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All for the bank. All for money.
Even Bill suffered from his wealth, losing his relationship to the pressures of their new lives. Pretending to be happy because he should be, not because he is.
And Liz? Liz is overworked and stressed on a daily basis. What is the bank going to do to Liz in the longterm? What is it going to do to us?
I hesitate on the threshold of our door. The closer we get to New York, the further away Liz has seemed. Things have never felt more precarious between us. But I also can’t avoid her forever.
I push open the door to our room. Liz is standing at the edge of the balcony, looking out over the sea. The television plays an ‘80s movie in the background.
I join her, wrapping my arms around her and resting my chin on her shoulder. She starts out of her thoughts when I touch her, but then relaxes back against my chest. Her hair smells sweet, laced with salt from the sea breeze. Why can’t things just be simple? Can’t what we have now just be enough?
“Where were you?” she whispers.
“Golfing,” I say with distaste. “You?”
“Tennis,” she groans. She turns so that her back is pressed to the railing. She looks more beautiful now than I’ve ever seen her, backlit by the ocean, hair trailing in the wind. I tuck it behind her ears. Her hands rest on my hips.
“What was your pain on a level from one to ten?” she asks seriously.
“Completely unbearable,” I say. “I need urgent medical attention.”
“I’m not sure I’m trained for that,” Liz replies.
“You have to try,” I say. “Otherwise who knows what might happen?”
She slips a hand under my shirt, tracing a finger upward between my abs, until her palm rests over my heart. It pounds violently at her touch.
“Do you feel that?” I murmur.
“I do,” she breathes. “You, Rhett Westing, are a very sick man.”
“You have no idea,” I say. I don’t wait for a response, cupping her chin and kissing her.
Her tongue entangles with mine, and I try to simply let myself enjoy this. Her taste on my lips, her small hand clenching against my chest. Enjoy the simplicity of our attraction, our shared wit, the physical intensity. And yet I still can’t help but feel like she’s slipping away from me, like grains of sand through my fist.
I walk us backward, falling onto the bed with her on top of me, trying and failing to stay in the moment. Liz can tell that something is off. After a moment, she breaks away from the kiss and rests her chin on her hands as she lies on my chest.
“Are you okay?” she asks. “What’s wrong?”
Everything. I want to blurt it all out, but where even to begin? Certainly not with my doubts about stepping up at the bank. Not when I’ve made her every promise to become more serious, to be more fitting of a man with the Westing name, to deserve a girl like her.
I struggle to articulate, hesitate. My eyes wander to the television so they don’t have to look into those utterly bewitching gray orbs.
What I see on the screen blasts me back to Chicago and my open mouth, a moment from confessing my doubts, instead blurts out: “Is this Night of the Comet?”
Liz starts with surprise and follows my gaze. She chuckles. “Am I the only one who’s never heard of this movie?” she asks. “You’d think it was Citizen Kane.”
“So you talked to Bill too?” I ask.
“To Bill?” Liz’s jaw stiffens at the man’s name. “No, I heard about it from Marie. Wait, did Bill tell you the story too?”
“Why do you sound so surprised?” I ask.
“Because it doesn’t exactly make him look good.”
Now I’m confused too. “What do you mean?” I ask. “The guy’s despondent over it. Seriously, he was practically crying on my shoulder last night.”
Liz cocks her head. Then she sits up, brow furrowed. I right myself as well. There’s a crossed wire here; Liz actually looks a bit annoyed.
