How It Ended Part 23

"I don't know."

"Me, neither."

At that moment a uniformed baggage handler holding a small animal carrier approached us.

"Are you the pig parents?"

Blythe nodded, gingerly taking the carrier. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she bent down to look in through the slats. "Look at him-he's so scared," she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "The poor baby."

"Maybe you should tell someone about ... this," I said to the baggage handler, gesturing toward the coffin.

He shook his head and sighed. "Second one this week."

Back in the car, the little pig squealed like a banshee when Blythe took him out of the carrier and held him in her lap. He was about the size of a beer bottle, with black-and-white bristles, stubby legs and a straight tail that twitched incessantly. "The sweet thing," Blythe said, stroking his back. The tears reappeared as we drove down the exit ramp. "That poor boy," she said. "Why wasn't anybody there for him?"

I shook my head, not trusting my voice.

"It's so awful," she said, rubbing the piglet. "All alone, n.o.body to welcome him home. Oh G.o.d, my poor Jimmy."

It was, I realized, just the second time I'd heard her say her brother's name.

We drove in silence until I finally found my voice. "I'm so sorry, Blythe," I said, my voice a hoa.r.s.e whisper. "I'm so G.o.dd.a.m.n sorry." It was some time before I could speak again. "Please forgive me. I never even said I was sorry."

"It's okay, McSwine," she said, turning to me and wiping my cheek. "You know my motto:'Don't look back.'" I took her hand and lifted it to my mouth. Kissing the back of her wrist, I could smell the sweet, milky, barnyard tang of her fingers. As I squeezed her hand and pressed her fingertips to my lips, I believed there was still time and hope for me, if I could only remember always exactly how I felt at that moment.

2007.

Everything Is Lost Sabrina decided to throw Kyle a surprise party for his thirty-fifth. Her biggest concern was that she wouldn't be able to keep it a secret-so pleased was she with the whole idea. She liked to say she shared all her thoughts and feelings with Kyle. "I tell him everything," she would say. And Kyle would say the same.

She'd been talking to the owner of the Golden Bowl-the hottest new place in TriBeCa-telling him she expected maybe forty or fifty people for the party, dropping some names in hopes of getting him down a little on the price, when Kyle walked into the bedroom and threw himself across the duvet.

"Who was that?" he asked, stroking her knee after she quickly hung up.

"Just a fact checker."

Much to her relief, he didn't seem to notice she was blus.h.i.+ng; at least she a.s.sumed the heat in her cheeks had to be visible. She felt so transparent that she could hardly believe he didn't sense something amiss.

She suddenly realized that her preparations would be complicated by the fact that the bedroom walls stopped six feet short of the ceiling in their loft. She didn't usually think about it, except when Kyle was being particularly loud on the phone in the other room or the time her brother had spent the night on their sofa and she'd been self-conscious about having s.e.x. When they'd first seen the loft and the Realtor had suggested the walls could be extended up to the ceiling, Sabrina had remarked, rather smugly, that they didn't need privacy. Walls were for people who weren't really in love.

"What was that you were saying about Toby Clench?" he asked.

"Toby Clench?" She was trying to buy a minute to think of what to say.

"I thought I heard you mention his name."

"He collects Brancott's work."

"Who's Brancott?"

"The artist I'm writing about."

"Oh, right. G.o.d, I can't believe that son of a b.i.t.c.h is collecting art," he said, again not noticing that she was blus.h.i.+ng. He was stroking her knee, moving in the direction of her thigh, pursuing his own secret agenda. If she hadn't been so fl.u.s.tered, she would already have realized he'd come into the bedroom in search of nookie. She could have two jugglers and three elephants in the room and he wouldn't notice when he was in this particular state of antic.i.p.ation. It was so simple-sweet, really. All she needed to do was administer a quick b.l.o.w. .j.o.b. Sometimes it was so much easier than the full production. And she'd never heard him complain.

She reached down, unb.u.t.toned his jeans, and slipped her hands inside his boxers. He moaned and lay back on the duvet. Spontaneous s.e.x-one of the perks of the freelance life.

Sabrina worked at a desk in the bedroom. Kyle taught writing at NYU and had an office there. On Tuesdays and Thursdays he had cla.s.ses and office hours, but most other days he liked to work at home at the kitchen table. Sabrina had been his student a couple years ago and now was writing articles to help pay the bills while intermittently working on her first novel. She loved that they shared a sacred vocation-literature, he liked to say, was their religion-and one that allowed them to spend so much time together.

When she was working, she'd hear him pacing around on the uneven old wooden floors. Sometimes she could hear him humming, or even singing, when concentrating deeply, and she loved the idea that he was working on some short story that might appear in The Paris Review The Paris Review or or The New Yorker The New Yorker. And while he must have been able to hear her on the phone, he didn't seem to mind. They'd check up on each other, intermittently, in one room or the other, and if she didn't hear him for a few minutes, she would go out to see what he was doing. Sometimes, irrationally, she was afraid that he wouldn't be there. He often came into the bedroom with that earnest, hungry look on his face, and if she wasn't too busy, they'd fall into bed and devour each other. This routine had seemed wonderful until she needed a little privacy. Was it her imagination, or was he more housebound than usual this week? She kept waiting for him to leave so she could make her calls. Though she knew it wasn't fair, she grew increasingly irritated as he failed to do so.

"How do people who live in lofts have affairs?" she asked her friends one night over drinks at the Odeon.

"They have offices," Daisy said.

Kyle's office, she recalled, was the first place they'd ever had s.e.x.

The next day she told Kyle she had to go out to conduct an interview, hoping she sounded casual enough to be convincing. He was sprawled on the sofa, reading a ma.n.u.script. "Have fun," he said.

In the elevator she wondered, somewhat peevishly, if he ever even thought about her whereabouts. She could be on her way to some a.s.signation, though in fact she was going to check out the restaurant for his party.

The owner, Brom Kendall, had offered to show her around. She recognized him from his picture in New York New York magazine, where he'd been included in a feature on hot restaurateurs. He was wearing a black leather jacket over a white T-s.h.i.+rt, and his cleft chin and a slightly crooked nose just barely saved him from being too handsome. For some reason, she felt awkward. She had a notion that he would be conceited, although in fact he seemed a little shy as he shook her hand. magazine, where he'd been included in a feature on hot restaurateurs. He was wearing a black leather jacket over a white T-s.h.i.+rt, and his cleft chin and a slightly crooked nose just barely saved him from being too handsome. For some reason, she felt awkward. She had a notion that he would be conceited, although in fact he seemed a little shy as he shook her hand.

"How about a drink?" he said after they'd completed their short tour of the restaurant, which, in broad daylight, without its glittering clientele, seemed to her interchangeable with a dozen others in the neighborhood. Kind of an Armani palette: taupe walls, black wood trim, gray leather upholstery and moody vintage black-and-white photos of scantily clad women.

Not wanting to seem unfriendly or uptight, she said she'd have a Ketel One and tonic. He went behind the bar to mix the drinks while she took a seat on the other side.

He told her that for years he'd been an actor but that then one day he'd realized it was never going to happen. Besides, he liked people; he liked food....

It wasn't a terribly original story-she was glad she didn't have to write it-but his obvious sincerity made it interesting. She was expecting him to be glib. "Sometimes that's what I think about my writing," she said, "like I should give it up for something practical."

"I thought that piece you did for Black Book Black Book was really insightful," he said, surprising her. "The one about the new chick lit." was really insightful," he said, surprising her. "The one about the new chick lit."

"Wow, I'm, like, amazed." So much so that she was suddenly talking like a moron. It didn't occur to her until later that he'd probably Googled her the night before, after she first called. Still, it felt good, knowing that someone besides friends and family had read it.

He asked how she'd gotten into writing, which led her to explain that Kyle had been her writing teacher.

"Huh. How long have you two been together?"

"A little over a year."

"It's very cool of you to throw a party for him. I'd be so blown away if someone did that for me."

"n.o.body's ever thrown a surprise party for you? You don't seem like the kind of guy who's been totally deprived of female attention."

"Not the right right anybody," he said, looking at her with an intensity that made the remark seem significant. anybody," he said, looking at her with an intensity that made the remark seem significant.

Once again she found herself blus.h.i.+ng. "I guess I should be getting back," she said, swilling the rest of her drink and rising to her feet.

"If you have any questions, just call," he said, handing her a card.

Kyle went to his office on Monday, giving her a chance to make some calls. She sent the invitation out by e-mail at noon, and though she'd requested RSVPs by the same means, some of their friends, knowing they had separate lines, started calling her with acceptances just as he returned from campus. She had to keep her voice down and keep the conversation general while he puttered in the next room.

She was pleasantly surprised when Toby Clench called, having doubted he would come. One of Kyle's students at NYU a few years ago, he'd gone on to publish a wildly successful novel, and since then his teacher's feelings had oscillated between pride and jealousy. Kyle's own novel, published six years before, had been a critical success, but it hadn't been featured on the cover of the New York Times Book Review New York Times Book Review, as Toby's had, nor had it been optioned by Brad Pitt's production company. But Toby's meteoric debut had certainly raised Kyle's profile, because he routinely cited his mentor in interviews.

"I'll be coming in from London that afternoon," Toby told her, "but for sure I wouldn't miss it."

"Kyle will be so pleased," Sabrina said. "I'll put you by someone s.e.xy and smart."

"I hope that means I'll be sitting next to you," he said.

She heard Kyle's footsteps approaching the bedroom door. "We'll just have to see," she said, lowering her voice.

Kyle appeared in the doorway as she put down the receiver. "S'up?"

"Nothing." Her voice sounded high and false-the squawk of a seabird.

He smiled. "Need anything? I'm going out for a pack of smokes."

"I'm fine." How could he not notice her discomposure?

"See you in a few."

She was relieved that he hadn't noticed anything, but after the elevator door closed behind him, she wondered if he'd always been so un.o.bservant. In cla.s.s she'd often heard him invoke Henry James's prescription for writers: "Try to be one of the people on whom nothing is lost." He also had it on a typed index card tacked on the bulletin board over his desk.

She was pleased, though, to nab Toby for the party. That was a coup. And she'd definitely seat him next to her; after all, he'd asked. And as the hostess, she figured she was ent.i.tled to sit beside the smartest and most entertaining guy at the party. She'd loved his book. Sure, it had become fas.h.i.+onable to say Toby's novel was overrated-she'd heard Kyle say it-but in her opinion that was just jealousy talking.

The answering machine was a problem. She kept meaning to get the service from Verizon, but for now she turned down the volume whenever she left the bedroom, worried that Kyle might overhear something about his birthday. She kept the RSVP list in the bottom drawer of her desk. Suddenly she wondered if he ever looked through her things, or, for that matter, wondered about her life beyond the sphere of this loft. She considered the few stories he'd written since they'd been living together: The women in the stories weren't terribly complex, really. There was a recurring neurotic, mendacious, narcissist type that represented his old girlfriend. And then there was the nice girl, presumably her, who the angst-ridden protagonist struggles to be worthy of. Nice, but hardly subtle or interesting. Which said more about his lack of curiosity than it did about her. She couldn't remember the last time he'd asked her about her desires and dreams and fears. She hadn't said anything at the time, reading the last couple of stories, but he actually wasn't very good with female characters.

While Kyle was out getting cigarettes, George Bra.s.so called to accept. "But I'd rather be having an intimate dinner with you," he said.

"I'm not sure Kyle would like that."

"Does that mean you told him about us?"

"To tell you the truth, I forgot about us until just this minute," she said. They'd been cla.s.smates at Yale and they'd had a fling their first year in the city.

"You've never told him?"

"A girl needs a few secrets," she said.

"I couldn't agree more."

She heard the elevator. "I've gotta go. Kyle's back."

"Call me."

Sabrina went out to make a cup of tea, and Kyle was in the kitchen, flipping through the mail. While she stood at the counter, waiting for the water to boil, he came up behind her and wrapped one arm around her waist, groping her breast with his free hand.

"What say we take a little break?" he said.

"From what?" For some reason, she wasn't really in the mood. But as he stroked her breast, she relented. "Okay," she said, turning off the kettle and walking back to the bedroom.

"Wow," he said when they'd finished. She was almost surprised to hear his voice, so absorbed had she been in her own o.r.g.a.s.m. She felt a little guilty, realizing she'd been thinking about George. They'd never really had any resolution to an affair that had lasted only a few months before George went off to Paris for Newsweek Newsweek. Was she keeping her options open? George had, upon his return to New York, become a mutual friend, but somehow she'd neglected to tell Kyle about their history. Then again, she wondered why he'd never asked. She'd always been afraid the s.e.xual tension between her and George was conspicuous, but Kyle had never once commented on it, which suddenly seemed incredibly weird. Was he that unperceptive, or did he just not care?

Two hours later she found herself increasingly irritable as she waited for him to leave for his weekly department meeting. She had a lot of party-related calls to make. With each pa.s.sing minute she became more agitated. Finally she went out to see what he was doing. As nonchalantly as she could, she asked about the meeting.

"Postponed," he said cheerfully. "Haddon and Maselli are sick."

The next day, Sabrina had to fly to D.C. She worried herself sick about the phone, then decided it was better to say something than to have Kyle pick up her phone or turn up the volume on the answering machine.

"Listen," she said, "I've ordered this birthday present and somebody might be calling about it. That's why I turned down the volume on the machine."

"You don't have to get me anything," he said.

Which struck her as a silly thing to say.

"Of course I do. And you sure as h.e.l.l better get me something for mine. Now promise me you'll stay away from the phone."

"Cross my heart and hope to die."

The next evening, the night before the party, they stayed home and watched Le Mepris Le Mepris, G.o.dard's adaptation of the Moravia novel. Kyle was in a Moravia phase.

"Do you ever get jealous?" she asked, lying on the couch with her legs in his lap.

He shrugged. "Not really. I trust you."

"I trust you, too," she said. "But I wouldn't want you sharing a villa in Capri with Brigitte Bardot."

"Don't worry," he said. "She must be in her seventies by now."

"Wouldn't you be worried if I were on an island with some hunky guy?"

"Probably," he said.

In the end, Kyle was surprised. He was expecting dinner a deux a deux, tickled that the restaurant was named after a Henry James novel. When everyone jumped up from behind the banquettes, he was flabbergasted.

"You really didn't have any idea, did you?" she said.

"Not a clue," he said before happily throwing himself into the scrum of his friends, many of whom had originally been her friends.

Brom, the owner, materialized at her side with a drink. "Ketel One and tonic," he said.

"You remembered."