They stayed until the restaurant closed, and then out on the sidewalk of the quieting New York streets, she remembered what he’d said to her, right before he’d kissed her: “Can I still be your Superman, Lois?” And she’d mistaken the comment for a calculating charm, assuming that the yearning she was feeling—god, he was magnet and she was metal—was all her own.
When they’d kissed, it was as if someone had flipped the breaker in an abandoned house, only to discover that the circuits weren’t just still live, but had grown all the more powerful from the disuse.
But again, she’d thought it was her. Because all night long, in spite of her best efforts not to, she’d been remembering what it was like to have sex with Jason: his penchant for kissing nonkissable places, the crooks of elbows, the soles of feet. His delightful unpredictability as a lover, caressing her hair one moment, pinning her hands behind her the next.
The room Jason had sublet in that East Village apartment, she now remembered, was full of unpacked boxes, as if he’d only just arrived, because he had only just arrived. The cover on the made bed was turned down slightly, like an invitation, or a prayer.
Once they were in that room, Jason had slammed the door and devoured her with his mouth, his hands, which were everywhere. As if he were ravenous.
And she remembered standing in front of him, her dress a puddle on the floor, and how she’d started to shake, her knees knocking together, like she was a virgin, like this was her first time. Because had she allowed herself to hope, this was what she would’ve hoped for. And now here it was. And that was terrifying.
Jason had taken her hand and placed it over his bare chest, to his heart, which was pounding wildly, in tandem with hers. She’d thought he was just excited, turned on.
It had not occurred to her that he might be terrified, too.
66
From: [email protected]
Subject: Why . . .
. . . didn’t you tell me?
From: [email protected]
Subject: Why . . .
I meant to. But then we just fell back into things and it all was going so well and I got scared that if we touched any of that—what had happened before I’d gone to San Francisco—it would, I don’t know, ruin everything. You’d remember what I’d done and then you wouldn’t let me stay. Or Elizabeth wouldn’t.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Why . . .
Did you think that I’d forget?
From: [email protected]
Subject: Why . . .
No, but I had myself kind of convinced it didn’t matter. We got married. We had kids. We’d moved on. But when you left, angry and upset as I was, there was a part of me that was relieved. It was like I’d been expecting it. We were even now. I guess you weren’t the only one waiting for the other shoe to drop.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Why . . .
You thought I left for payback?
From: [email protected]
Subject: Why . . .
I thought it was for a lot of reasons, the ones you said, and the ones you didn’t. Because we never talked about any of that.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Why . . .
By any of that, you mean why you left me.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Why . . .
Yeah. Why I left you.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Why . . .
Why’d you leave me, Jason?
From: [email protected]
Subject: Why . . .
It wasn’t deliberate. I was twenty-two. My parents were in the middle of their awful divorce. And on one hand, I loved you, and wanted to be with you. But we were so young. What if I was wrong? What if we ended up like them? I didn’t want to break up so much as slow down.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Why . . .
That slowed it down all right. Ten years.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Why . . .
Look, I screwed up. I was scared. Then I tried to fix it in an imperfect way. What can I say, Maribeth? I’m not perfect.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Why . . .
Well, neither am I. As I think I’ve proven beyond a shadow of a doubt.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Why . . .
I don’t expect you to be perfect.
From: