“I wanna see your cucumber!”
“No, baby.”
“Yes!” She fought to undo his top button.
“No!” Sam wrestled her eager hands from his fly, his voice gentle but firm. “C’mon, darling. It’s time you went to bed.”
With much effort, Sam managed to get Liv into bed and drink another glass of water. “You’ll thank me in the morning,” he said, moving to turn off the light. The paintings on the wall were bold and interesting, and the bed was a king. It was a bedroom he’d, ordinarily, enjoy having sex in.
“Sam?” Liv’s voice was already thick with sleep.
“Yes, babe?”
Her eyes were closed. He was ready for some unchecked confession. Maybe I like you. I really like you. Maybe Thank you. Liv’s voice was gentle in the near darkness. “I just farted.”
He pressed his lips together so as not to laugh and switched off the light. “Good night, Liv.”
60
The after-party dinner for Charles’s book launch was at a nearby restaurant, in a private dining room lit by undulating chandeliers. Zach was pleased to see the long table held at least sixty name cards. Perhaps he and Darlene would be seated far away from Charles and they’d manage to have something of a pleasant dinner date. No such luck. Charles was seated across from them. Darlene was seated next to Jon Favreau. The name card for “Zack L”—handwritten, probably because he didn’t RSVP—had him next to Darlene on one side, and Rachel bloody Maddow on the other.
“Lucky you.” Darlene snuck a peek at Charles and ran her tongue over her bottom lip.
That was his nervous habit: Darlene did that when she got cute and shy around him.
“Yes,” Zach replied tightly. “Lucky.”
Bowls of salad were placed on the table. Zach racked his brain for a good opening line for Rachel. He’d mixed with plenty of impressive people in his life, and ordinarily felt comfortable in pretty much all social situations. But tonight was different: Darlene’s indifference had undermined his usual social ease. And he didn’t understand political stuff in the way he understood music or sex or humor; things you felt rather than things you knew. “This salad’s really good,” is what he landed on.
Rachel’s smile was mild. “Delicious.”
“People think salad is easy, but it’s not. You’ve got to get the right ratio of dressing to greens.” What was he doing? Why was he talking about salad? “Too little and it’s not very flavorful, but too much and it gets wet and, um, soggy.”
Rachel frowned. He could see her wondering if he was a lunatic. “Soggy?”
Don’t say soggy again. Don’t say soggy again. “And different greens get soggy differently. Arugula: now, that’ll get soggy. Kale, not so much on the, um, soggy… front.”
“Charles.” Rachel turned her attention to him. “I’ve been thinking about what you said on false consciousness.”
Zach’s face heated. Idiot.
Next to him, Jon Favreau was making Darlene cackle with laughter. Ordinarily a lovely sound, but right now it screeched like nails down a blackboard. How soon till this nightmare could be over? Every passing minute underlined the fact that he didn’t belong here at all.
“So, Zach.” Charles was speaking to him across the table. “Didn’t think this sort of thing was up your alley.”
Screw you, mate. He knew Charles thought he was a Zoolander-level idiot: a lot of less attractive men did. “I enjoyed it very much.” Actually, there were parts of the conversation that he enjoyed, when Charles wasn’t posturing and generally being a cocky knob. The debate had the lively, unpredictable feel of improvised jazz.
Charles took a sip of water. “So I assume you’re still Darlene’s bandmate?”
“That’s right. Bandmate.” Zach gave Darlene a smile that tottered over the line between platonic and secret passion.
She returned it like a bad throw.
Charles watched the whole exchange with open alarm. His mouth hardened. “I’m curious, Zach. What was your take on the debate in my book?”
Zach felt a small slap of panic. “Considering I’m at the launch, I haven’t quite had the chance to read it yet.”
“Sure,” Charles said. “But why do you think the working class vote against their own interests?”
To his horror, Zach sensed Rachel Maddow leaning closer, curious as to his reply. “That’s a very complex issue. That I’m not really qualified to have an opinion on.”
Charles nodded slowly. Mockingly. “No, you’re not really the political type, are you?” He returned to his dinner, slicing into his fish. “How many people googled ‘What is the EU?’ after voting in Brexit? Millions, wasn’t it?”
Zach had voted for Britain to stay in the EU. And he knew what the European Union was, Christ. Charles might be a progressive, but he was also a bit of a bully who loved the sound of his own voice.
“Racism,” Charles continued, voice swelling like a politician, “is just as much of a problem in the UK as it is here. Right, Darlene?”
Darlene blinked. “I know more about racism in America,” she said, with what Zach felt was admirable control. “Which, considering Black women make thirty-nine percent less than white men, is obviously alive and well.”
“Spoken like a true Princeton grad.” Charles’s smile read as patronizing.
Zach didn’t get the sense that for Charles, Darlene-as-girlfriend was proof that he could “date up” in terms of her hotness; rather, that he could date across racial difference—and he wanted everyone at the table to see it. And that was so mind-blowingly foul.
The conversation appeared to have come to an end. But Zach was surprised to realize he wasn’t done. “Obviously racism is an issue in the UK, and here, and everywhere,” he said. “But the leave vote wasn’t all about immigration. It was a protest vote. Like Trump.”
Charles snapped to attention, stunned that Zach had dared offer an opinion. “What’s that about Trump?”
Instantly, Zach doubted himself. But it was too late now. “Well, his election was a protest vote. Wasn’t it?”
Charles raised his voice. “Donald Trump is an ignominy who should be erased from the pages of history.”
Zach almost laughed. “What, like, censored? Careful, Charles, you’ll be burning books in a minute.”
A flash of anger passed Charles’s face before it was hidden with noble posturing. “Brexit was about race, and class, as was Trump.”
“Obviously,” said Zach. “But you make it sound like people were stupid for voting for them: Against their own interests.”
“Not knowing what the EU is after you vote to remove yourself isn’t just stupid, Zach,” Charles said. “It’s disrespectful, dishonorable, and unpatriotic.”
“Sure,” Zach said, “I agree with that too, I think. And look, I am definitely not working-class. But I played music in London, right, I played, and drank, with lots of guys from the north. And it’s really bloody rough up there.”
“Rough like how?” Darlene asked.