Chapters (55)
- Cover
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Acknowledgments
- Cast of Characters
- Part One
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Part Two
- Twenty
- Twenty-one
- Twenty-two
- Twenty-three
- Twenty-four
- Twenty-five
- Twenty-six
- Twenty-seven
- Twenty-eight
- Twenty-nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-one
- Thirty-two
- Thirty-three
- Thirty-four
- Thirty-five
- Thirty-six
- Thirty-seven
- Thirty-eight
- Thirty-nine
- Forty
- Forty-one
- Forty-two
- Forty-three
- Forty-four
- Forty-five
- Forty-six
- A note on the Author
I looked in the bathroom mirror. Even with the draconian lighting I could see that my skin had acquired a rosy glow. Outside the door, Sebastian picked at a spot that was forming above his eyebrow.
It went downhill from there—his skin kept time with the disintegration of the relationship. I was gloriously robust, a punk-rock milk maiden. There was no longer a trace of fat, no wobble or flab. Just acres of creamy flesh and rosy cheeks. My agents finally had their call to Merchant Ivory returned.
I picked the spots on his back for him, squealing with delight as a blackhead wriggled, short and hard, from his anguished flesh. He no longer looked quite so fetching in his tank tops and handed them down to me, defeat in his eyes. My tiger-eye irises shining with glee, I slashed the tank tops into crop tops and wore them with pink bra straps hanging out.
At night, I felt greater compassion for Sebastian, felt guilty for all the darkness I had shown him. I saw it dancing in his dreadlocks and, as he slept, I tried to pick it out. It didn’t work. Though I had put it there, I couldn’t take it away. By then, he cried more than me and breathed choked dreams in and out of his short, straight nose all night long. I always slept under the crook of his arm, even though his arm was so thick and heavy, sometimes I could barely breathe. I would never move him or say so much as a word. I tried very hard to wake up in the exact same position in which I had fallen asleep.
Sebastian smoked his way through a particularly tense dinner. “Have you ever seen any plays by Chekhov?” I asked, picking at my risotto, then cut myself short. “No, of course you wouldn’t have.”
Sebastian stubbed his cigarette out. “Why do you do that to me? Why do you think I’m stupid? Unlike you, I actually went to college.”
“To study English literature, so I hear.”
“I have a good job,” his voice rose.
“Sebastian, you’re a whore. No, wait. You’re not a whore.”
“Thank you.”
“No, you’re a fucking pimp and that’s worse.”
He scrunched his face and turned away and when he turned back a tear slipped into his meal, a salty garnish on his spinach and mashed potato.
I always felt bad when he cried. He always felt bad when I cried. “I think we do this so that we can comfort one another,” I whispered, taking his huge hand in my tiny one.