“Don’t you?”
“Of course. But my impression is people in your position can just donate a bit of money and leave it at that.”
“But the planet is dying. It’s an emergency.”
Zia’s heart swelled, her crush finding more justification with every passing minute. “I totally agree.”
Clay kept his word about separate beds, booking Zia her own room. On the second night, she joined him in his bed, and they made love. It was as exhilarating as discovering the new country she was in. Their mutual desire, impassioned and primal, felt like delicious delirium. She came first. And then, again. Afterward, as they lay together in a newly vulnerable space, Clay shared that he liked to be dominated.
“Dominated?” Zia repeated, stunned. “Like, S and M?”
He shrugged, tracing his fingers up and down her arms. “I call it power play, but you could call it that.”
Zia had been dominated in bed, but not in a “power play” way. In a sex-with-an-asshole way. “I’ve never really done anything like that.”
Clay explained that kink was about communication and boundaries. If she wasn’t into it, no problem. If it didn’t feel good, they’d stop. They’d have a safe word. He was direct and unembarrassed, but he wasn’t trying to talk her into it. If she was curious, they could try it. Baby steps. “Maybe, when we’re back in New York,” he offered.
Zia pictured handcuffing Clay to the bed. Telling him what he could and couldn’t do. The idea felt like a piece of heavy furniture being moved out of her way. “Maybe.”
The more Zia thought about calling the shots in the bedroom, dictating when he came, when she came, the more she liked it. Intriguing, tantalizing, but also safe. On their last night in Tokyo, she sashayed into his room, wearing just the hotel dressing robe. He grinned and went to tug it open.
“Uh-uh,” she admonished, her heart beating fast. “No touching.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “Okay.”
“Lie back on the bed. Hands above your head. And don’t move.”
Clay obeyed.
For hours.
As they climbed back aboard the private jet to return stateside, Clay was light and relaxed, joking with their pilot and flight attendant. His manager, Dave, pulled Zia aside. “Whatever you’re doing, keep doing it. I’ve never seen that bastard so happy.”
* * *
As summer spread itself sunscreen-thick over New York, Zia Ruiz and Clay Russo started seeing each other. In secret. As Clay explained, as soon as the press knew they were dating, they’d be hounded and Zia’s personal life would no longer be personal. Trolls would come out of the woodwork. Her online footprint would be mined for information. “They’d be obsessed with getting a photo of us,” he said, unable to hide his annoyance. Privacy gave the relationship space to breathe, and grow, he said. And they’d have lots of time together, since the job in Mozambique unexpectedly fell through. The project lost funding. Zia expected to feel disappointed. Instead, she felt relieved. Excited. There’d be other jobs, and her feelings for Clay were growing.
If they were out late and Clay’s security gave the all clear, occasionally Clay would stay over at Darlene’s. Darlene had sworn to take-it-to-the-grave secrecy, as had Zach, who’d popped by one night and ended up bonding with the actor over a shared love of nineties British rock bands. (“That guy seriously has the world’s best body,” Zach told the two women. “I can say that because I’m comfortable in my manhood.”) But usually, it was safer, and more convenient, to stay at Clay’s penthouse apartment. Zia had complicated feelings about the wraparound terrace and California king bed. Her ex had soured the taste of unearned luxuries. The only luxury she needed was time with Clay. Truthfully, Zia was happy to be discreet about her relationship. Minimizing it would help if things didn’t work out, and more important, it avoided having to tell her sister. It was easier to enjoy getting to know an interesting new person, and push the past away.
“What’s with you?” Layla demanded. “Are you getting laid?”
Around them, Lucy and Mateo pinwheeled, cabin-fevered and crazed. A summer storm had canceled Sunday afternoon at the park, so they were stuck inside. It felt like a hundred children were bolting around the one-bedroom apartment. Seated on the sofa, Zia lifted her legs to let a squealing Lucy scamper underneath. “I’m happy.”
“I’m happy? What does that mean?” In another life, her sister could’ve been a detective. She pointed at Zia’s neck. “Is that legit?”
Zia fingered her new necklace. : the Japanese symbol for light, on a delicate chain. Clay had surprised her with it on their last night in Tokyo. She was pretty sure it was real gold. “I got it in Chinatown for five bucks.”
Her sister’s eyes stayed on her, waiting.
Zia slipped the necklace under her T-shirt. “Fine, I’m seeing someone.”
“Another finance guy?” Layla’s question was sharp. It really meant, Another asshole like Logan?
Zia shook her head. “No. He’s a… gardener. His name is Tom.”
“Tom,” Layla repeated the name, testing for the truth.
“He’s a good guy. Nothing like… Tom’s sweet.”
“Good.” Layla swigged wine from a Winnie the Pooh juice cup.
Zia frowned. It wasn’t even 4:00 p.m.
“Self-medicating,” Layla muttered, massaging her knees. Pain flickered over her face.
“Are you taking your arthritis medication? Can I help?”
Layla scowled and rolled her eyes. She welcomed help around the house and with the kids, but her health always seemed off-limits. “So, what, is Tom really ripped?”
“He’s good-looking. But it’s not just that. He’s really kind. And smart. And funny.” Zia smiled, thinking about their silly inside jokes and running gags. “But he’s also really sensitive…”
“Okay, okay.” Layla snorted a laugh. “I get it: you’re gonna marry Tom.”
“No, I’m not!” Zia couldn’t imagine telling anyone about Clay, let alone marrying him. As much as she focused on Clay as a person, who he was to everyone else was undeniable. Clay Russo had millions of followers on Instagram. They could order takeout from any restaurant in the city and never worry about what it cost. Last night he was texting with Steven Spielberg. Marrying him was as likely as moving to the moon. “I’m really not.”
“Yes, you are. It’ll be dope. You’ll live in Brooklyn and make babies and become a mom with me. Hashtag mom life. Get ready to drink a lot.” Layla refilled the juice cup and raised it in a toast. “You got pictures?” Zia’s phone was in Layla’s hand.
“No!” Zia snatched her phone back.
“Whoa, chill out. Delete your nudes and show me your future hubby.”
The funny thing was, even if she told her sister the truth about her relationship, Zia had absolutely no evidence. Clay never took random selfies of them, so Zia didn’t, either. The only proof was the necklace, which could’ve come from anywhere, and their texts, which could be from anyone. The truest proof was her memory. Love was abstract: it was a concept, a shared agreement. Maybe that was what made love so magical, so delicate. In this three-dimensional world, we crave the ethereal. The certainty of something that barely exists.