When I got home from work, Graham was in his office, the second bedroom we’d “eventually turn into a nursery.” Though the timeline on eventually remains unspecified. He doesn’t like anyone in his office. I could count on one hand the number of times I’d entered, and in two of those instances, I had to distract him from kicking me out with an elaborate fantasy of fucking at his desk at work with his assistant in the next room. “Take this image to your real office,” I’d said, pushing my tits together. I didn’t have much sway in the matter. Technically, I moved into his apartment. It’s not ours. As of right now, he was allowed to tell me I was banned from a room I wasn’t paying for.
I knock on the office door twice, giving him ample time to finish whatever he’s doing—sometimes I like to imagine he’s eating SkinnyPop and watching Keeping Up with the Kardashians or Selling Sunset, reminding himself why old money is better than new money.
As I wait for him to answer, I glance into our bedroom across the hallway. Graham’s suitcase is lying open and empty on the floor. He refuses to throw out that old suitcase and I hate it—it’s covered in stickers from his study abroad days, each one representing another exotic exploit: the Visca Barça jersey, a reminder of the dark-haired twenty-two-year-old who rolled her Rs around his dick in the back of a five-story club; the red phone booth, a relic of the uptight blonde wearing thick foundation who smeared her over-lined lips while telling him she wanted to try it up the ass.
Maybe I’ll accidentally destroy it before we leave. Clip the zipper or something simple.
“Come in,” he calls, and I push the heavy door open. He looks exhausted, his hair standing up in the places he must have run his hands through it. Purple bags had formed under his eyes that are in no way wedding acceptable. I will not have him standing beside me in New York Times Vows pictures looking like he’s given up.
“You’re home early,” he says.
I walk into the room slowly, like someone approaching a stray dog, ensuring I mean no harm, I won’t snoop, I’m just saying hello. The room is dark by design; the only window behind Graham’s wooden desk faces the building’s airshaft and lets in the morning light for only about two hours during peak summer months. But he leans into the vibe. The heather-and-brass drum chandelier is always dimmed to the point of being useless, and the smoked-glass table lamp is more for form than function. I believe he thinks it makes him seem more academic, more cerebral. Probably richer, too. As if the framed diploma from Yale and the mortgage-less Upper East Side apartment didn’t do those things for him.
“Did you finish packing?” I ask, moseying toward his desk.
“We had an emergency at work,” he says. “But I’ll do it tonight.”
“What are you not going to forget?”
He feigns hesitation. Then winks. “My suit.”
“Because...”
“That would be a catastrophe,” he quotes the line I’ve told him at least eight times since we decided to have a spurious destination wedding. (Though, real destination weddings involve resorts in the Maldives, not... Vermont.)
He pushes away from his desk to make room for me to amble onto his lap and see, firsthand, that I had not, in fact, interrupted a raucous afternoon of KarJenner madness.
“Lena and I are getting drinks with the New York Times person tonight.”
“Right...” The left side of his lip lifts slightly in contempt. Graham does not like Lena. To be honest, most of the time I don’t really like Lena. Being gay, hot, half-Black, and third-generation rich has afforded her the luxury of an extraordinarily bland personality. She’s inherently more interesting than anyone she surrounds herself with, without really being more interesting at all. It’s a disappointing dynamic for anyone who meets her expecting the depth of conversation to verge beyond the surface. Which is the basis of most of Graham’s disdain. Though it’s not as if he’s personally profound himself.
“Are you sure I don’t need to be there?” he asks.
When I returned Sarah Keens’s call last night and she asked for this very last-minute meeting to “get to know us” she did request we both attend—spouting something about how meeting both of us in person helps shape the tone of the article or something. I didn’t see why this preinterview was necessary—they had all our information from the application, and the real meat of the story was going to be the ceremony. But she insisted and I knew Graham’s aversion toward Sarah’s perceived intrusion would be blatantly obvious on his overly emotive face, so I told her he was traveling—“So close to the wedding?” she asked, disapproving. “Boys will be boys!” I responded, a statement that puts a virtual end to any male criticism despite being a male criticism in itself. And then he was cordially uninvited, so Lena took his place.
Plus, Lena had been begging me to get dinner all week—despite seeing me at work every single day—so I was killing two birds with one 2003 vintage.
“If she has any questions for you, I’m sure she’ll find you at the wedding,” I say. “I think Lena’s going to ask at dinner if she can bring her new girlfriend.”
“She’s dating someone?”
“Apparently. She described herself as smitten and you know how infrequently Lena uses fluff words.”
He nods, no doubt picturing the kind of ethnically ambiguous leggy model Lena would date. She has a reputation with them. Front row at Tom Ford during Fashion Week and somehow she manages to catch their eye. “Can she bring her?”
“Of course. She’s basically my maid of honor. She gets a plus-one even this late in the game,” I answer. “Though, your mother may feel otherwise.”
He flinches in his seat. Anytime anyone brings up his mother, his defense goes up. If he wasn’t fucking me, I wouldn’t be surprised if he eventually started fucking her, they’re so obsessed with each other. “Why?” he asks. “She doesn’t have a problem with gays. She’s been to a gay wedding.”
I nod and resist the urge to let out a big, fat, disappointed breath. “Not because Lena’s gay,” I say, my head shaking at his denseness. “Because we’ve already put together the table assignments.”
“Oh.” He lets out a low laugh. “Right.” Yet another notch on the how oblivious to wedding planning can Graham be tally. “I’ll pack while you’re at dinner,” he offers, resting his chin on my shoulder. “I promise I’ll be done by the time you get back.”
I lean over and give him a kiss. I know that’s what he’s looking for. “That’s what you said about work today...”
“Well that...that was a lie.” He laughs. “Blatant and rude and I deeply apologize for leading you astray.” He wraps his arms around my waist and squeezes, pressing deeper and deeper into my rib cage until I can’t breathe. I don’t want him to stop.
“You look good, you know,” he says, before loosening up his grip, his hands wandering toward my breasts before I shake him off.
“If you actually pack, maybe I’ll treat you to something special when I get home...” Slowly, I push myself off his lap and let my dress fall into place, but not before giving him a nice view of the legs I pay good money to be tanned and hairless.
“Ugh,” he gripes, his head falling back against the tall leather chair. “Fine.”
“We’re leaving tomorrow, babe,” I say, moving toward the door. “You have to do it eventually.” I stop in the doorway. “Unless you’re having cold feet?”
His eyes thin. “First off, the plane leaves when we tell it to leave,” he says, genuinely oblivious to the pretention in his voice. Then, he pulls his legs up, resting his bare feet on the desk and crossing his ankles. He studies them, staring as he clenches and unclenches his long toes. “Second...they’re toasty, thank you very much.”
I laugh as I close the door, but the second the latch bolt clicks into place my smile is gone.