Then one became two and two became three. Three was the only number that made sense, they decided. A variety of experience, a triangulation. A system that enabled each to take a swing right out of the box. That wouldn’t necessitate an assessment of whether the he or she across the bar was good enough for the one and only shot. Two meant too much comparison and contrast, an attempt at the full spectrum of possibility as defined by two points on a line. But three—three provided depth and shading and roundnesses. Three meant opportunity in three dimensions, three dimensions of a lifetime of experience crowded into a month of secret living.
Whitney in L.A. Will in NYC.
1-2-3, they’d call it.
1-2-3, in emails and texts and occasionally over the phone.
1-2-3, they said in front of a friend before Whitney left for California, and the friend was none the wiser.
They wouldn’t tell a soul. They wouldn’t tell one another until the end of it all, when they’d go somewhere special to reveal the scheme in full. They would take a trip, Memorial Day weekend. After it was wrapped, after the month-plus apart. They’d get on a plane and drink in the details of a foreign city and then, on the final evening, fill each other in on the plot points of their lives while they’d been living on opposite edges of the continent. Together, on their trip, they would walk the streets and see the sights and fall in love all over again. And on the very last night, they would sit across from one another and eat strange food and hopefully not barf from envy and rage as they spilled their secrets about what they’d done and who they’d done it with.
The flash-fried rice balls followed Whitney back from the bathroom to the bar.
“What if I told you there wasn’t a Number Two?” Will said.
“I’d know you were lying,” she said, sitting down. “I see it in your eyes that you want this one to hurt.”
“I don’t want it to hurt. I’m the one who asked you to marry me. I’m the one who was fine with everything as it was.”
“And so it’s all my fault, all this. You get to chase twenty-five-year-olds around the East Village—that burden? I’m responsible for holding your feet to that fire?”
“I’m just saying, I didn’t need it. And I’ll never need it again. But let me preface this by saying I don’t think you’re gonna like Number Two.”
“Petite-er, blonde-er.”
“I slept with Kelly Kyle.”
“What?”
“It happened once, not much to report.”
“What the fuck?!”
“Hold on, hold on, look…”
“There was one rule. One cardinal rule. No one we knew. No one who knew both of us. No one we fucking work with.”
“Hold on. Kelly left. She put in for a transfer. Her last day was a few weeks ago.”
“I said: no friends, no coworkers. Not Lily. Not Christina. Not Kelly. I remember literally naming her.”
“Look, I’m sorry, but we don’t work together anymore. I knew better than that.”
“There was a reason it had to be strangers.”
“Don’t make this more than it is. You know the disadvantage I had. You were in a city all alone with endless options, all working in the industry. You were surrounded by movie stars and people you had a million things in common with. I was stuck in our apartment, couldn’t bring anyone home, couldn’t use the bee app, couldn’t meet people through work. I either had to creep at bars or, I don’t know what. How do people meet other people without their friends or phones?”
“I just wish it wasn’t someone I’ve met,” she said. “Someone I can picture.”
“Trust me, I can picture Adrien Green better than you can picture her.”
“The day we ran into her and her boyfriend in the Rockaways.”
“That was, like, three years ago.”
“Those perfect giant round tits. That line that no one’s supposed to have running right down the middle of her stomach.”
“Whit, I don’t know what to say. Want me to skip this one? I’m sorry this upsets you. I’m sorry it’s easy for you to say It was purely sexual but not to hear it.”
“It wasn’t, though,” she said. “That’s the whole thing. You had history. She was, like, your work wife…”
“Jesus, no she wasn’t. This whole thing is exactly as fucked as I thought it would be,” he said. “I’m glad it’s over and I hope you got what you needed.”
“What I needed? There it is again! You’re such a prince for letting us do this. You’re such a noble innocent for your sacrifice.”
“How ’bout you dive into your Number Two, then?” Will said.
“What did you tell her about us?”
“I said you were in L.A. and we were on a break.”
“And what did she say? Was she surprised?”
“She didn’t ask for more. People’s relationships are complicated. She said she hoped we figured out what would make us happiest.”
“Do you think she told anyone?”
“I asked her not to.”
“And what about that guy—is she still dating him?”
“They broke up a while ago, I guess. She’s been single and struggling with it. That was part of why she’s moving back to Chicago. Nothing keeping her here. Some friends. But she’s from there. Figured it was the right time.”
“So, how?”
“Her going-away drinks. I wasn’t planning on it. I wasn’t scheming.”
“You have a few beers and just stay later than everyone else,” Whitney said.
“That’s definitely one thing I missed out on by being with you all this time,” Will said. “I missed staying out hours later than I wanted to, chasing the slimmest chance around town, burning through cash, and coming up empty-handed at four in the morning in a weird neighborhood.”
“But not this time,” Whitney said. “You knew this one was in the bag.”
“C’mon,” Will said. “I get along with lots of the women I work with.”
“And none more than this one. All those happy hours at
