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Maybe just this night, I think.
He rests a hand on my thigh, heavy and warm. His breath comes fast. “Now you,” he says. “Leave something behind. It’ll just be us.”
I look down at my outfit, wishing I’d worn one of my necklaces. I would throw that on the seat for him. My sweater? But I have only a cami under it. A shoe? I hold out my hands. Not even wearing rings.
I set a hand on Smuckers’s furry head. “Sorry, buddy, looks like you’re spending the night in the car.”
I feel a hand tighten around my ponytail. A voice deep and low. “This.”
Shivers skitter down my spine. “You want my hair?”
“Shut,” he gusts into my ear, “it.”
I bite back a smile. Is the limo going a million miles an hour? It might be.
“Stay still.” He pulls at the back of my head. He’s working the band from my ponytail.
My breath comes out in shudders. He works it down the length of my hair, movements rough and clumsy. I like him being rough and clumsy with my hair. I like everything he’s doing. I want to feel everything. I want to do this thing, us like two nobodies.
I feel when he gets it free. I wait for him to toss the ponytail holder onto the opposite seat, but instead he grabs a handful of my hair, seems to tighten his fist around it—not pulling it, just grabbing it.
It comes to me that he’s never seen it down. I feel his nose at the back of my head. I hear him suck in a ragged breath.
My heart jumps into my throat.
“Put out your hand.”
I do as he says, trying not to let it shake. He sets the tie in my palm with a shivery brush. I close my fist around it, holding it there for a moment, suspended in time.
Then I toss it to the seat.
It comes to rest next to the watch.
Avatars of the two of us, like dragonflies trapped in amber.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Vicky
Henry lives in a lavish prewar building on Central Park, all marble walls and chandeliers. A scary-looking bouncer-sized doorman in a brown uniform and brown hat opens the door for us.
We walk into the lobby, hand in hand. Leaving the world behind.
“Who’s this?” the doorman says, grinning at Smuckers. Smuckers strains at his leash, tail a blur of wagging, because, stranger petting!
“It’s Smuckers,” I say, tightening my grip on Henry’s hand.
Henry swears under his breath as the man kneels in front of Smuckers.
I slide my hand under Henry’s suit jacket. He seems to vibrate under my touch.
Things turn out to be more exciting than Smuckers could’ve imagined—the man has a fist, and from inside that fist comes the smell of food. Finally the man opens his hand and sets down a bone-shaped treat, which Smuckers gobbles.
Well, who can pass up a bone-shaped treat?
“How’s it going?” Henry asks him.
“Fine and dandy,” the doorman says, ruffling Smuckers’s hair. “Look at you, mister!” Smuckers is apoplectic with glee. He likes this doorman.
