Yoga Pam points to a plate of brownies. “Do these have nuts in them?”
“Mom, I’m thirsty!” a Ninja Turtle wails.
“We’ll talk later.” Mara ushers me to a spare spot. “Stick these labels onto those boxes.”
“Sugar cookie?” Kathy-from-next-door offers me a plate. Sensible ash-brown bob and a gold cross over her terrible turtleneck. Unlike the crunchy granola types, Kathy-from-next-door has a distinct Kathy Bates in Misery vibe.
I take a cookie, even though I don’t want to. My hangover is demanding something fried. My conscience is demanding an honest talk with Mara about the test. My ego wants to announce last night’s sexploitations to everyone. My cynicism knows no one in this room has heard of Elan Behzadi.
Storm hurricanes in with a gaggle of friends. They grab sugar cookies and thunder into her room as mothers call various reprimands and reminders. I stare after her.
I have to tell Mara, and it doesn’t matter if she doesn’t want to know. Storm has a right to know. My sister will be thirty-one next year. The same age my mom was when she died. I might not be around in ten years time to tell my niece about her own risk if Mara doesn’t.
“And what do you do, Lacey?” Kathy Bates turns to me.
Unwillingly: “I work in trend forecasting.”
A round of wrinkled noses. “What’s trend forecasting?”
Mara pulls her faded red hair back into a messy ponytail. The same ponytail my mother had in Mara’s favorite photo of her, sitting by the window, staring outside as if she’s unhappy but resigned to her fate. I’d never realized it was the same length, and almost the exact same cut. Has she done that deliberately? “It’s a way of telling the future,” I reply faintly, and then I ask Mara if we can talk in her bedroom.
* * * *
Mara stands in her doorway. “Can this wait? I don’t want everyone down there doing my work while I’m not helping.”
“Can you shut the door?” I slip off my jacket, overheated.
Mara raises her eyebrows high. She turns around to quietly close the door. When she turns back, her face has changed. “You got the test.” Her ability to jump to accurate conclusions when it comes to me has always been disturbingly Olympic.
I can’t speak. I nod.
She folds her arms. “And?”
The words seize in my throat. I stare at the balding carpet.
“Fuck.” My sister presses one hand to her mouth.
I step toward her, but she holds up a hand. The warning strikes me in the chest. My need to have her hold me flares painfully.
An exhausted worry washes over her. She raises her eyes to the ceiling. When she speaks, it’s more to herself than me. “And I just— Christ, everything at the worst possible time.”
“What?”
She sighs, and presses her fingertips to her eyes. I’m eight years old again and asking for help with my homework. “Nothing.”
But I’m not eight. “I’m not saying you have to fix this, Mar. I’m not saying you have to do anything, I’m not saying you have to be involved.”
Her palms turn skyward. “But who else is?”
I start to babble. “I didn’t plan it; it just came up, as an option, in the moment, and I thought it’d be a good idea to rule it out. I didn’t think I’d have it, I really didn’t think it would happen.”
“Why not?” Mara hisses. “You know our history.”
“I don’t know,” I say, and now I’m crying. “I’m an idiot, what do you want me to say?”
Mara flicks her hands at me. Her eyes are icy. “So, what? You’ve started getting the screenings? Have you had a mammogram? You know those things can give you cancer.”
I inhale hard through my nose and shut my eyes, willing them to stop filling with tears. I can do this. I meet my sister’s gaze. “Mara, I’m thinking about getting a mastectomy.”
Her expression lands somewhere between disbelief and disgust. “Don’t be ridiculous, Lacey.”
“Spending my life getting screenings, waiting for cancer to happen, is not a path I want to go down. A mastectomy reduces my risk to pretty much nothing.” My heart is speeding. I’m trying to sound calm and reasonable, but the truth of what I’m saying is making me panic. “You don’t know what it’s like, waking up every day wondering if today’s the day I find something, if today’s the day I start to . . . to die—”
“Lacey,” she interrupts. “Stop. Just stop.” For the first time in a very long time, she looks at me in the way she looks at Storm. She opens her arms.
I fall into her. She wraps me up and I let myself melt, burying my head into her chest like I used to do when we were children. She’s never worn deodorant but I love her smell: spicy, fruity, undeniably my sister. I close my eyes. She strokes my hair. “Poor baby,” she murmurs. “Don’t worry. I can help.”
I nod into her chest.
“We’ll put you on a clean diet,” Mara says. “Vegan; no fats or animal protein. You’ll need to start taking vitamin D.”
“I’ve already cut back on booze,” I tell her, wiping my nose.
“Good girl
.”
“It’s so hard,” I say with a wry smile. “But if I go through with it, I’ll be able to—”
“No, sweetie.” She tucks a lock of white-blond behind my ear. “You don’t have to go through with anything.”
I stiffen. “But I might. I’m still thinking about it.”
She stiffens. “No. You’re not.”
I pull back. “Mara, I’m really thinking about this. It’s really an option for me.”
“No,” she tells me. “It’s not.”
“It is.”
“No, it’s not.” She says it as if we’ve already had this irritating conversation a thousand times before. Her face becomes hard. “Are you crazy? Or just stupid?” She forms her words as if I’m a child. “You’re not having a mastectomy, Lacey. You are twenty-five years old. You don’t have cancer. I can help make sure you never get it.”
“No, you can’t, Mar. You can’t. We can’t stop what’s in our DNA. I have it. You—you might have it too.”
Mara stares at me, her gaze flickering fast between my eyes.
“You might have given it to Storm,” I croak. “You understand that, right? You need to get tested, Mar. You need to know.”
“No!” She thumps the wall with her fist. “Goddamn you, Lacey.”
“Mar,” I whimper.
“You’re so selfish! You’ve always been so fucking selfish.” Her cheeks are blotchy red. “I was the one doing the housework, keeping the lights on, while you’re off, wearing a tutu to prom!”
“What is it with you and that fucking tutu?” I groan. “Why do you care what I wore to prom?”
“Because I never went to prom!” she shouts back.
“Yes, you did!” I’m amazed she’d even attempt this. “I remember the dress you wore: black, a black slip.”
“No, I didn’t.” Her words are acidic. “Remember? I was all set to go, and then you threw up, and then you threw up again, and Dad was who-the-fuck-knows and I had to stay home and look after you.”
“No,” I say, uncertain.
“Yes,” she says. “Yes.”
The Bucket List Page 17