wear only black or white.
“I can’t.” I told Sam about the store job. I’d already told him about the Trial TV gig earlier.
He raised his eyebrows. “Lingerie, huh? I just don’t want you to lose your drive for the law. I mean, the Trial TV thing is fun, and at least you’re still in the legal field in some way, but c’mon, Iz, you’re a lawyer, and you’re amazing at it.”
“Thanks, but no one is paying me to be an amazing lawyer right now.”
I wanted to tell Sam that aside from the money that I needed to make, the other reason I was about to specialize in bras was because Mayburn would also be paying me. I would, essentially, be conducting surveillance on Josie and the Fig Leaf. I’d be studying how she ran the business, how the store was handled while the owner wasn’t there—keeping my eye out for, as Mayburn had told me, “anything that smells even a little bad.”
But I also remembered his cautions about telling no one, and although I’d told Sam before when I’d worked for Mayburn as a freelancer, Mayburn hadn’t been happy about it, and he was insistent I not tell anyone this time. And so there I was, standing in front of Sam, another secret in the tiny space between us.
“Come to my place?” I said.
He shook his head. “I told a guy I’d run sprints with him early. I don’t have any of my gear with me.”
Sam privately coached some high-school rugby players, often at the crack of ass on Sunday mornings.
“Call you after practice tomorrow?” he said.
“Please.”
He kissed me hard. He kissed me in a way that told me how much he loved me. I kissed him back exactly the same way. And then we split apart, that space between us widening even more.
The air felt cool and cleansing on my skin as I drove my Vespa home. I’d driven a scooter since my mother bought me one in high school, too nervous to have me waiting at city bus stops. I had thought that when I started practicing law, I’d get rid of it, but there was something about driving the Vespa that invigorated me, had never allowed me to let it go.
Ten minutes later, I was back at my Old Town condo on Eugenie Street. The building was a converted brick three-flat. Mine was the top unit, which I loved because of the rooftop deck where Sam and I used to spend so much time. The downside of my place was the three flights of stairs.
By the time I reached my condo and let myself in, I was exhausted—from the lack of sleep last night, from Jane’s confessions and the creepy break-in, from the weight of having to keep things from Sam.
The small living room had pine floors and a turn-of-the-century marble fireplace with a swirling bronze grate. I slumped into my yellow chair and tried to let the whirlwind of the last few days drain away.
My phone dinged, telling me I had a new text. I picked it up, expecting something from Sam, something about how he was missing me already.
But it was a number I didn’t recognize, one with a 773 area code.
It’s Theo, the text read. I’ve stopped myself 300 times from texting you today. I give.
I smiled. I’ve thought about you a few times today too, I wrote. It was the truth. I was aware, distantly, of how quickly I had swung from Theo to Sam and back again.
What are you doing? he wrote.
Just got home. Weird night.
Meet me out? There’s a great band playing in Bucktown.
I looked at my watch. It’s almost midnight.
So?
Can’t, I wrote. Have to get up early tomorrow.
Then let me come over, he wrote.
I laughed, then typed, Nothing like cutting to the chase.
You’ve taken over my head. Let me see you.
I thought of Jane saying, I get different things from different people … When I’m with them, I get to see myself in a different way than I do every other day.
Now I knew what she meant. Being with Theo, with someone younger and edgy and tattooed, was, quite simply, different than being with Sam, a blond, rugby-playing financial guy. And it was captivating to get a chance to see myself differently, to see myself through someone else’s eyes.
I ignored the memory of Q saying, This thing is going to be a train wreck. Instead, I sat forward on my yellow chair now, holding my phone, and I let that captivation sing through my body.
I lifted the phone. I texted, I’ll open the front door.
15
He walked into my apartment, and the atmosphere shifted. He wore a green Seagram’s T-shirt. The gold-and-black serpent on his left arm seemed to slither out of his sleeve. His hair looked newly washed. Oddly, he looked a little nervous, which surprised me. He was a wunderkind from what Jane had told me. And he was hot enough to get anyone he wanted, male or female.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I asked. It sounded so awkward. I didn’t know how to date anymore.
He held up a brown paper bag. “I brought refreshments.”
He walked into my kitchen. I trailed behind. He reached into my cabinet and took out two highball glasses, as if he’d been there fifty times. “I’m glad I got to see you,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m leaving on Monday for Isla Natividad.”
“Where’s that?”
“Mexico. Little island. You can only get there by boat or plane. My partner and I go once a year for a few days to surf.”
“You’re a surfer?” For some reason, this made me want to have sex with him.
“Oh, yeah.” He crossed the kitchen to my freezer. “And this island is amazing. No cell service, no hotels. Just the sand and the surf.”
“Sounds a little remote for me.”
He laughed, pulling ice cubes from the freezer and dropping them into the glasses. “It’s a little remote for most people.” Out of the brown bag, Theo took out three oranges, round and vibrantly stained in a crimson color. He pointed at them. “Blood oranges. No seeds. They make excellent screwdrivers.”
I said nothing. I couldn’t. He seemed to take over my kitchen with his tall frame—so different from Sam’s solid, shorter body. What was I doing asking him to come here after I’d just seen Sam? It was something I wouldn’t have considered before. I felt different from any other Izzy McNeil I had been in my life.
Theo selected a knife from the butcher block and quickly sectioned the oranges. With the practiced movement of a bartender, he held a hand over each slice as he squeezed and juiced them into the glasses. He took a bottle of Belvedere Vodka from the bag and poured some into each glass. The kitchen was silent. I stood behind him, staring at
