When their salads arrived, Kyle said, “I assume you know who my parents are.”
Matthew ate a cherry tomato. “The truth is I don’t.”
“My father,” Kyle said, “is a BBC producer and my mother is twice removed from Sir Elton John.”
Matthew heightened his James Bond accent. “Does that make you thrice removed, Kyle? Because I’ve met Sir Elton and see no resemblance.”
(click here for the first episode; here for the previous one)
“We’re distantly related.” She sipped her second glass of wine.
Matthew grinned but Kyle continued determined and implacable with no hint of fun. A waiter brought baked Norwegian salmon with sautéed greens and small potatoes.
“If you have sex with me tonight,” Kyle said, “I’ll be grateful.”
He glanced at her sidelong. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those hopeless romantics.”
“No, I’m not.”
Impatient enough to risk meanness, Matthew said, “You must leave directly after we finish.” Here he expected her to confess that someone had dared her. But she said, “Excellent,” and finished her pineapple sherbet while he signed the bill.
Matthew forgot about her the minute she thanked him and closed his door behind her.
Available within running distance was a swimming pool cleaned with ultra-violet light, not chlorine. He swam underwater listening to Brooke call his name. Then he slept, woke, and waited forever. Close to midnight, Sung finally handed him a new mobile. “Tomorrow,” he said, “you’ll begin leading with your heart.”
In her third-storey, temporary bedroom on 110th Street, Brooke answered breathlessly. “Hi—hello!”
“Brooke—” his throat caught.
“Matthew! The beautiful clothes you bought me help when I’m doing rehearsals. Except today I kept thinking about you and shivering. So I’ve filled the bathtub with hot water.”
From deep in his chest, he said her name again.
And without him asking, Brooke described unbuttoning the red cashmere jacket he hadn’t seen her wear yet, the short kilt, black tights, tall boots, white blouse…
From a place not unlike the one they shared when making love, he murmured at first. But as he wrapped a fantasy tightly around them, his voice grew louder and slower and then thick and sweet. Until from faraway, a voice unleashed his name. And Brooke thought, Oh no, am I screaming?
He was on his knees. Please, Brooke, let me…
Yes—do that. She was dying for him and really screaming. She rushed like water from the highest waterfall and was rushing still when Matthew said, Christ and God and Jesus Fuck, Brooke, I Love You.
From across the Atlantic Ocean, they trembled and sighed as if gazing into each other’s eyes and then slipped together inside a hushed, hypnotic state. Matthew said he didn’t have the words to say what he wanted her to know. He needed to talk to her again and asked if she’d please sleep in his bed when she got home to Woodstock. “Monday night I’ll call at midnight, your time. Nobody will know but us.”
“All right.”
“You won’t feel sad because we’ll be on the phone.”
“No.” She wouldn’t feel lonely in his tower. And yes, when he called she’d be naked. Yes, she’d stand under the skylight. She’d jump in the silvery cast of the moon and stars.
“In four weeks I’ll be there for Christmas. And if between now and then you’ll sleep there, I’ll call home on Monday nights using a new phone every time.”
He told her about the soccer video where her legs spun in the air. And, don’t say anything, but did she know that whenever she was at the games, rooting for Dex, Connie focused on her? “I watch those videos of you, Brooke, over and over.”
She began to say Dex was playing in a championship game next week. But instead, she asked, “Is it because I scream? Is that why you say I’m your most excitable lover?”
“Brooke, you’re my only lover.”
“Oh.” She waited for the sonic waves to recede but a terrible undercurrent ran counter to all the times he had said, “I have always loved you, Brooke.” That was a metaphor. And this—she said nothing, because maybe she was not his only lover.
“Brooke, you are my only lover. If I ever implied a comparison, I was wrong. There’s no comparison. You are my only lover.”
But by the next morning his claim resounded. You are my only lover echoed relentlessly, meaning—he must be lying. Except he couldn’t be. He must be. He was.
(click here)
