The book by his ex-girlfriend. The tell-all, the exposé. “That’s amazing! What happened?”
“Publishers dropped it. I think my team made it clear we’d sue and they didn’t want the hassle.”
“Baby, that’s great news.” She kissed him, and then kissed him again, and again, until his body woke up and they stopped talking.
Softness gave way to the passion they’d always had and could access as easy as whistling. They had sex on the kitchen floor. Zia straddled him, rocking her hips fast and hard to make herself come. In this moment, she felt strong and vital and completely in control.
But it was just sex.
Early the next morning, Zia’s head filled with questions as she watched Clay sleeping on the other side of the bed.
What did they have? Was it real? Was she making the necessary compromises every relationship requires, especially one as complex as this? Or was it too heavily weighted in Clay’s favor? He was wealthier, more powerful, male. They felt equal making dinner, equal curled up watching old movies. But were they equal? Was the fact she was in charge in the bedroom just a sexy distraction that excused their real-life inequity?
Was he giving up as much as she was?
Was he hers in the same way she was his?
Beneath his eyelids, Clay’s eyes flickered, dreaming. Her body had grown accustomed to him: his smell, his touch. They were often thinking the same thing at the same time.
Zia’s ability to be a chameleon had its upsides. But she also had a tendency to mold herself to the people she was with.
Clay had his needs, and she had hers. It couldn’t be all on his terms. Moving slowly so as not to wake him, she reached for her phone on the nightstand. Held it above the bed. In the rectangular screen, two lovers were tangled naked in Clay’s gray sheets. Sculpted and softly lit by the sun that was just starting to warm the enormous bedroom, as golden as the necklace that always circled her throat. She captured the image silently, twin feelings of relief and rebellion twisting through her. This was how she’d hold him close for the next six weeks. This was how she would keep them alive: this memory, this moment.
A secret, like so many others.
After they said their goodbyes, Zia rode her bike to Astoria, picked up Mateo and Lucy from day care, and walked with them back to the apartment. By the time her sister got home from work that night, she’d deep cleaned the entire apartment and had a chicken tagine simmering on the stove. Zia was on edge, hoping her sister wouldn’t choose easy anger over something more reasonable. But when she apologized, Layla couldn’t meet her eyes, even though she said she was sorry too.
“He’s in rehearsals till late then leaving for six weeks in Brazil first thing tomorrow,” Zia told her. “Maybe when he gets back, I can bring it up.”
“Six weeks?” Layla’s expression turned poisonous, and she turned away.
Her sister’s tiny bathroom was filled with faded bath toys. A far cry from the waterfall shower and clawfoot tub Zia had gotten used to. Now that she wouldn’t be back there for a month and a half, it seemed like a dream. Like the idea of her and “famous movie star” Clay Russo was a bizarre delusion. At least she had the picture. And the necklace. Six weeks wasn’t so long. Maybe she could use the time to plan a trip for them—somewhere off the grid that allowed them to do volunteer work; give back to a community in a real way. She needed to get back to herself, her dreams, her passions, her values. Maybe the time apart would be a blessing in disguise.
She splashed her face with water, wondering if the face in the mirror was someone who could always live in Clay Russo’s shadow.
Something inside her recoiled, whispering, Run.
68
Gorman watched Henry watching Gilbert on the stage of the HERE Arts Center.
In the months prior, Gorman imagined the opening night of Tears of a Recalcitrant Snail in extremes: wild success or abject failure. The one where there’s a line around the block for a sold-out show and reviewers fighting over press tickets. The one where the only audience members are him, Henry, and somebody’s aging parent who falls asleep. Reality, of course, fell somewhere in the middle. It was a sold-out show, but it was a small theater. Reviewers weren’t fighting over tickets, they were sitting in the second row, and there were three of them. No one fell asleep.
Technically, the show went well. No missed cues, no flubbed lines. There was an electricity onstage that’d been missing in the previews. But Gorman couldn’t focus on the action. He was focused on Henry. The calm solidity of his profile. His hands folded neatly in his lap. His even, watchful attention.
“We’ll talk about it,” Henry had said, “after the show.”
It being sex with Gilbert.
Maybe it was because he’d forgotten what it was like for Henry to sleep with other people, or maybe it was because the concept of marriage had started to seem less suffocating, and more like a first draft he could work with. Whatever the reason, Gorman didn’t like the idea of Henry and Gilbert. Not one little bit.
There was a standing ovation at curtains. The cast pointed their collective arm at the sound booth, then the director, then Gorman. Henry whistled through his teeth. Gorman inclined his head like the queen acknowledging her loyal subjects. He was supposed to be relishing this moment; he’d fantasized about it his entire life. But he was only aping his role as grateful, humble wordsmith. All Gorman could think about was if Henry liked Gilbert, and how monumentally awful that would be, and honestly, it was incredibly annoying.
“What’d you think?” Gorman asked as everyone started hunting around for their coats.
“Babe, it was brilliant!” Henry sounded genuinely
