Turbulence

  “Ben—”

  “I think I would know better than to do something like that in public, don’t you think?” He scoffed. “There’s a Hilton down the street for Christ’s sake and I get free rooms. I’m pretty sure I would take her there and not here.”

  I stared at him, completely taken aback.

  He laughed, stepping closer and putting his hands on my shoulders. “Lighten up, Gill. Learn how to laugh a little.”

  “Learn how to tell a joke.” I jerked away from him. “Why were you touching her like that?”

  He shook his head, looking as if I was being bothersome. “I told you I’d take you to Hemingway’s after this to discuss whatever the hell you wanted to talk about. Do you really want to have an unnecessary conversation like this now?”

  “Right now.”

  He groaned and grabbed my hand, tugging me past a group of suits and up a small flight of stairs. He opened the door and led me onto the half-covered roof.

  The rain had slowed to a light sprinkle, and the winds were whipping against the both of us. A man in a white tuxedo was sitting on the far side of the roof, singing aloud and lightly fingering the keys of a grand piano as if we weren’t around.

  “Lovers in New York...” He crooned. “Trying to find a place alone in New York...”

  “Okay, Gillian,” Ben said, standing in front of me. “I’m not going to argue with you because we’re above that. But whatever you want to talk about now and at Hemingway’s, I’m game.”

  “Are you cheating on me?” The question escaped my lips before I could completely think it through. It was a question I would’ve never even thought to ask until mere minutes ago.

  “Am I what?”

  “Are you cheating on me?”

  “Gillian...”

  “It’s a simple yes or no question, Ben. Are you?”

  He was silent for several seconds, slipping his hands in and out of his pockets, all while looking at me as if he wasn’t sure what to say. It wasn’t until the pianist started a new song that he finally looked right into my eyes.

  “I’m not cheating on you,” he said. “Not technically.”

  “Not technically?”

  “Let me explain.” He stepped closer and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “It’s just sex, Gillian. Just sex.”

  “We have sex, Ben. Lots of sex. Have you been sleeping with Allyson?”

  “I haven’t slept with Allyson...yet.” He looked as if this was no big deal. “And you and I do not have ‘lots of sex.’ That’s the problem. Five to six days is a long time for people our age to go without sex. Not to mention that sometimes I don’t see you for weeks at a time while you’re out being a so-called flight attendant or working at that other ridiculous job that I won’t even call by name right now.”

  “Executive housekeeper,” I said it for him. “And what do you mean ‘so-called’ flight attendant?”

  “Exactly what it sounds like. I’ve flown more than you have over the past year and a half, and to places that are more than one or two hours away.”

  “Is that why you’ve lied to your dad about where I work?”

  “No, I lied to him so he wouldn’t team up with my mother and pressure me to dump you. Having a girlfriend who cleans apartments and serves pretzels in the sky isn’t something that will necessarily go over well in our social circles.” He looked into my eyes. “All of that aside though, I really like you—damn near love you. I don’t want a little white lie and a few senseless fucks with a few girls I care nothing about to get between us.”

  I felt a tear rolling down my face, felt my naive heart beginning to break. “How many girls, Ben?”

  “You’re focusing on the wrong thing.” He rubbed my arm. “I just said that I damn near love you. This is where you say that you love me back and we go find somewhere to get reacquainted. Preferably someplace private and quiet.”

  “How many girls have you fucked behind my back, Ben?” I nearly yelled.

  “Lovers in New York...” The pianist’s voice carried against the wind. “Lovers fighting in New York...”

  “Ten or so,” he said flatly. “But I always come back to you, see? I don’t take any of them on dates, I don’t have long conversations with them on the phone like the two of us have, and I definitely don’t let any of them spend the night at my place like I’ve let you. That’s because I only use them for sex. I like you for you, and I actually care about you.”

  More tears fell down my face as he continued to explain his twisted logic, as I silently cursed myself for somehow missing all of the signs. The late night meetings across town, the buzzing of his phone coming in the middle of the night, the sudden growing obsession with wealth and “looking good for whoever else might see me today.”

  I started to wonder about all the dinner parties I’d attended with him, if the smiles and waves from other women meant far more than a casual hello. If he’d paraded me around as a part-time girlfriend who knew all about his side affairs.

  “Why are you looking like a deer in headlights, Gill?” he asked, his tone suddenly soft.

  “Because I honestly feel like one...Was there ever a time when you weren’t sleeping with other women behind my back?”

  “The first few months we were together,” he admitted. “I only slept with you then.”

  “We’ve been together for years.”

  “And we can be together for many more...If you can agree to let go of your current blue collar jobs and maybe go back to your old job—the actual, impressive one, or agree to work at my dad’s firm. Maybe we can be on the same schedule and I won’t have to resort to sleeping with other people. We’ve both had a hand in this, Gillian. Both of us.”

  I stepped back and held back a cry. I refused to let him see me break down.

  “Lovers in New York...” The pianist sang ten times louder than before. “Lovers crying tears of—”

  “Please shut the fuck up!” I shouted at him, misdirecting my anger and hurt. I took a deep breath and started to apologize, but he ignored my outburst and continued singing anyway.

  “Oh, babe.” Ben held up his arms and stepped toward me for a hug. “Don’t cry, it’s okay. Come here.”

  “Don’t touch me. Don’t you dare touch me.”

  “Fine. Let’s at least get on the same page before we go back inside to the party,” he said. “I don’t need you causing a scene in front of all my parents’ friends. How would you like to compromise on our issues?” He paced back and forth. “I’m willing you listen to your ideas, although I must admit, if you want to ensure that I only sleep with you, you’ll have to make some major changes and give me time to adjust to that again.”

  I didn’t say a single word. The last word wasn’t worth it. Not now, not ever.

  We were finished.

  I turned around and walked away, ignoring his pathetic, weak calls after me. Without looking back, I weaved through the party guests, plastering a fake smile on my face as they smiled and nodded at me. Not wanting to come face to face with the throng of photographers near the elevators, I took the stairwell down a few floors and caught the elevator from there to the ground level.

  Hot tears fell down my cheeks and my chest heaved up and down with every step. Each one was a reminder that I was abandoning a one-sided relationship that once seemed so promising. That the issues I’d planned to bring up later were minor footnotes compared to the pages of problems Ben revealed.

  When I reached the lobby’s doors, I noticed the rain’s sudden return. It was falling harder now than it was when I first arrived.

  “Miss Taylor?” A deep, masculine voice called from behind. “Miss Taylor?”

  “Yes?” I turned around and found myself face to face with the Walsh family’s driver, Francis.

  “Are you leaving the party now?” he asked. “Alone?”

  I nodded.

  “Will Mr. Walsh be joining you?”

  “No, and I don’t need a ride,” I said. “I don’t want to acc
ept anything else from Mr. Walsh ever again.”

  Ignoring me, he grabbed a black umbrella and opened the front door. He let the umbrella up against the rain and gestured for me to go with him.

  “I was ordered to take you home, Miss Taylor.” He wasn’t going to let me leave on my own terms. “I was told this was my priority hours before you arrived.”

  “If you insist...” I held back a sigh and walked with him to a waiting black town car.

  As he settled into the front seat and adjusted the air settings, I looked at my phone and saw an influx of text messages.

  Ben: Instead of going to Hemingway’s, I’ll have Francis take us to your place so we can have a real discussion about this later.

  Ben: I’m willing to come to your apartment in Brooklyn, Gillian... BROOKLYN! If that’s not trying to compromise and get on one accord with you, I don’t know what is.

  Ben: Did you leave the party? Did you REALLY leave before we could get a photo together?

  Ben: Answer my phone calls, Gillian. Now.

  Ben: Gillian...?

  Francis steered the car down Avenue of the Americas and I wiped away fresh tears. The last thing I wanted to do tonight was wake up to Ben knocking on my door for a conversation.

  The car approached a yellow light, and as it came to a complete stop, the perfect way to avoid Ben tonight hit me.

  “Francis?” I asked.

  “Yes, Miss Taylor?”

  “Would you mind dropping me off somewhere else instead of my apartment?”

  “Depends on how ‘safe’ this alternate location is.” He looked at me through the rearview mirror and furrowed his brow. “A bar is not an acceptable option.”

  “It’s not a bar. It’s The Madison on Park Avenue.”

  “Ah,” he said with a smile. “Yes. Your other place of employment will be safe enough. Should I I assume you won’t want me to tell Mr. Walsh that’s where I dropped you off?”

  “Yes. Please don’t tell him.”

  He nodded, and when the light turned green, he made a U-turn and headed toward the other side of Manhattan. Passing the grand front entrance, he parked near the rear of the building and stepped out to open my door, once again holding the umbrella up for me.

  As if he could tell that he probably wouldn’t be seeing me again, he handed the umbrella over to me and shook my hand, wishing me the best of luck.

  I knew he wouldn’t get back into the car until he actually saw me go inside, so I pulled out my employee badge and held it against the door. I gave him one last wave before slipping inside and letting the door shut.

  I grabbed a Madison tour brochure and held it up to my face, pretending to read as I walked past my supervisor’s office. I was grateful that only the night crew, people I hardly ever worked with, were too busy working on files and handling phone calls to look up.

  Keeping my head toward the ground, I headed down the hall and across the lobby, all the way to the freight elevators.

  The second the doors opened, I stepped inside and hit “80,” knowing that the floor and the condo it contained would be completely empty like it always was. Ironically, whoever lived there—well, barely lived there, was overly insistent about having the highest level of privacy. All for a unit that was never used.

  There were cameras in the hallway, cameras above the door, and an additional passcode to the floor itself. But since I was always assigned to clean this particular unit, I knew how to get around every security measure.

  Stepping off the elevator, I held the doors open for a split second, waiting until the hallway camera rotated to the left so I could have a full ten seconds to slip by unseen. I quickly disabled the hidden cameras in the hallway vases, double-checking to make sure there weren’t any new ones. Then I hit the blackout button on the newly installed doorway camera, giving myself an extra five seconds to slip inside without notice.

  I knew that doing this was wrong, that if management ever found out just how often I did it, I would be fired on the spot, but I’d become somewhat attached to this condo. Since I always went the extra mile for the invisible tenants who lived here, I sometimes felt like it was mine. And admittedly, whenever I worked late or wanted to escape the pathetic excuse of an apartment I lived in, I always came here.

  Out of all the units in the building, this one was the best by far. Its panoramic, floor to ceiling windows stretched across the entire back wall and gave way to a stunning view of downtown with a glimpse of the Hudson River.

  There were five guestrooms, three bathrooms, and a master bedroom that still made my jaw drop each time I saw it. The floors were a cool, white marble, and the furniture that filled all of the rooms were either beige or black or some combination of the two. They all looked as if they’d been handpicked out of a designer’s wet dream.

  I walked into the state of the art kitchen and hit the lights, overturning all of the collectible Coke cans out of habit. Then I opened one of the cabinets under the sink and pulled out the blue overnight bag I kept hidden behind the cleaning supplies.

  “Welcome home.” The speaker system suddenly sounded, echoing throughout the space. “You have four new messages. Please say the password.”

  “No,” I answered back.

  “Please say the password.”

  “No.”

  “Okay.” There was a beeping sound. “Some other time.”

  I took out a bottle of wine from the massive chilled collection and tossed back gulp after gulp, attempting to numb the aching pain in my chest. As soon as I finished the bottle, I slipped into the master suite and undressed, stepping into the pristine stone-walled shower.

  As the warm water rushed over me, I shut my eyes and allowed myself to cry. I heard my phone ringing in the other room and knew it was Ben calling with more painful things to say, but I didn’t make a move to answer it.

  I turned the water temperature to a much hotter setting, and I stood there until my skin was red and raw, until I could barely feel my fingertips.

  When I couldn’t take anymore, I turned off the water and reached behind the hanging rack of shampoo bottles and grabbed my strawberry lotion. I smoothed it all over myself before changing into my pajamas and covering my tracks.

  I tucked my lotion and body wash back into their hiding places, stuffed the empty wine bottle at the bottom of the trash can, and made sure the cameras in the kitchen were still running on the loop I’d wired them on during my last stay.

  After making sure everything was in its rightful place, I walked into my favorite room in the entire condo, the private library.

  The tenants owned at least five hundred books, and they updated their study every four months with the bestsellers and a fresh edition of the classics. As I ran my fingers across the book spines, I spotted something odd on the desk across the room. Something I hadn’t noticed when I cleaned the other day.

  Normally, just like every other space in this house, the desk was completely bare. But today there were copies of The New Yorker, The New York Times, and the Wall Street Journal spread open. They weren’t recent editions, though. Their pages were yellowed and frayed from age, and a few headlines were highlighted in blue or circled in red. There was even a small notepad tucked beneath the papers, with neatly scribbled notes: How did no one put this together years ago? These can’t be misprints...They can’t all be misprints...

  From the dates on the papers—1993, 1987, and 1975, I was pretty convinced my first ever assumption about the tenants who lived here was definitely correct. An elderly couple who shared a passion for literature, or perhaps an esteemed historian.

  I left the papers as they were and walked to the library’s windows.

  Pulling the curtains open, I watched as sheets of soft rain fell over the city, blanketing everything in sight. I pushed a sofa closer to the panes and crashed against the cushions, curling my body under a blanket.

  So I could be sure to slip out unseen in the morning, I set my phone alarm for six thirty. Then I opened the brand
new crossword booklet that was on the coffee table.

  I flipped the cover over and read the title theme for all the puzzles inside:

  Trespassing: Even the Smartest Criminals Get Caught

  Interesting...

  I worked on puzzle after puzzle until I couldn’t focus for another second. When I finally rolled over and started to drift to sleep, I caught the time on the clock above the bookshelves.

  Ten minutes after midnight.

  Happy Birthday to me...

  GATE A4

  GILLIAN

  New York (JFK)

  My Brooklyn apartment was unit one of four in an aging brownstone nestled between two busy streets. The front door was warped from the slumlord’s lack of maintenance, the steps leading up to the building were cracked and uneven, and the windows were cheap and thin—letting in brutal drafts of cold wind during the winter months. Despite its many drawbacks, there was one amazing feature the brownstone offered: A large window in my bedroom and easy access to the black iron fire escape.

  Carefully walking up the dilapidated stone steps, I jiggled the front door’s handle a few times and pushed hard on the wood to let myself inside. Then I rushed up four flights, kicking up dust with every step.

  As soon as I opened the door, I was met with array of white and blue balloon bouquets and a “Happy Birthday, Gillian!” streamer strung high above the makeshift living room.

  Smiling, I walked over to a massive silver gift box on the kitchen table and lifted its top. The handwritten card inside read:

  Dear Gillian,

  I need you to go through the gifts inside this box first. Then read the card that’s attached to the balloons by the sink.

  Happy Birthday, and I love you!

  —Your favorite (and best) roommate ever, Mer’

  I set the card down and pulled the first item from the box—a short, red, one-shouldered Diane von Furstenberg dress that looked as if it would barely cover my thighs. Underneath it was a sparkling pair of silver Jimmy Choos. Four bottles of white wine stood at the bottom, and wedged in between them was a glittering charm bracelet with a plane and a New York taxi already attached.