“So go to your damn party,” Jill said.
Sam gazed at Jill across the bed. Her words weren’t exactly a free pass, but Sam would take them. Jill was straightening the bedsheets, tight and angry. They would fuck on those sheets when Sam got home.
Jill said, “Just go. I never know anyone at your work parties. All those slick suits. All those pretty dresses.”
“They have names, you know.”
“Ah-ha.”
“Jill—” He wanted to see her in one of those pretty dresses. But he couldn’t say it that way.
Jill had drifted over to the mirror. She zipped up her pale blue tracksuit, then zipped it down far enough to expose her white camisole. She checked her face in the mirror, especially around the eyes. She said, “In case you forgot, we have to tidy up for book club tomorrow. But if you want to go to your party, fine. If you really want to go.” She gathered her hair in a ponytail. “If you’d rather.”
Sam spoke to her back. “You don’t even read the books. Neither do I. Nobody does.” Sam bent down, retrieving this month’s book where it had slid off the nightstand. He hefted its weight miserably. He said, “Last month, Monica Paré made a pass at me.”
“You lucky dog.”
Sam said, “Come on Jill. The party will be fun. A little break. A chance to dress up. Cocktails.”
“It’s all a bunch of pretend.” She let down her hair and started her ponytail again.
“So let’s pretend.”
“Pretend what?”
“Well, for starters, let’s pretend we’re happy.”
He wished he hadn’t said that. Let’s pretend something. Shadows and light. Music. Sweet taste on his tongue. His palms pressing against her hips. Her dress. Her perfume. Damn.
Jill paused, her hair in her hands, an elastic tie in her mouth. She found Sam’s eyes in the mirror. “We are happy.”
“Sure we are.”
Jill turned around to face him. “I’m not stopping you.” She shoved past him and went downstairs. She made a clatter in the kitchen.
What was he supposed to do? He knew what he was supposed to do. He was supposed to want. Want Jill. Want all of this.
Sam looked helplessly at his reflection in the mirror. How did you want what you already had?
* * *
It took forever to find the place. All these developments looked the same. The streets wound beneath lamps bright as day, and the fresh pavement was sticky beneath the car’s tires. No street signs had been installed, not yet. No house numbers. No families. The houses waited, bored and empty, sparkling from spotlights at the corners of lawns too green for Colorado. Who the hell bought these pretty places? Were they happy people? Sam was lost.
He took a guess and stopped at the lone house with cars along the curb. Inside, he found the guys from sales, trolling the snack platters and talking about—what else?—sales. From the patio came the click of heels on tile: wives hiding out, cigarettes cupped in their fingers so you couldn’t see the glow. A pitcher of sangria on the bar was nearly drained, and Sam had to tip it on end to get anything. Where was the hostess anyway? He knew where she was. Cramming for the goddamned book club. Sure.
After downing one drink, Sam left the party. Jill was sure to gloat about this. Probably she had cleaned the whole house while he was gone. Sam would lie next to her in bed, prop up his pillow, read a little from this month’s book, cross his arms, and expel a sour sigh. He and Jill would fuck on those fresh sheets and change them again before the party.
Sam was walking down the front steps when he spotted Sparrow Petrosyan coming up the pink sandstone walkway. She smiled at Sam as he passed. Sam smiled too. They stopped. Sparrow wore a little black dress. She was putting her keys in a little black purse.
Sam said, “Sparrow, you’re here.”
“And you’re—”
He said, “You look lovely.”
Sparrow said with a sunny voice, “My way to get even.” She reached to touch her hair. A chignon.
“I’d say you’re more than even.” Sam smelled that old perfume, the one he could taste when his lips skimmed her skin, when Sparrow cried, and her tears were warm and wet on her cheek, and he kissed her there.
“Well, Sam. Too bad you’re leaving.” Sparrow had the prettiest voice. She stepped closer. Her heels scraped lightly against the sandstone path. The fabric of her dress crinkled.
Sam remembered how unhappy they had been. He said, “I guess I could stay a little longer.”
“Sure.”
“I mean, I never see you.” They had been miserable.
“I know. The new project keeps me on the road.” She was sweet and beautiful, and they had been a disaster together.
“Come on. I’ll show you what they have. Sangria.” Sam put his arm on her back and guided her in. He said, “So, did you find the place all right?”
“Fuck no!”
“Those developers. I swear, they must—”
“Shut up, Sam. Don’t chit-chat me.”
“I should warn you, it’s all sales.”
“God, I hate sales.”
“Stick with me.”
* * *
Sam gave Sparrow a heavy glass. She tipped it up, her eyes observing him over the rim.
“You look handsome, Sam.”
“Gee, Sparrow.”
“I can say that, can’t I?”
“As long as I can say you’re totally stunning.”
“Well, of course, you can.” The corners of her eyes wrinkled with a smile.
“Anyway, you are.”
Sparrow took his hand.
Sam said, “Yeah, you’re stunning, and I have book club tomorrow.”
“Bingo!”
“Yeah.” He looked at his empty glass.
“Sam, are you ever going to talk to me when you’re actually happy?” Sparrow’s hand had not left his hand.
“I mean, I don’t even remember the name of the book. I do remember there’re bricks on the cover and—”
“So spill it, Sam. Where’s Jill?”
“Where’s Tony?”
Their grip became tighter.
They discussed work for five seconds. Sparrow finished her glass, and they sneaked into the kitchen and found a fresh carafe of sangria in the fridge. They slipped the carafe past the sales guys and into the den. Sam set their glasses on the coffee table and poured. He set the carafe on a book with an Oprah sticker on its cover.
“Are you in a book club, Sparrow?”
“No.”
“Come on. It gives you something to talk about. It gives you a lot to talk about.”
“Reading the same books only makes you more the same. It actually gives you nothing to talk about at all. Reading different books is having secrets. Now there’s something to talk about.”
“I don’t read anything. Nothing the same, nothing different. What does that make me?”
“Shallow.”
“But no secrets.”
“You have a secret, Sam. And you need to tell it to me right now.”
Sam refilled their glasses.. A little sangria seeped over the rim and puddled on the Oprah book. Sam leaned forward, stooping over his drink, careful not to spill, and took a sip. H held the dripping glass away from his body. Small sips.
He said, “Let’s go for a walk.” He looked at his watch.
Sparrow set down her glass and wiped her fingertips on the couch cushion. Sam leaned close and kissed Sparrow. The memory of her sweet taste came back to him, but he knew there had already been a last kiss, and this new kiss didn’t mean anything.
Sparrow said, “Oh my.”
Sam stood up. He took her hand and helped her sidestep the coffee table. Sparrow held her drink away from her crinkly dress.
“Sam, why is this a good idea? What are we doing?”
There had already been a last time.
Sam said, “There is no this. We’re not doing anything.”
* * *
Sam led Sparrow out the front door and down the walk. Beneath those bright streetlights, he couldn’t see the stars. He couldn’t even see the Rockies, he couldn’t see the dark hard edge of the Front Range, he couldn’t see anything but here and now. The night was getting cold, and Sparrow did not have a coat, so Sam pulled her close.
They got in Sam’s car. They fit their sticky sangria glasses in the cupholders. The car was silent and cold, and they sat.
“People are going to talk.”
“Nobody’s going to talk because nobody cares. They’re scripting their own—what do you call them—assignations. ‘Sam and Sparrow went for a walk, ooh.’ They don’t know what this is about. They don’t care about—”
“About what? About us?”
“They just don’t care.”
Sam and Sparrow sipped their sangria and drove around the development, gazing at empty identical houses until they became good and lost. And drunk. Neither spoke. The car took the wide winding streets slow and easy, which was fine with Sam. The sticky asphalt hummed. The houses were all for sale.
They stopped the car at a beige house with a porch swing. A flat green lawn had been unrolled to meet wild grass and knobby rocks and prickly pear. In the center of the grass was a stand of aspen, which never should have been planted this far out on the prairie. A sticker on the sign said Model Home. Sam and Sparrow got out.
The walkway was exposed aggregate, and the shiny lacquered pebbles made it hard for Sparrow in her heels. She leaned close. Sam felt her weight. She was drunk, too. Sam led her to the porch swing and sat beside her. He put his arms around her bare shoulders. Sparrow sipped the last of her sangria. Sam had finished his long ago.
The porch was small. When they pushed back the swing, it abruptly hit the house. When they swung forward, their knees bumped the wooden rail.
“That’s fucked,” said Sam.
“It’s a faux porch. A faux swing. Bet the grass is faux too. Everything is fauxed up.”
“Come on.” Sam stood and took Sparrow’s hand.
“No.”
“Come on. Let’s go inside.”
“We’re not supposed to be here.”
They walked through the house. They took a brochure.
“Look, darling,” she said. “It has one of those bonus rooms.”
“Remember the apartment by City Park? We could have used a bonus room.”
Sparrow held her empty glass by the tips of her fingers. She kneeled and set the glass on the pergo floor. She rubbed her fingers. “They’d sell more homes if they put in furniture. Make it look real. Curtains would be nice. Paintings would be nice. Charming little children running around. Anything real would be nice.”
Sam took her arms, and they danced. Sparrow’s heels clicked. Sam had to imagine the music, the pretty colors, the light. It was hard. He had to imagine that it was Jill wearing that crinkly black dress. They would be at a party. She would be talking to a group of women, and he would be talking to the guys, and he would spot his girl and lead her away. He remembered something, a party long ago, the light a little different, a different scent on Jill’s skin. He had kissed her then.
But now he kissed Sparrow.
Sparrow let her lips slide to his cheek. Her voice whispered. “What about Jill? Sam, tell me.”
The book club was tomorrow. Jill and Sam would serve croissant sandwiches. Jill would wear a blue silk blouse, and Sam would volunteer to do the greasy dishes so she wouldn’t have to. Jill would do all the talking, which was fine because Sam had nothing to say.
“Jesus, Sam. What about Jill?” Sparrow kissed Sam again. “Please.”
Sam held Sparrow tight and whispered. “This is what Jill likes. See, I bring her close like this.” His hand tugged through Sparrow’s thick black hair. Her chignon spun loose. “I kiss her, and I fuck her.” He lifted Sparrow’s leg over his hip and pressed his pelvis to hers. “Like this. Just—like—this.”
Sparrow began to cry. Her face turned away. Sam could smell her perfume and her warm tears. He heard the crinkling of her dress as she let her leg down.
He said, “This is just pretend.”
“What the fuck is pretend about it?”
“We were never happy, Sparrow.”
“We are happy now, Sam.”
Sam slowed down his words. “We are only happy because we know how this ends. It’s perfectly happy. But only because it doesn’t mean anything and it has an ending.”
Sparrow pulled away.
Sam said, “I’m going back. Jill and I are going to fuck like nobody’s business. You and Tony, too. You know you will.”
Sparrow cried, and she didn’t hide it anymore by turning her head away. She kicked her sangria glass into a corner of the Pergo floor, and it spun around.
Sam said, “I’m very sorry. I’m very very sorry. Damn, I’m sorry. You can be mad if you want to.”
“Don’t tell me when to be mad.”
“But it doesn’t mean anything, so don’t be mad.”
“Don’t tell me it doesn’t mean anything. Damn you if you say anything else. Sometimes a girl wants a good fuck. And sometimes a fuck is anger and unhappiness as much as anything else. Sometimes a girl just wants to say ‘Fuck me,’ and don’t you dare tell me it doesn’t mean anything.”
* * *
Sam and Sparrow pushed the porch swing back. Thump. They let it slide forward, and Sparrow notched her high heels against the porch rail. They pushed the swing back again. Thump.
“Do you think we could have been happy, Sam? A place like this. We could have forged ahead. Worked it out. We wanted it. You know we wanted it, Sam.”
“That’s the problem, though. We were always wanting. Jill and I don’t want anything. I really don’t want anything.”
“So you’re saying that you have everything you want? Right.”
He put his arm around her. She was warm, and her perfume was pressed into his shirt. But he didn’t care. He said, “No. I didn’t say that. You’re a lovely woman, Sparrow, and I said that I don’t want anything.”
* * *
Sam smelled lemon cleaner and furniture oil. The windows were open, and the fan was humming. Jill lay in bed, reading the book and making notes in the back. Sam sat on the edge of the bed and kissed her cheek. He wondered if Jill knew what that kiss meant, or maybe it was just another thing he did without meaning anything.
He said, “The party was a dud.”
“I know about your party.”
He wanted to say, ‘No you don’t,’ but she probably did. She didn’t possibly know everything, but she knew something.
She said, “So are you done? Can we talk about this book now?”
Sam closed Jill’s book and took it away. He took her pencil away.
Jill kept her eyes open when they made love. She found Sam’s eyes. It was love. But it was love and pain and it ought to be only love. Sam lifted her legs over his waist, just like he’d said. Pressed hard just like he’d said. Sam and Jill held each other’s gaze a long time after.
Jill broke it off and sat up. She switched on the light and found the book. She found her notes in the back. Her hair had slipped out of its ponytail. Her hair was smooth and straight and pretend blond, with angled bangs that covered one eye.
Sam said, “The book’s no good. It’s all made up.”
“No, Sam.” Jill wrote something in the margin and bit her lip. She said, “By the way, you’re changing the sheets tomorrow. First thing. Hospital corners.”
Sam looked at the ceiling. “Sparrow Petrosyan was there.”
“Did you fuck her?” Jill turned a page.
“What?”
“Did you ever fuck her?”
“Of course I fucked her.” Sam was staring at the blank ceiling.
“And?”
“Do you want a comparison? Do you want to be relieved by what you hear? What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t really care. You’re the one who fucked her. What do you want to say?”
“Do you want to know what it was like?” His eyes found the crack in the ceiling plaster.
“Were you happy? Did you two love each other?”
Sam sighed.
Jill said, “Well? You’re not even looking at me.”
Sam closed his eyes.
“One thing.”
“Yes?”
“Open your eyes and listen to me.”
“I’m listening.”
“I want you to look at me.”
“Fine.” Sam looked at her.
Jill tucked back her long, slanted bangs. “There’s only one reason we’re having this conversation. Because nothing else matters anymore, because we totally see through each other’s bullshit, each other’s scripts and lines and ploys. We have that together. That’s something we have.”
“Um, yeah.”
“And you’re not just fucking me anymore. You’re not, Sam. Don’t fuck me just because we’re married. No. Only fuck me when you can’t stand holding back anymore. Fuck me when you want to come inside me more than anything in the world. Fuck me when it hurts just to think about it. But don’t you dare pretend it’s anything more than fucking.”
“It’s always more.” Sam looked around the room, the armoire, the lighting, the mirror, everything.
“Look at me, honey. There’s no playing house anymore. There’s no bullshit. Someday, I might decide I like you again.”
“I like you, enough.”
“Shut up.”
“Like you enough to do this.” He crossed his leg over hers. He slid his hand over her thigh and between her legs. It was warm, but it wasn’t enough, and for the first time maybe that was a good thing. He would wait until he wanted it more.
Jill pulled away. “Just listen to the book, Sam. You need to know what happens. I’ll read it to you.”
# # #