“I’m starting to get an inkling.” The end of her sentence was muffled as Crosby pressed his mouth against hers. It wasn’t as intense as kissing the blue-eyed stranger, but then again, drug-fueled kisses with sexy strangers will intrinsically be more intense. Even so, Crosby’s kiss contained something more important: a profound feeling, a promise of devotion.
“Let’s get a cab to your place,” Oona murmured.
“We have the limo until midnight.”
Back in the car, he called to the driver, “Could you take us around the park for a little while and put up the privacy window?”
“Yes, sir.” The tinted divider rolled up.
“Are you sure he can’t see us?”
“Are you sure it matters?” Crosby pulled her in. He kissed her beneath her jaw, then scraped his teeth along her neck. An instant heat coursed through her. How perplexing, he knew her body so well when she was exploring his for the first time.
As the car rolled through Central Park, Crosby’s touch grew less tentative. He stretched her out beneath him on the dark leather, his ribs and hipbones pressing against her. This made her open her mouth wider, inviting his tongue. He matched her fervor and reached beneath the hem of her dress, the tips of his fingers cold against her thighs, tickling her skin, growing warmer as they explored higher. They paused at her underwear.
Even though caution had eluded her the previous night, the dangers of AIDS and other STDs popped into her head. What if she picked up something nasty from last night’s indiscretion? It wouldn’t be fair to put Crosby at risk. “Do you have a condom?” she asked.
He sat up with a start. “Have you been taken over by a pod person or something? We never use condoms.”
Shit. Oona propped herself up on her elbows. “I just thought … there’s no harm in being extra careful.”
He rubbed his forehead, trying to make sense of the soured moment. “We just got tested last month…”
Shit shit shit.
“Oh.” His nod was slow as the grim truth emerged. “You fucked someone else.”
It would’ve been more insulting for her to deny it. She tilted her head downward, affirmation enough.
“Are you bored with me?” he asked.
“No, of course not—”
“Or am I too much of a nice guy?” Slumped in his seat, his long legs angled like an insect’s. “When you told me about the creeps you’ve been with, who lied and took advantage of you, I thought you’d be happy with someone more decent.” As the car moved through the park, streetlights reflected off his pale face, alternating with patches of darkness. Each time Oona saw him in the light, his eyes grew shinier and filled with more resignation.
“You’re not too much of a nice guy, and I am happy with you.” Her voice was strangled, desperate. It was like holding on to a ledge with the tips of her fingers.
“Then can you explain why you cheated on me?” Tears trickled down his face.
Crosby pushed a button to lower the privacy partition. “We can leave the park now,” he told the driver. “There’ll be two more stops. The nearest subway station, then back to Brooklyn.”
“No problem.” The driver nodded.
“Crosby, please.” A sick plummeting like the ledge had given way. “You have to let me explain.”
“It doesn’t matter.” He made no move to wipe his damp face, stared straight ahead.
“It mattered up until five minutes ago. You can’t all of a sudden stop caring.”
“Up until five minutes ago, I didn’t know you cheated on me.”
She opened and closed her mouth. Only one option left. “Listen, this is going to sound like the most insane thing ever, but…” The words spilled out in a jumble as she told him about her time traveling while they exited the park and drove down Fifth Avenue. “… it would mean starting over in a way, and forgiving me for last night, which I realize is asking a lot.” A hesitant peek at his profile as the car pulled up to the Fifty-seventh Street station. Look at me, please.
Cold air swept over them as Crosby opened the door. He turned his head toward her but kept his eyes down. “The car’s paid for, except for the tip. You can give him this.” A twenty-dollar bill placed in her lap.
“Wait,” she pleaded. He had one leg out of the car. “There has to be something I can do.”
One final look at her, but there was nothing behind his eyes. “Please don’t come to the store anymore.” A crack in his voice and he turned away. “And don’t call me.” His shoulders shook as he exited the limo.
10
Although, as it turned out, her one-night stand left her free of STDs, she did wake up the following morning with the flu.
“At least let me bring you some soup,” Madeleine urged when she called later that day. “It’s only your second leap, and I don’t like the idea of you being alone.”
“I might as well get used to it, right? Sorry, I’m just not up for company.”
But the doorbell rang an hour later as her mother arrived bearing flowers, Tylenol, juice, and soup. She wore an electric blue coat over a lime-green dress—both padded at the shoulders, giving her top half a boxy silhouette—and her curly hair was sprayed and teased, bigger than ever.
“I don’t care if you’re contagious, I’m coming in for a hug.”
Oona didn’t resist and rested her head on Madeleine’s heavily reinforced shoulder. “Thanks for not listening and coming over anyway.” For once, she wasn’t being sarcastic. She stepped back to get a better look at her mother. “You’re a lot younger than the last time I saw you.” Yet she also looked oddly older in her mid-forties than she would in her sixties. Her face wasn’t pulled taut, so her pre-Botox forehead could furrow with worry, and the groove between her eyebrows deepened, still a brow lift away from eradication.
“But I bet I was still a foxy mama, right?” Madeleine gave a little hip wiggle.
“Always.”
“Find something trashy for us to watch on TV while I make you some tea.” With a wink, she headed off to the kitchen.
They settled in the living room watching The Sally Jesse Raphael Show. Oona on the pale gray sofa cocooned in a blanket, an untouched mug of tea on the glass coffee table, marginally soothed as her mother brushed her hair.
“It’s gotten so long. Do you think about cutting it?”
Oona shrugged. “The last thing I’m thinking about is my hair.”
During a commercial break Madeleine asked, “How’s Crosby?”
“We broke up.”
“Oh. Did you end it?”
Her shoulders slumped. “Mom, I love you, but please don’t push. Talking about it isn’t going to help.” Because talking would mean lying or confessing the actual despicable reason Crosby left her and reliving the confusion and humiliation. Problem was, not talking also made her feel shitty, an unbearable heaviness pressing and pressing. “It doesn’t matter who ended it. It wasn’t going to work and it was stupid of me to try. The me he knew isn’t the me I am now.”
A final smoothing of Oona’s hair and Madeleine put down the brush. “So what are you going to do?”