Bird in Hand - Christina Baker Kline [70]
This wasn’t how she had envisioned their evening together—arguing about Alison. She was suddenly aware again of the headache lurking behind her eyes. Her shoulders felt tight; her feet were sore. Steaming water, a fluffy terry cloth robe, a stream of pink liquid frothing into bubbles … “Charlie,” she said, capitulating to his stronger emotions, “I don’t want to get into this with you. It’s really none of my business.”
“Of course it is,” he said wearily. “It’s my business, it’s your business. I wish it weren’t. I wish it had nothing to do with us. But it does, and— Jesus.” He put his head in his hands, his elbows on the bar. “Alison is depressed—her parents—the kids. And being with you is suddenly. … ” He sighed heavily, almost theatrically. “It’s not like this thing between us is just a fling, and everything will go back to normal. It isn’t, it won’t. At least not for me.” He looked up, and Claire nodded, not wanting to respond until he was finished. “I don’t know. I don’t know, Claire. I just don’t know. Alison is usually such a careful person. To a fault. Right? Haven’t we always joked about that? She gave up coffee the minute she found out she was pregnant—didn’t touch alcohol once in the whole nine months, or when she was nursing. Always wears a seat belt. She insisted that the two of us finish our will before we went away together overnight for the first time after Annie was born. I know she’s not at fault—I know she didn’t kill that kid. But this accident has fucked up everything. I feel—I feel like she’s ruined my life.”
“Imagine what she must be feeling about her own life,” Claire said.
“Of course, of course I do,” he said edgily. “That’s the point—her own life is a wreck. She’s a wreck. And I’m married to her. How can I—how can we possibly—”
“Stop,” Claire said abruptly, putting a finger to his lips. “These questions are way too big to settle in Atlanta on a Monday night.” She slid off her stool, put her hand on his thigh. “I suggest that for the next twelve hours we pretend that we’re alone in the world. Nobody else. Just us, right now, here.” She glanced around. “In this lame bar.”
“Yeah. In this anonymous office park,” he said. “In this random city.”
“Tomorrow we’ll be gone.”
“What’s your name again?”
It was already happening, she thought; the past was indistinct. “No names,” she said. She reached into her bag and pulled out a room card, held it up between two fingers. “You know what I’m craving?”
“Can I guess?”
“A bath. With you. What do you think about that?”
“No thinking,” he said. “Remember?”
Maybe they were at their best like this—pretending they were strangers, with no history between them, drawn together only in lust. In the hotel room they had sex in a frenzy, with their clothes half on, standing up against the door, then took a long bath together, reveling in the luxury of time. Later they made love again, stretched out across the huge bed, their movements slow and deliberate. Though it was exciting to pretend that Charlie was unknown to her, when Claire finally came (it took a while; she’d been so tense) she felt stripped of this pretense, revealed; his fingers and tongue knew her so well. Their years of friendship and flirtation, the low flame of desire—it was all in his eyes and the way he touched her. I know you.
The next morning, when Charlie was in the shower, Claire called Ben. They made small talk for a few minutes—How’d it go last night? I’m tired of being on the road. Any calls or mail I need to deal with?— until Charlie came out in a towel and Claire cut the conversation short, tugging off his towel as she snapped the cell phone shut. Lying back against the pillows, she let the phone drop to the floor as Charlie stretched across her, seal-damp, his wet hair brushing against her face, his minty lips on her mouth.
Room service arrived after a while, and they drank coffee and ate English muffins like a long-married couple, exchanging information about their flights. They left for the airport together—Charlie had coordinated his flight time with hers—and