“Good.”
“I can’t wait to see how you play badminton.”
“Sorry?” He paused for a moment and then it clicked. “Yeah,” he laughed, “I might be a little better at this than I am at badminton.”
“Luckily for me…”
“Luckily for you, yes.”
We lay there for a moment, curled up in each other, taking in the quiet of the room. It felt a little like magic to me, this in-between time. This shared moment. But I could feel it rising again, the thoughts, the guilt, the panic. Mounting. And I could not stop it.
“Oh God, what have I done?” I heard myself say. “This was just supposed to be lunch. Jesus. What am I doing here with you? You could be mykid. This is so wrong. You’retwenty. And you’re like a rock star. What the fuck am I thinking?”
Hayes sat up beside me, his eyes wide. “Are you serious?”
I was as surprised as he was by the verbal diarrhea. Even as it poured out, I recognized that it was very American of me, and that my mother would have scoffed. “Kind of, yes.”
“What? Are you feeling guilty now? You were happy two seconds ago.Very happy.”
“I can’t believe I let you do that. I’m sorry. That was totally inappropriate of me.”
“Were youforcingme? Did I miss something? We both wanted this,” he said, sounding every bit the rational one. The adult in the relationship.
I glanced up at him then, all disheveled in his wrinkled Prada shirt and his hair sticking out in fifty-one directions and his eyes tired and the slightest hint of stubble shadowing his jaw, and the thought occurred to me that he was a man.
I needed a moment.
“Don’t mind me. This is just my postorgasmic freak-out.”
He laughed. “Is this going to happen every time? Because if I know that I’ll just plan ahead.”
I smiled then. “No. It won’t. It shouldn’t.”
“I’m serious, Solène. I can’t… You cannot freak out like this. I don’t do well with women who freak out. I pegged you differently.”
“Youwhat?”
“Fuck. I’m sorry. I just…”
“Come here.” I reached for him.
“Fuck,” he repeated, lying back beside me.
He was quiet for a moment. And then: “Once, when we were in Tokyo, there was this girl who… Never mind. I don’t want to talk about it. Just promise me you’re not going to go crazy.”
“Okay.” I smiled. “Promise.”
He jumped up again. “And I checked in with you, right? I asked if you were okay. Several times. Right?” He sounded uncertain.
“Yes, you did.”
“I just want to make sure I’m not losing my mind.”
It was fascinating to see his anxiety. The things that tormented him. I couldn’t begin to imagine what life for him and the other guys in the group must have been like. Not knowing whom to trust, and worried that at any time something could be used against them. I assumed there was probably much at stake.
“And don’t let the rock star rubbish get to you,” he said, lying down again. “Because it’s not real, it’s crap. It’s like thisideaand it’s not who I am and… I’m always going to be real with you, okay?
“Fuck, it’s late,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I have a six a.m. wake-up call. Which is in three and a half hours. And I’ve been up since four. God, I just want a bloody break.”
