by Roxy Sloane
I clenched my jaw and just kept walking.
14
That night when I went back to my apartment, my refuge, for the first time it felt. . . vacant. The click of the lock in the door seemed magnified. As I crossed to the lamp, the darkness seemed deeper. I sat on my sofa in the low light surveying all of my things, and I realized that I was lonely. I missed Jackson.
I wanted to call him.
I wouldn’t call him.
There was no point in dwelling on it, so I tried to push my warring impulses aside and went to the kitchen in search of dinner.
I whipped up one of my favorite cheat recipes, a store-bought can of potato leek soup with fresh chopped garlic, jalapeño, and bacon added in for a little extra kick, and then ate it from the pot along with a hot buttered slice of toast. I wondered what Jackson was doing right then. I thought about texting him. Sexting. I’d never done that. Maybe it was hollow, but it was something.
I showered, got into my pajamas. I watched Game of Thrones on Netflix. Finally I faced my bed, trying to convince myself the mattress was just spacious, not ‘lonely.’ I tossed for a while and realized I wasn’t all that tired. I read. Checked my email one last time. There was nothing of great importance.
I stared at my phone in my hand, readied a text message for Jackson, and wrote: “Jackson, I miss you.” Then I thought better of it and hit delete. Too needy. I tried again: “I want to touch you.” True, but not right. This was harder than I’d thought.
Finally I wrote, simply, “Good night.”
I put the phone on my pillow next to my head and waited for a response. I stared at the phone, willing him to reply. After about fifteen minutes, his equally simple response appeared. “Sleep well.”
The next morning I woke at my usual 6:00 a.m. and headed straight for the shower. Despite how many hours of uninterrupted sleep I’d gotten, I felt sluggish and not ready to face the day. In the stall I let the steamy water pulse against my neck, felt it relax the muscles there and warm my entire body. I changed the pressure on the showerhead to something less vigorous and ran it over my breasts until my nipples were hard. I hadn’t masturbated since we had parted. I couldn’t wait any longer.
I brought the spray down to my pussy and let it drum against me until I felt a low, spreading heat radiate through me. It felt so good. I slid down the wall of the shower, sat on the floor. I thought about Jackson’s tongue, lapping me up, circling my clit, thrusting into me. His massive cock, pounding deep and steady and strong. I thought about him pulling my hair, fucking me hard on his desk, talking dirty in my ear. The look in his eyes as he entered me the night in the hotel. The warm water beat against my clit, against the tender lips. My head rocked to the side, and I began to moan as I felt the first waves. When I came, the tremors were deep, powerful, sustained. Finally, finally I moved the spray away, giving myself rest. And a contented laugh burst out of me.
At work, I felt like a superstar. Mitchell and I met about the talking dog internet campaign. His department had come up with a dozen possibilities, and we practically peed ourselves laughing as we made our selections. He liked one where a Labrador seemed to be compulsively sniffing, with the dialogue, “Don’t blame me for that one!” I liked a little bug-eyed pug saying, “Where are my balls?!” And another one with a sassy French bulldog: “Who did you call bitch?”
Later I cleared my desk of some older submissions, writing gentle but firm rejection notes in response to the agents and letting them know that I’d love them to try me again for future projects. I skimmed a few new manuscripts, putting a few in the No pile and a few in the Maybe pile. Scheduled a couple of agent lunches. I also had Carolyn pull a copy of every Jackson Ford novel and I started re-reading the series from the beginning.
I was still reading at 9:00 p.m. when one of the cleaning staff knocked on my door and asked if she could vacuum and empty the trash can. “Oh, of course,” I answered. “Please come in. I was just leaving.”
I packed up my things and walked distractedly to the elevator. I stepped into the empty car and as my hand hovered over “G,” I noticed the red “Stop” button. I touched it lightly with my fingertips, and images flashed across my brain of Jackson turning me, yanking up my skirt. Pressing my breasts against the glass. When the elevator doors closed and the car began to move, the darkened streets of New York City rising up quickly from below, I pressed my cheek against the cold glass and I closed my eyes.
15
On Friday morning, Bianca emailed Maggie and me. She had a work commitment and would have to miss our usual happy hour. I had a brainstorm. I texted my girl gang: “You guys want to go up to the cabin Saturday night? We can party all night, recover the next morning, and then come home Sunday evening.”
Bianca hit me back: “I’m in.” And Maggie: “Road Trip!!!”
It had been a while since we’d escaped to my parents’ cabin near Woodstock. A few years ago, we would go up there three or four times a year, especially in the summer when the smell of garbage intensifies in New York City and one’s feet tend to sink into the melting asphalt. I realized it had been more than six months since our last trip. We were overdue, and the way things were looking with my mom’s financial situation, I wouldn’t be keeping the cabin much longer.
On Saturday, a flurry of texts passed among us: “I’ve got the beer.” “I’ve got the towels.” “I’m bringing dinner.” And so forth. Around 5:00 p.m., Maggie pulled up in front of my building in her Wrangler and honked twice. I burst out of the door in less than sixty seconds. After I tossed my weekender into the back and placed Bianca’s freshly dry cleaned Balmain neatly on top, Mags handed me a white paper bag.
“You evil temptress, you shouldn’t have!” I squealed with a grin, getting a whiff of cinnamon and sugar.
Inside were still-warm pecan sticky buns from this incredible bakery around the corner from her place in Brooklyn. Maggie knows they’re my favorite guilty pleasure. I tore off a piece and fed it to her as she pulled out. Then I savored the delicious nutty sweetness for myself, groaning with pleasure. “This place makes me want to change boroughs.”
Then we headed uptown to pick up B. Bianca’s two-bedroom is in a beautiful old building on Ninety-first and Riverside. It’s an awesome apartment with high ceilings, tons of closet space, hardwood floors, and river views. B got it as part of her divorce settlement after a brief marriage in her early twenties. Considering all she’d been through with her husband, aka The Rat Bastard, we felt like she’d earned the place.
When we pulled up to the curb, I hopped out with her dress and asked Phil, the doorman, to let her know I was on my way up. When she opened the door, I gave her a kiss on the cheek and handed over the garment bag.
“Thanks for this,” I gushed. “It was perfect.”
“Oh, my pleasure,” she responded. “Throw it over the sofa. Can you help me with the cooler? It’s totally full of classy booze. We’ll just need to pick up ice on the way.”
Together we managed to carry her bag, the cooler, and a big bag of snacks.
When we got down to the Jeep, I sat in the front passenger seat and B wedged her long legs into the back for the hour’s ride to Woodstock. Maggie cranked the heat and the tunes. Jimi Hendrix blared from the stereo.
“It’s forty degrees,” I laughed, “but somehow it feels like summer.”
We drove and sang and we were practically there before we uttered a word of conversation. My besties were thankfully quiet about Jackson, probably picking up on my reluctance to talk about where things were going with him. I knew their curiosity would win out in the end, but I figured they were biding their time until I’d had a few drinks and my defenses were down. And I was okay with that.
But then B leaned forward. “Ellie, you made quite an impression on Veld. I think he’s smitten. He keeps asking me about you.”
“Wow, El,” said Maggie. “Could you have finally broken your streak? He actually seems like a nice guy.”
I laughed. “Yes, he does seem lovel
y.”
“I heard a ‘but’ in that,” observed Mags. I laughed again. “Could it be. . . the dashing Mr. Ford?”
“Ooooh, could it be?” Bianca chimed in, theatrically raising a brow. “I assumed there was nothing to tell us, seeing how zip-lipped you’ve been about your trip.”
I felt myself blushing. It looked like I wasn’t going to get those drinks down before the interrogation kicked in. “It was a nice trip,” I admitted, trying to pull a poker face. “Frustrating at times, but. . . definitely productive. Professionally speaking.”
“Oh really?” said B. “Is that all you have to tell us? Professionally productive?”
I kept my face serious for about a tenth of a second before breaking into a smile that I couldn’t hold back.
“You consummated?” asked Maggie. “You did, you consummated. I knew it!”
“We consummated a lot,” I laughed.
“Holy shit!” crowed Mags. “I’m six degrees away from Jackson Ford!”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Well you had a thing with Peter LaForgia our senior year of high school.”
“Yes. . . ”
“And I had a thing with him after graduation.”
I gasped in mock horror. “How did I not know about this?”
“I don’t know. It was insignificant.” We all mmm’d contemplatively, remembering my accounts (sworn-to-everlasting-secrecy, of course) of his less-than-stellar sexual prowess. And then Mags added gleefully, “Until now!”
“You win,” I said to her. “You slept with a guy who slept with a girl who just slept with Jackson Ford. Total slam dunk, Mags.” Then we high-fived.
“So?” inquired Bianca. “What happened? With Ford? I thought your boss sent you up there to investigate his writing. Not his junk!”
I shook my head as Maggie and B giggled. “When I got there, he had no idea I was coming. He was livid. But the next day, we went cross-country skiing and I slammed into a tree. And so he carried me back. To his house.”
“Whoa,” said Mags. “Hero.”
“And I guess one thing led to another. . . ”
“I guess it sure as hell did,” B said.
“And we did it A LOT. And you guys know, that’s not me. I’m not ‘Girls Gone Wild.’ And I met his friends—oh Maggie, there was this woman there, Olivia, and she works with celebrities and she really loved your boots. And I gave her your info; she said she gets to Brooklyn a lot. She’s a jewelry designer. So, maybe something will come of that. Anyway, then I found some pages from the new book and they were fucking awesome, and even though he was pissed we ended up screwing on his desk. And then he invited me to the Sandling Awards as his date—that’s why I needed your dress, B—and that night we stayed over at the Pierre,” I blurted in a rush.
“Oh, I love the Pierre,” Bianca interjected.
“Yeah,” I said. “And we had an incredible night. But now I don’t know what’s next. He left to go work on the book, and we’ve barely spoken since I’ve been back at DR. I really miss him.”
“Why not just call him?” asked B.
“I don’t know if I should. I don’t know the boundaries. We’re not really dating, we’re just. . . seeing each other, I guess? I don’t want to mess that up before I know where things are going. And when it comes to the work, I’m walking on eggshells with him. I’m kind of wondering if this is real, or just. . . ”
“Honey,” said Bianca, “you’ve got to cut through all that crap. Why hide what you’re feeling? You’ve been so ballsy with this man about his work. Be the same woman when it comes to this relationship.”
“I guess part of me is afraid to pull focus from the work,” I said, thinking out loud.
Bianca nodded. “And that’s one of the things you’re going to have to navigate, because you work with him, too. But your relationship, or whatever this is, is very new. It needs to be nurtured. If you act like you don’t care, he’ll lose interest.”
I looked to Maggie for her thoughts. She tilted her head toward Bianca. “What she said.” And we all laughed.
We were just pulling up to the cabin when Maggie teased, “Really, B, why aren’t you hooked up already? You’re like the relationship guru.”
“Well,” said Bianca cryptically. “Who knows what the future holds?”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“I’ll tell you when we get inside,” she said.
We hauled all of our stuff into the cabin and turned on the lights and space heater. I have a caretaker who checks on the place every month and I’d alerted him that we would be coming, so he’d turned on the hot water heater and stacked up a generous pile of firewood just beyond the side door.
Bianca, Maggie, and I immediately got into our cabin rhythm. They made up the bed, put our bags away, and got the fire going while I cooked dinner. Bianca had packed a chicken, which I dressed in herbs, split, and slid into the oven in an iron skillet. Then I cut up a huge pile of Yukon Golds, coated them in salt and clarified butter and put them in the oven to roast beside the chicken. Lastly, I steamed some green beans, sprinkled them with parmesan and sliced almonds, and set them aside.
Meanwhile, Maggie had dug three bottles of Guinness from the bottom of the ice-packed cooler. We all clinked cheers and settled in front of the fire, leaning against giant cushions, inhaling the aroma of tarragon, thyme, and rosemary as the chicken and potatoes sizzled away in the oven.
“So, have you met someone?” I asked Bianca once we’d decompressed.
“He’s a collector,” she said with a nod. “He came into the gallery and we started talking. And talking. He’s really smart. Really good-looking, in that disheveled artistic way I like. And he has a great sense of humor.”
“Uh huh. . . ” said Maggie. “How old is he? Where does he live? Does he have a brother?”
We all laughed.
“He’s late forties, tall enough so I can still wear heels,” she joked. “He’s a screenwriter, independent films, nothing you would have heard of but he works pretty steadily and co-owns a production company with some other film people. He was married before, like me. Also very brief. His name is William. William Alvarez.”
“Has he spent the night?” I asked.
“Once,” she said. “And he will again.” She and I laughed but I noticed that Maggie was very quiet.
“What’s wrong, Mags?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she said. “I’m really happy for you guys. I really am. It’s just sometimes I feel so, I don’t know. Out of step. B, you’ve been married. Ellie lived with he-who-shall-not-be-named for two years. I’m in my late twenties and I’ve never even had a long-term relationship,” she said. “It just hasn’t happened for me. Maybe I work too much.”
“Of course you do,” I said. “And ninety percent of your customers are women, so it’s not like the man of your dreams is going to walk into the shop anytime soon.”
“True,” Maggie sighed. “The only guys who buy my stuff are either married or into women’s footwear, and that’s where I draw the line.”
We laughed but we knew there was real loneliness beneath our friend’s joke.
“Well, what about the dating sites?” asked Bianca. “They’re supposed to be a lot better these days.”
Maggie shook her head. “Bianca, I make handmade footwear. Online dating is not my thing. I don’t want to hook up with the kind of guys who just want to hook up with women on the internet.”
We sat thinking, listening to the crackling of the fire.
“I don’t know,” Mags reflected. “I’ve poured so much time, years, and all my energy into the shop. And I’ve loved it and I’m good at it. But what’s it gotten me? My entire life is just. . . shoes. And you guys, of course.”
“What are you talking about?” I said. “It’s not ‘just’ shoes. Maggie, some day everyone will know your name. It’ll be on everything, like Tory Burch. You’ll have a fragrance named after you and it’ll smell like lemon b
lossoms and leather.”
“Wet leather,” joked Bianca.
Maggie smiled, but her eyes were glistening.
“It’s getting harder to make the rent,” she confided. “I can’t even keep my hole-in-the-wall apartment in Williamsburg and the shop. I might have to give up my apartment and move into the shop. I’m not giving up my retail space.”
“Can you do that?” asked Bianca. “Is there even a shower there?”
Maggie nodded. “There’s a shower in the bathroom. There’s no real kitchen, just that half refrigerator and the hotplate but everything I eat comes out of a can or from the bakery anyway.”
“Maybe you should apply for a business loan,” suggested Bianca.
“I did. Nobody will approve me because my profit margins are too low right now.” Mags took a long drink of her beer, blinking back tears.
“Or maybe an investor,” Bianca went on. “Like on that TV show. They give you money in return for a percentage of the business. A small percentage, of course.”
“I’m sorry,” said Maggie, dabbing her eyes. “I’m being really depressing.”
“Will you stop,” I said. “What about an investor, like B said? That’s a great idea.”
“I don’t know. That seems so daunting. What if nobody wants me? And I’ve never had to answer to anyone about my business. Do I have to give that up?” Maggie toyed with the empty bottle in her hand, peeling the label off in pieces, too anxious to meet our eyes.
“I don’t know. Maybe. What about a publicist?” B proposed. “I’m serious. There are people who aren’t that expensive. Promotions may be just what you need to get your name out there.”
Maggie sighed, and I brought her another beer and poked at the fire, rearranging some of the wood. Bianca leaned her head on Maggie’s shoulder, her brow creased with worry. There had to be something I could do.
“I could talk to this new young woman in the publicity department at DR,” I offered, settling back against a cushion. “Why don’t I take you guys to lunch? Maybe she can recommend some simple things that we can do on our own.”