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“That’s some solid advice.”
“I misunderstood.”
He cocks his head at me. “Seems pretty straightforward.”
“I wrote fiction.” He laughs and pulls my hand closer. “It’s how I’d escape the moment. I’d imagine a different life. I’d create a world where people dealt with issues, but there was always a happily ever after. I wrote about the people in the hospital. I’d make up sex stories about hot doctors or nurses. I’d fantasize about what a barista would do if propositioned. I wrote a tiny version of myself into the main characters.”
“And you thought this was therapy and not a career path?”
“I abandoned them when she died. A couple years later, they bubbled up while I was Joan’s assistant. I lived with four roommates in a two-bedroom in Brooklyn. Always noise or mess. To give me breath in the world, I began to house-sit.”
“There’s that solitude thing again.” He rubs his thumb on the back of my hand.
“I discovered I could fill up empty space with ideas when I had enough of it. The more I house-sat, the more stories erupted out of me. Finally, I had so many I secretly gave one to Joan. I still write by the beach when I can. And fall in love over and over.”
“You fall in love with the men you create? Are you the heroine?”
“I do have to fall in love a bit. And most of the women end up about six percent me.”
He sips his mimosa and opens up, “To find my peace, I need music I’ve listened to a million times. Like Steely Dan or The Dead. I plug in and disappear.”
“I don’t know anyone who’s ever understood my pathological need to be alone.”
“It’s a piece of you.” We’re walking towards the adult pool. He’s carrying my pool bag, notebook bag, his bag and holding my hand.
“Two women specifically blamed work for our breakups. And there was one in college who didn’t understand anything about me. And…”
His voices drift, and I don’t push. She’s something, but in time he’ll let me know if she matters. Whoever she is, I’m grateful she let him go.
He flops onto a chaise lounge and tucks his hands behind his head. I straddle him for a moment. There’s no one around except the staff.
“And you? How many men have you left in your work driven wake?”
“Two specifically. One intimidated by success. He was with me when I was an assistant. But he felt emasculated by my high-powered job. Then there was the Krystal fucker.”
He bucks a little bit, and I brace my hands on his abs. “I promise to bask in all your success and spend all your money.”
“You’re sweet.” I lean down, and his hands settle on my hips. I kiss him and then climb off him to my own chair.
“You know that beach house thing, I do that with hotel rooms. The last girlfriend caught me flying somewhere I didn’t need to be. She ran into Mikey, who let her know our appearance was canceled.”
“Shit.” I can’t stop laughing. “And you went anyway?”
“I had shit to do, and she was always yapping about seeing a movie or going to First Friday’s gallery walk. The project eventually died, but it seemed to be paramount at the time.”
“And you needed some non-shared space.”
“EXACTLY!” He leaps up, and then he’s on top of me, kissing me hard. “If I didn’t want to do dirty things to you, I’d say we’re the same person.”
“We certainly seem to be on the same page. My ex said I cheated and said my work was my mistress, and I realized, no, he was. Anyone would be. I’m married to work.”
“You’re my gorgeous side piece,” he quips.
“And you’re mine.”
“Now, about those dirty things?” I can feel him thickening.
“Can we put a pin in them? I need to get this idea down.”
