Do This For Me

by Eliza Kennedy

  So much sex.

  We used to do it twice a week. Like clockwork.

  I looked at Aaron. I looked him up and down.

  What would it be like now?

  “Did you enjoy sleeping with Deirdre?”

  He started a little, shocked by the question. “Of course not.”

  “Aaron, come on.”

  He sighed. “It’s hard to talk about, given everything that’s happened.”

  “I know you’re sorry now, but you did it for months. It couldn’t have been torment.”

  He was not at all sure where I was going with this. Neither was I. I took the magazine he was still holding and tossed it on the floor.

  “Wasn’t it exciting? Exploring a new body? All those voluptuous curves?”

  I removed his eyeglasses and set them on the nightstand. “Kissing someone, for the very first time? It must have been thrilling.”

  “What’s…happening right now, Raney?”

  Good question. Why was I flirting with my estranged husband?

  Easy answer. Because I wanted to.

  “Was she good?” I brushed his lips with mine. I felt him inhale sharply. I took his lower lip between my teeth and pulled. I kissed his neck, the line of his jaw. He tried to kiss me back, but I pushed him back. I felt his hands on my waist. I slapped them away. I unbuttoned his shirt.

  “Did she know that you love this?” I nibbled on his earlobe. “And this?” I raked my fingernails gently down his chest. He reached for me again. I pushed him onto his back and straddled him. I kissed him deeply.

  “This is really strange,” he murmured.

  “Should I stop?”

  “God, no.” He reached for me again, trying to pull me down. I grabbed his wrists and held them above his head, stretching out on top of him.

  “Did she make you this hard?” I reached down and stroked him with one hand. He groaned. I kissed him, my mouth open. I unbuttoned his pants, reached inside, stroked him again.

  I pressed down on him again, kissing him, touching him, until finally I whispered in his ear, “Did she do any of this, Aaron?”

  “None of it! It was nothing like this!”

  “No?” I sat up. “That’s too bad.”

  I jumped off the bed, tugged down my skirt and headed for the door.

  Aaron lay there, stunned. He raised his head. “Raney? What…where are you going?”

  “Back to the city.” I paused in the doorway and smiled at him. “Have a good night.”

  * * *

  —

  Singer met me at the hotel the next day. He’d been traveling, and we hadn’t seen each other in almost a week.

  He held my face in his palms. “I missed you.”

  I kissed him. “Show me.”

  Later, he was in the bathroom when my phone pinged. It was Aaron.

  —Hi there.

  —Hi.

  —The firm’s big party is next week, right? Am I still invited?

  I was feeling lazy, sated, generous toward the world.

  —Do you want to come?

  —I do.

  —Then come.

  Singer returned. I was hoping he’d get back in bed, but he bent to collect his clothes. “Duty calls. Are you free tomorrow night?”

  I smiled at him. “As a bird.”

  He reached under the bed, and something crackled. “What’s this?”

  When he straightened up, he was holding a condom wrapper.

  We both looked at it.

  How? I thought. Who?

  Then I remembered. Cameron.

  Singer looked so vulnerable, standing there naked, a torn piece of plastic in his hand. I sat up, covering myself with the sheet.

  “Were you…is this…new?”

  I forced myself to meet his eyes. I nodded.

  “So, you’ve been with someone else. Since we…”

  I nodded again.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Nothing,” I said quickly.

  He lowered himself to the edge of the bed. “How can it mean nothing?”

  “I don’t mean nothing. I mean, we’ve never really talked about—”

  “Right.” He nodded, looking down at the carpet. “I guess I thought, after everything that’s happened, the things you said to me the night we…I mean,” he looked up now, “you and I are so good together.”

  My phone pinged. It was Marty.

  —I got a call from Jim Schleifman at Hanover. He has a new case.

  —Great. Forward it to Stephen.

  “Singer, what I do with other people—”

  “Can I ask you something?” he said.

  I thought back to a conversation with Sarah. Singer is about to judge me for something.

  “Is this just about sex for you, Raney?”

  “What? No!”

  “Am I, whatever. A good lay? One of several?”

  “No! I mean, I love having sex with you—”

  “That’s not all we’re good at, Raney. We talk. We connect. There are moments when I feel like…”

  He bowed his head, defeated. When he looked up, his expression was pained. “Do you care about me at all?”

  “Yes!”

  “How much?”

  “I don’t know,” I confessed.

  “You don’t know.” A flicker of irritation crossed his face. “All your pitiless self-scrutiny, and you haven’t reached that topic yet?”

  My phone pinged again.

  —Can you handle it? I know your plate is full with Hyperium et al

  I almost laughed in disbelief. Could I handle it? Marty wrote again.

  —I was thinking of giving it to Templeton

  —Sure, Marty. Give it to Templeton. We can always afford to lose another client.

  “Can you put down your phone?” Singer said testily.

  I did. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know this would matter to you. I didn’t think.”

  Of course I didn’t think. I didn’t allow myself to. As long as I didn’t think, I could do whatever I wanted.

  My phone pinged again.

  “I should go,” I said. “Can we talk about this later?”

  “You have to work.” He headed for the bathroom. “Of course. Go.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  I gasped. My eyes flew open. I’d been dreaming someone was chasing me down a dark country road.

  It was my first nightmare in weeks. I hadn’t even noticed they were gone.

  I blinked, breathed, calmed my pounding heart. I reached for my phone on the nightstand. It was Thursday, April 12, the date of the firm’s long-awaited bicentennial party.

  It would also turn out to be the single worst day of my life. But I didn’t know that yet.

  I rolled onto my back. That’s when I felt it: an itch, between my legs. I scratched. If anything, that made it worse.

  In the bathroom, I inspected myself with a mirror. Two mirrors. Everything looked normal. I e-mailed Renfield to make an appointment with my gynecologist.

  When I came out of the bedroom, the girls were sitting side by side at the dining table.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  “Why is there a second toothbrush in your bathroom?” Kate asked.

  Oh no.

  “What were you doing in my bathroom?”

  “Answer the question, Mom.”

  Unprepared. Once again, I was caught unprepared.

  At last, I said, “It belongs to a man I’ve been seeing.”

  “Who is he?” Maisie asked.

  “Nobody.”

  Kate pounced. “Then why does he keep a toothbrush here?”

  “He doesn’t. Not normally. He must have left it by accident. And I don’t mean he’s nobody. You don’t know him. He’s
—”

  “Is he your ‘road bump’?” Kate was struggling to keep her voice steady. “Is he the reason you moved out?”

  “Is he why you made yourself so pretty?” Maisie was holding back tears. “And why you’re so weirdly happy all of a sudden?”

  “No! He—”

  “You promised us everything would be fine,” Kate said. “You told us you and Dad were working it out.”

  “Oh, honey. I never said that.”

  “You came home the other night. You were upstairs for a long time,” Maisie said. “We thought…”

  She began to cry. I reached for her, but she shied away.

  My girls were utterly clear eyed, scarily smart. They were cynical teenagers! How could they have believed Aaron and I were working out our problems?

  Because they were fifteen. Because they were hopeful. Because they couldn’t possibly understand any of this.

  “You should have been honest,” Maisie sniffed. “You should have trusted us.”

  “I never meant to lie to you.”

  “Yeah?” Kate stood up. “Good job. Say hi to Nobody for us.”

  She flung herself out the door. With a final, betrayed look, Maisie hurried after.

  * * *

  —

  Fortunately, things improved as soon as I got to my gynecologist.

  Ha. No. They got so much worse.

  By the time I was hurrying into the office on Central Park West, the sun had disappeared. Soon I was hunched on a padded table, rubbing my crotch with one hand and checking my e-mail with the other. Various clients had written to say they were looking forward to the big party.

  My phone pinged. It was Aaron.

  —I’ll swing by your office at six, ok?

  Wait, why? Of course. He was joining me for the gala. More complications. Before I could respond I heard two quick knocks, and a pale young woman in a white coat hurried into the room.

  “Ms. Moore? I’m Dr. Melanie.” She stuck out her hand, not bothering to look up from my chart.

  Dr. Melanie? I didn’t know any Dr. Melanie. I wanted Dr. Emmons, the stooped and genial codger who’d tended to my genitals for several decades.

  “Dr. Emmons couldn’t make it in today.” She busied herself at the sink. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

  “I woke up with a terrible itch.”

  She reached for a paper towel. “Are you sexually active?”

  “Yes.” My phone pinged.

  —Hi there. Can you have lunch today?

  It was Singer. I hadn’t heard from him in a few days. Despite the day’s mounting problems, seeing his text made me smile.

  —I’d love that.

  —Sonya’s? One o’clock?

  —See you there.

  Doctor Melanie rolled her stool toward me. “Lie back and put your feet in the stirrups. Thanks. Good thing you got in early. We’re closing at noon, before the storm hits.”

  “Another storm?” I said. “It’s April.”

  “I know, right? Thank you, climate change.” She snapped on a blue mask. I opened an e-mail from Renfield.

  Marty stopped by. He needs to see you.

  “I’m inserting two fingers now. The snow should be starting any minute. They say this is going to be the big one. Spring Storm Novartis.”

  I glanced down at her through my parted legs. “Like the pharmaceutical company?”

  “I guess so. Try to relax your pelvic muscles.”

  They’re selling naming rights to weather now?

  What a world.

  “I’m inserting the speculum.” I gasped as the cold metal slipped inside me. Why do gynecologists always think a warning is going to help?

  Doctor Melanie took her time poking around in there. Then she glanced at my chart. “You’re married, Ms. Moore?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you feel pain when you have intercourse with your husband?”

  “We don’t have intercourse.”

  Her forehead furrowed. “You said you were sexually active.”

  “I am. Just not with him.”

  If that fazed her, she didn’t show it. She removed the speculum and wheeled back. “You can sit up.”

  I rearranged my flimsy gown. “What is it, a yeast infection?”

  “No,” she said. “It’s chlamydia.”

  “That’s not funny.”

  “It’s not supposed to be.”

  I stared at Doctor Melanie. She stared back.

  “Chlamydia,” I said.

  She nodded.

  “That’s…it’s…I’ve got an…STD?”

  “An STI,” she corrected me. “We call them infections now. It’s less pejorative.”

  Less pejorative. Okay. So, I shouldn’t have been overwhelmed with shame, horror or humiliation, right?

  I covered my face with my hands. “This isn’t happening.”

  “There’s a small chance it’s gonorrhea. I took a culture, so we’ll know soon.”

  I couldn’t breathe. Chlamydia. Gonorrhea. Pretty words, when stripped of their meaning. They could be the names of low-emission cars. Or students in Mercer’s Brooklyn preschool.

  Focus, Raney.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Fairly sure. The good news is that treatment for both infections is the same.” Doctor Melanie scribbled something on her prescription pad and tore it off. “You’d better head to the pharmacy. What with the storm coming.”

  I took the slip of paper from her. The storm.

  The storm was coming.

  * * *

  —

  I wandered Midtown in a daze. The wind was rising. I stopped at a Duane Reade. The pharmacist skimmed Doctor Melanie’s scrawl, then glanced at me. I detected a flicker of curiosity. Or disapproval. Sure, it looked like an ordinary prescription for an ordinary antibiotic, but one of those doctor hieroglyphs probably spelled out “diseased tramp.”

  On my way out, I got a text from Cameron.

  —Can you call me, Boss? We need to talk.

  I felt queasy all over again. I’d have to tell him. I’d have to tell a lot of people. But first, I’d have to tell Singer.

  I waited for him at a table by the window, where I downed three Tylenol and two hundred milligrams of doxycycline.

  Chlamydia. Chlamydia. How was this possible? How had I gotten it? Who else had I given it to?

  You’re a professional, I told myself. You have two teenage daughters. You’re nearly forty.

  I’d gone too far. I’d thrown off the shackles of conventional behavior, and now I was going to pay. I was the fallen woman, marked with a big red C.

  Just what I needed. A new narrative.

  I looked toward the doorway, and Singer was there. Striding in on his long legs, smiling as he approached the table. He bent and kissed me on the cheek. I instantly felt lighter, better. Then I remembered what I had to tell him.

  He sat down. “I’m so glad to see you.”

  “Me, too. But I have to—”

  “Listen.” He took my hands across the table as he smiled into my eyes. “I’m so sorry about the other day.”

  The other day? It took me a minute to remember what he was talking about. Oh, right. Our discussion of all the sex I was having with other people.

  “You have no reason to apologize,” I said.

  “Yes, I do. You caught me by surprise, and I shamed you. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay, Singer, really. I—”

  “If there’s an upside, it’s that the whole thing made me do a lot of thinking. About you and me.” He held my hands tighter. “I’m crazy about you, Raney. I want you to leave your husband. Maybe you’re not ready to move in with me. You probably need space, and time. But I want you in my life. Permanently. What I’m try
ing to say,” he took a deep breath, “is that I think I’m in—”

  “I have chlamydia!” I blurted out.

  “Has anyone told you about the specials?” the waitress asked.

  I looked up at her. “We’re going to need a minute?”

  She wandered off. Singer’s eyes hadn’t left my face.

  “You…what?”

  I didn’t want to announce it that way. But I couldn’t let him say what he might have been about to say. Not before I had a chance to speak.

  “I don’t know how or,” I swallowed hard, “who, but it’s true. You should probably see a doctor as soon as you can.”

  My phone pinged. A text from Marty.

  —I need you in my office right away.

  “Raney.”

  I looked up from my phone.

  “Please tell me you’re joking,” Singer said.

  “I’m not. I’m so sorry.”

  My phone pinged again. It was Renfield, who never texted.

  —Somethings cooking. Get yer ass in here.

  “Can you please stop checking your fucking phone?”

  Other diners glanced up from their meals.

  “It’s work,” I said. “An emergency. I have to go.”

  He was outraged, disbelieving.

  “I come in here, I pour my heart out to you, and your response? ‘Guess what, honey? I’ve got a sexually transmitted disease!’ ”

  “Infection,” I said in a small voice. “They use the term—”

  “Stop!” he cried. “Just stop!”

  Why did I say that? Did I think it would help? What was wrong with me?

  So much. So very much.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll call you later.”

  * * *

  —

  I got off the elevator on forty-five and went straight to Marty’s office. The lawyers I passed greeted me briefly, eyes averted.