“I don’t have social media, not anymore.” I don’t mention that I use the safety blanket of the Wyst accounts to get my fix of dopamine.
He nods with a look of understanding. “If I had your number, I would have called you when I was in London.”
I place an olive in my mouth with a small smile, relieved to not be talking about Malcolm anymore. “You’re assuming I would have picked up.”
His eyes twinkle as he pulls his phone out of his pocket and types “Violet Leigh” into his contacts before handing methe phone. To register for the conference entry lanyards, I also had to come up with a fake last name. Clearly, I wasn’t feeling particularly inspired the night I filled in the form, using my middle name as the fake surname. My eyes sting against the name illuminated in LED light, a new pang of guilt hitting me from a different angle with each digit I type in.
I delete the fake name, unable to stomach it after the almost truth I just unveiled. I type in a new contact name and my phone number before handing it back to him, our fingers lingering against each other’s.
“‘Enigma on legs’?”he recites with a smirk.
“Feels more accurate.” I shrug.
He calls my phone, giving me his phone number.
“What should I save you as?”
He stretches nonchalantly. “‘Handsome Multilingual Charming American’ has a good ring to it.”
I type out “Olly Olly Olly, Oi Oi Oi” and show it to him.
He looks aghast, scraping his chair against the stone floor. “Well, I was going to pay for dinner, but now I think you can treat me. For the good of transatlantic relations.”
I blink as he stands and starts walking to the door. “Fine, only because I like to pay my getaway drivers a fair wage.”
As I hand the waiter a small wad of euro notes, he points at Oliver and says in broken English, “No, no. Your husband, he already pay.” I blush, say my thanks, and follow Oliver out the front door.
Neither of us want to go back to the real world just yet, so we move on to a dark bar with wine on tap, red and black fabric-lined walls softening the edges. Not quite seedy with a capitalSbut definitely on the verge. Somewhere you’d expect a showgirl to start dancing on your table at any second, but it’s calm, the calmest I’ve felt for weeks.
Our hands tangle tentatively under the table as we relax on an oxblood chesterfield sofa, sending a thrill down my spine like a lightning strike down a tree. The glow from tiny tea candles emblazons the bar with warm dappled light, like the whole room is on fire and everyone is totally okay with it. My blood feels hot as I study Oliver’s contrasted face, the furrow of his brow even stronger in the shadows. I cross my legs, my dress inching up my thighs just a fraction. He smells like black pepper and dark chocolate, two foods I’ve never thought of putting together and now am craving nothing but.
There is no point in the past hour where we haven’t been touching. Our shins, leaning against one another under the table in the restaurant, our arms, as he offered the crook of his elbow for me to dangle off over the cobblestone streets, his thumb tracing over my palm like he’s reading my fortune. His hand engulfs mine as we stumble back to the hotel in a giddy, tipsy, flirty cloud. Despite the chill in the air and the light misting of rain, taxi after taxi drives by unhailed as we try to draw out every drop of the night, our thirst for each other unquenchable.
It’s only when I can see our eventual destination in the distance that I remember we’re staying at the same hotel. The weight of expectation guts me. It’s not that I don’t like sex anymore—my bedside table drawer is a testament to that fact. But maybe sharing that part of my past has changed things between us. I’ve made it not as fun for him anymore. It’s heaviernow. I remind myself Oliver is so unlike Malcolm. We are not in competition with each other; he has no motive to do something like that to me. Malcolm did it because he was scared and jealous; he was a misogynist asshole who aimed to embarrass, shame, and degrade me in front of my peers to get ahead. Oliver believes I am an assistant, and he doesn’t want to be one. He doesn’t even know my real name. The thought of telling him the whole truth occupies my mind, but I would be a hypocrite to Spencer. I pick at the thought like a scab. What good is a name when everything else is true? My attraction is true, my aching center a testament to the need to be near him.
The hotel lights shine in the distance, the soft glow washing over Oliver’s face. My phone starts to buzz in my pocket but I ignore it. It buzzes again with a text from Spencer:
Where are you? Call me x
I didn’t give it a second thought before I let Oliver whisk me away into the night without telling anyone where I was going.
“We should probably head back...” I start to say, my whole body protesting the sentiment.
“Probably.” He grips my hand tighter for a second, then slowly unfurls his fingers from mine, the cold immediately turning my hands numb.
“Before anyone sees,” I clarify.
“Sees what?” He smiles devilishly, then glances left down an ancient-looking street, with carved wood apartment doors and Parisian iron streetlights twinkling in the fractured air. He holds his arms out as he pivots on a heel, gesturing around him. “Sees me walking down this aggressively French street?”
“What are you doing?” I whisper-shout, curling my arms around myself to try and replicate his body heat.
“Sees me hiding from the rain in this beautiful doorway?” he whisper-shouts down the street. “Wow, you should really come see this.”
I laugh, glancing a final time at the hotel lights before following his route, my heeled boot footsteps considerably louder than his. Trying to step lightly feels like a bomb going off with each tap of the sole against the stone. Or maybe that’s my heartbeat.
“This is a normal doorway.” I scoff, holding my hand out to a red door with peeling paint.
He takes my hand and pulls me out of the rain under the cover. He steps back, leaving me on the raised concrete step, holding up his thumbs and forefingers into a square to create a makeshift frame. “Now, it’s a beautiful doorway.”
