Jay shrugs off her coat and stands paging through the hotel directory at the desk. She sees him, in the mirror, come up behind her, looking over her shoulder. “Just chips and popcorn at this hour, I think. But I did see a pizza menu somewhere, here — ”
Leland has moved close; she can feel his whiskey breath on her cheek. He hasn’t touched her yet — oh god — he places his hands, palms really, on her hips. There could not be a more accurate place to begin — well, except for, oh, right there — his lips brush the skin of her neck just below the hairline, lightly at first then more assuredly. Jay, goddamn her, swoons; a shudder shakes her shoulders and a small exhalation escapes her lips. He murmurs, “Hmm, that’s a good spot.” Pulls her against him, still touching that exquisitely hungry spot inside each hip and she can’t, she just —
“Hey.” She spins around to face him, drapes her arms over his shoulders and kisses him on the mouth, fervently, with a simultaneous rip of terror. Just as he responds, she pulls away —
“Okay. Look. Umm. I have to — Oh shit. I can’t do this.”
She finds herself hiding in the bathroom, sitting on the edge of the tub, head in hands. Cowers, shakes, tries to gulp air into her lungs. She doesn’t know how long it takes for the sound of her heart pounding in her ears to ebb, so that she can hear the expectant silence in the room out there. And then his voice. His lovely voice. Propelled by her body, not her thought, she flings open the bathroom door to confront him, sees him standing by the desk.
“Leland, I haven’t been with a man for . . . a long time and I’m — ”
He looks at her, the phone in his hand. “How long is long? Yes, 9 — what’s the room number?”
“934. Years. And you must understand — ”
“934. Do you mean to tell me you haven’t had sex for years? No, not you. Or do you mean, just not with a man. No, definitely not you. Of course not. I’m so glad to hear that. Double pepperoni, yes, thanks. 934, yes.” And hangs up. “May I ask why?”
Jay fidgets, can’t meet his eyes. “It’s kind of an accident.”
He doesn’t laugh, or smile. He just stands completely still, asks softly, “What do you want me to do?”
She spreads her hands in front of her, as if breaking up a fight between two toddlers and says, “Okay. Listen. Don’t leave. I need to . . . go back in there for a minute. But I don’t want you to leave. Okay?”
“Don’t. Leave. All right, I think I’ve got that.”
“I want you to stay.”
“Yes.”
She crosses the threshold into the bathroom, but pops back out again, peering around the door. “Take off, oh let’s see, no more than . . . five items of clothing. That includes shoes. And wait for me right there in that chair.” She points to the easy chair next to the bed.
“Is five a maximum?”
“For now.”
“One more question.”
“What, for god’s sake?”
“Two shoes make one pair, right?”
“No! Two shoes is two items. Remember not to leave.”
Safe inside. Thank god she has left her nightie and robe on the bathroom hook. It’s the customary flannel tent, Bay bargain basement, thick fluffy cotton, chin to wrists to ankles.
She is trembling all over. She pees, washes her hands, fluffs her hair, brushes her teeth, uses mouthwash, washes the makeup off her skin, briefly considers then rejects the notion of reapplying it, and instead (what if he leaves?) performs her usual routine of Lancome eye cream and Renaud wrinkle defense. A sprinkle of baby powder under the arms . . . how long has she been in here? Perhaps he’s still out there. There’s nothing else she can do. She must open the door, she must. She can’t.