which Mary couldn’t read in the dark, but it was like all the forces of the universe converged on that single page.
“Mary?” Dylan was looking at her, frowning in concern. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to—I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Just like that, it was gone.
Something wrong with my brain , she’d told the Chadwick nurse.
(Nothing happened— you met some people and killed some brain cells .)
“What? No—you didn’t offend me at all. I’m sorry you had to see—” Just then her BlackBerry rang, its warbled chime muffled by her purse. “Just a second,” she told Dylan, raising a finger. She reached into her bag and extracted the phone, looking at its display.
DAWES, PATRICK
“Oh, give me a break.” Mary sighed heavily. The number was Trick’s cell phone; no way to tell where he was or what he was doing.
Don’t answer it , Mary thought. Don’t even think about it .
But she had to—that was the thing. She had to because she was on a date; he was interrupting her date and she just couldn’t pass up the opportunity to tell Trick that she was out with a college boy, and so sorry, Trick, whatever you want, it will have to wait.
“I’m sorry,” Mary told Dylan. “Do you mind? This will just take a second.”
Dylan was sipping his scotch. He seemed totally unconcerned. He raised his eyebrows, swallowed. “No, that’s fine. Go right ahead.”
The BlackBerry was making another of its incredibly loud rumbling chimes as she hit the Talk button and lifted it to her ear.
“Hello?”
“Come get your stuff.”
Whatever semblance of a good mood Mary had been in collapsed like a house of cards. You’ve got to be kidding , she thought. Trick, you asshole, you know you’re interrupting my date, don’t you?
And behind that, another, infinitely sadder thought: It’s over. It’s really over .
“Patrick, this really isn’t a good time,” Mary said quietly. Dylan didn’t seem to be listening; he’d taken another sip of scotch and was leaning back in his chair, gazing serenely across the restaurant. “I’m actually in the middle of someth—”
“Come get your stuff,” Patrick repeated. “Right now, or I’m throwing it in the street.”
“Are you serious?” Mary couldn’t believe her ears. The half-drunk martini was swimming inside of her, and for a moment she was afraid she was about to vomit it back up. “Right now?”
“Right now,” Patrick confirmed.
And hung up.
Well, how about that , Mary thought dully. A perfect end to a perfect day .
So what do I do?
But she knew the answer to that. She had to go up there. She knew Trick well enough to know he wasn’t kidding. If he said he’d throw her stuff in the street, he meant it.
“Dylan,” Mary said, “listen. This is really awful. But I’ve—I’ve got to go.”
“What?” Dylan looked surprised, and maybe irritated—but only for a moment. Then he just looked concerned. “Is everything all right?”
“Oh—” Mary waved a hand dismissively. “Yeah. Everything’s fine . It’s—it’s my ex. He’s, like, throwing a little emo tantrum, I guess. I have to go get my stuff. He wants me to do it now.”
“Get your stuff—I don’t understand. You live with this guy?”
“No, I just”—she stammered awkwardly—“I’ve left a lot of stuff at his—his hotel suite. He lives in a hotel suite.”
“Nice work if you can get it,” Dylan remarked. He was folding his napkin and gesturing for a waiter. “Look, let me come with you.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” Mary said.
And it could be a really bad idea .
But then, she realized, it could be a good idea, too.
She was gazing across the table at Dylan, at his suit and manner and freshly shaved face, imagining how he’d look to Patrick’s jealous eyes. Maybe I’ve got that wrong; maybe it’s a really good idea .
“I’m really sorry,” Mary said. “Like, I’m really sorry, Dylan. If I’d known he was going to—”
Dylan shook his
“Mary?” Dylan was looking at her, frowning in concern. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to—I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Just like that, it was gone.
Something wrong with my brain , she’d told the Chadwick nurse.
(Nothing happened— you met some people and killed some brain cells .)
“What? No—you didn’t offend me at all. I’m sorry you had to see—” Just then her BlackBerry rang, its warbled chime muffled by her purse. “Just a second,” she told Dylan, raising a finger. She reached into her bag and extracted the phone, looking at its display.
DAWES, PATRICK
“Oh, give me a break.” Mary sighed heavily. The number was Trick’s cell phone; no way to tell where he was or what he was doing.
Don’t answer it , Mary thought. Don’t even think about it .
But she had to—that was the thing. She had to because she was on a date; he was interrupting her date and she just couldn’t pass up the opportunity to tell Trick that she was out with a college boy, and so sorry, Trick, whatever you want, it will have to wait.
“I’m sorry,” Mary told Dylan. “Do you mind? This will just take a second.”
Dylan was sipping his scotch. He seemed totally unconcerned. He raised his eyebrows, swallowed. “No, that’s fine. Go right ahead.”
The BlackBerry was making another of its incredibly loud rumbling chimes as she hit the Talk button and lifted it to her ear.
“Hello?”
“Come get your stuff.”
Whatever semblance of a good mood Mary had been in collapsed like a house of cards. You’ve got to be kidding , she thought. Trick, you asshole, you know you’re interrupting my date, don’t you?
And behind that, another, infinitely sadder thought: It’s over. It’s really over .
“Patrick, this really isn’t a good time,” Mary said quietly. Dylan didn’t seem to be listening; he’d taken another sip of scotch and was leaning back in his chair, gazing serenely across the restaurant. “I’m actually in the middle of someth—”
“Come get your stuff,” Patrick repeated. “Right now, or I’m throwing it in the street.”
“Are you serious?” Mary couldn’t believe her ears. The half-drunk martini was swimming inside of her, and for a moment she was afraid she was about to vomit it back up. “Right now?”
“Right now,” Patrick confirmed.
And hung up.
Well, how about that , Mary thought dully. A perfect end to a perfect day .
So what do I do?
But she knew the answer to that. She had to go up there. She knew Trick well enough to know he wasn’t kidding. If he said he’d throw her stuff in the street, he meant it.
“Dylan,” Mary said, “listen. This is really awful. But I’ve—I’ve got to go.”
“What?” Dylan looked surprised, and maybe irritated—but only for a moment. Then he just looked concerned. “Is everything all right?”
“Oh—” Mary waved a hand dismissively. “Yeah. Everything’s fine . It’s—it’s my ex. He’s, like, throwing a little emo tantrum, I guess. I have to go get my stuff. He wants me to do it now.”
“Get your stuff—I don’t understand. You live with this guy?”
“No, I just”—she stammered awkwardly—“I’ve left a lot of stuff at his—his hotel suite. He lives in a hotel suite.”
“Nice work if you can get it,” Dylan remarked. He was folding his napkin and gesturing for a waiter. “Look, let me come with you.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” Mary said.
And it could be a really bad idea .
But then, she realized, it could be a good idea, too.
She was gazing across the table at Dylan, at his suit and manner and freshly shaved face, imagining how he’d look to Patrick’s jealous eyes. Maybe I’ve got that wrong; maybe it’s a really good idea .
“I’m really sorry,” Mary said. “Like, I’m really sorry, Dylan. If I’d known he was going to—”
Dylan shook his
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