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Back When We Were Bright and Beautiful Save as PDF
Chapters (72)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. Part One
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. Part Two
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. Part Three
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. Epilogue
  68. Author’s Note
  69. Acknowledgments
  70. About the Author
  71. Also by Jillian Medoff
  72. About the Publisher

I want to feel his body against mine. Nothing can deter a willful teenage girl who burns with want. Luckily, Marcus is a mass of contradictions. An honorable man, engaged father, and devoted husband, but he also likes to court danger. One night, after weeks of cajoling, I convince him to take me out for drinks. We end up at a tiny bar in the Bronx, a sketchy hole in the wall, where we’re anonymous. When we walk in, not one person glances our way.

“See, Marcus?” I say. “Told you.”

I’m wearing a full face of makeup, red red lipstick. High heels. Fishnet stockings. A tight leather skirt. I dress slutty for Marcus, the way he likes women. In this way, he’s like a man from the nineteen fifties, which I find bewildering and sad. He talks a lot about fucking, he flirts like a dog. He sneaks porn on the sly. He’s hired hookers in the past. What about his wife? Does she like sex too? She does not, he says. New subject.

Marcus orders a beer. The bartender looks at me. “Dirty martini,” I say boldly, as if this is my usual. My stomach flips over, afraid he’ll refuse or demand my ID. “Sure,” he says.

I’m not sixteen yet, I want to shout, giddy from the deception.

Marcus thinks it’s funny too. “Guess there are no rules anymore.”

When my drink comes, I swallow it in one go.

“Hey, hey, kiddo,” he says. “Slow it down.”

I order another, then a third. Marcus switches to whiskey. Soon, we’re drunk. Well, I am. We laugh uproariously at everything, funny or not. He touches my thighs, my face. I lean in too far and almost fall off my stool. When I catch myself, I look up.

I gasp. Anton is sitting across the bar. His son, Joey, is to his right.

Quickly, I grab Marcus. “We have to go.” My heart clangs in my chest. I look again. Anton is still there. But is it Anton? I can’t tell, it’s so dark.

In the cab, speeding downtown, Marcus soothes me. “Don’t think twice about it.” He’s not worried; or if he is, doesn’t show it. “You’re not sure it was him. Or if he saw us.” The other point he didn’t make, though I know he thought it: Anton Rivera is a doorman. Joey Rivera is his son. Neither of them is a person worth considering, if a person at all.

28

WOOZY, I STEP OUT OF THE ELEVATOR. THE HOUSE IS DARK except for a dim light in the celebration room. I head down the hall, and find Lawrence slumped in his chair, watching CNN with the sound off.

“Why are you sitting in the dark?” I switch on the lamp.

“Wow, that’s bright.” He shields his eyes.