Baby proof

am to go get a cab and wait for him while he picks up his things in his office. We kiss one more time. Then he opens my door. I consider it a victory when we are only spotted by Jimmy, the janitor on my floor, who nods hello. In truth, though, I really don't care who knows about us. I am beginning to wear our relationship as a badge of honor. An outward emblem of my well-adjusted, 'pick myself up by my bootstraps' mentality. I am no victim, no embittered divorcee. And Richard is proof of that.

I get a cab right away and wait for Richard. He hops in a moment later, swinging his briefcase in by his feet. We do not kiss in the cab, but we never stop touching. He tells me, more than once, that he can't wait to get me home.

When we do get to his apartment, we head straight for his bedroom. I am glad he doesn't ask me if I want something to drink. Because I don't. I'm glad we don't sit on the couch and talk. Because I just want to be in his bed, touching him. And within two minutes of the dead bolt being locked behind us, that's exactly where we are, exactly what I am doing.

Everything about Richard is cool and smooth-his sheets, his music (Sam Cooke), even his choice of pets-an uppity Siamese cat named Rex who is disdainfully surveying us from his windowsill. There is only one awkward beat-the predictable one where Richard stops, looks at me, and says, 'Do I need to get something?'

'Are you… fine?' I ask, thinking of Lydia again and the disease that rhymes with her name.

'Oh, yeah. I'm completely fine,' Richard says, kissing the inside of my left thigh. 'But… are you on the pill?'

I breathe a yes.

'Of course you are,' he says. His comment jolts my mind back to Ben and babies, and I can't help but feel a quick jab of longing. I tell myself that my ex-husband is likely doing the same thing with Tucker. Or someone like her. I tell myself to stay in the moment. I tell myself that I would so much rather be here with Richard than having a baby. It's no contest. No contest at all.

Moments later, Richard and I are having sex.

'You're so good,' he whispers to me at one point.

'You say that to all the girls,' I whisper back.

'No. I don't,' he says. 'I say only what I mean.'

I smile because I believe him. There is nothing gratuitous about Richard.

We both come, seconds apart, but do not cuddle in the aftermath. I already sensed that Richard is not the cuddling kind, and that is fine with me. I can skip the cuddling as long as there is some sense of lingering connection, physical or otherwise.

Richard and I have both. We sit side by side, leaning against his pillows and leather headboard. We are still undressed, but covered up to our waists with his taupe sheets. His arm is draped over mine, his fingers resting on my wrist, occasionally tapping my skin.

We talk about work, but not in a 'we have nothing else to talk about' sort of a way. More in the 'tell me what I don't already know' kind of way. He asks me if I love what I do, and I tell him yes.

'What do you like the best about your job?' he says.

I consider all the standard answers that editors give-stuff about loving books and the written word and escaping to a different world. Of course that's all true, but that's not what I love most about editing. There's something else-something that has more to do with discovering a fresh talent.

'It's hard to explain,' I say. 'But I guess it's that rush I get when I read something and feel hooked. When I think, 'This person can really, really write,' and I just have to work with her.'

Richard smiles and takes my hand as if to say, Go on.

So I do. I say, 'You know that almost smug feeling you have in high school when you listen to a band before they get really big-and then you can say, 'Oh, Depeche Mode? I've been listening to them forever. I just love their old stuff?'

Richard laughs and nods.

'Well, that's what it's like to uncover a new author,' I say. 'Like you were in on the secret first.' I suddenly feel self-conscious, like I've exposed too much of myself.

'So what about you?' I say. 'What do you like best about your job?'

'Oh, I don't know,' Richard says. 'I guess I like that it's personality-driven… And I like contributing to a book's success… that feeling when everything is clicking for a book and an author and you're getting a whole bunch of reviews… But sometimes it feels so all-or-nothing. Like, 'what have you done for me lately?' You know how that goes.'

I nod. I know exactly how that goes.

He continues, 'And there are many more times when you can't get shit for a book. Which really sucks when you like the book and like the author…'

I nod again. It's heartbreaking when you love a book that fails. And it always seems to happen to the nicest authors.

Richard says, 'And I don't know… publicity tends to breed a certain kind of person who feels the need to try to take credit for everything and who can't seem to ever quite turn off that publicist persona. It's like they're perpetually in schmooze mode and in a rush to get into the spotlight all the time.'

'You're not that way,' I say, thinking that Richard is just naturally in the spotlight. He's not rushing to get there.

'God. I sure hope not. Because I'll tell you, Parr, there is nothing that makes me loathe my job more than heading to some sort of industry cocktail party and watching all the hyperpublicists chase around media folks to introduce themselves while not-that-subtly trying to pitch their projects and doing the whole nametag surfing thing. It's brutal.'

'Nametag surfing?'

'You know-when someone starts talking to you like they're your new best friend. Then, when they think you're not looking, they glance down at your nametag really quickly to see who you are. And if they deem you worthy-and important enough-they'll keep talking to you. It's sort of like peeking at someone's cleavage. And man, if there is someone from the Times or something at one of those things, it's like a feeding frenzy. I can't imagine why those guys even show up to those things, unless they just need some sort of cheap ego boost.'

I laugh and say, 'Yeah, but nobody has to read your nametag, Richard.'

'That's true,' he says with feigned bravado.

His phone rings, but he doesn't even glance in its direction. I return the gesture when my cell spits out Jess's personal ring tone, The Verve's 'Bittersweet Symphony.' But then she rings again. And again.

'I better get that,' I say. 'It's Jess. Sounds important.'

Richard knows that Jess is my best friend and roommate. He leans over, kisses my cheek, and says, 'Go ahead. Call her back.'

I retrieve my underwear on the floor next to the bed, put it on as quickly as possible, and walk the five or six steps over to Richard's ottoman where I dropped my purse. I find my phone and call Jess at home.

'Where are you?' she asks.

'I'm with Richard,' I say, liking the way those words sound. I hope that I'll be saying them for a while. 'What's going on?'

'He dumped me,' she says. Her voice cracks as if she's been crying or is about to. 'He says he still loves his wife. He wants to make it work with her.'

'I'll be right home,' I say, snapping my phone shut.

I cast Richard an apologetic look as I finish dressing. 'I'm really sorry, but I gotta go.'

'Everything okay?' he asks, swinging his legs over the side of his bed and pulling on his boxers.

'A crisis of the heart,' I tell him.

'I'm not familiar,' he says.

Must be nice, I think.

He walks me to the door and kisses me good-bye.

I pause for a second as I think of something appropriate to say. I settle on, 'Thanks for tonight.'

It sounds a little formal, so I smile and add, 'I enjoyed it.'