The Art of Pining for Another

Chapter 7

I could have died. I could have absolutely died.

I sat there on the floor in a heap for longer than I can recall. In the back of my mind, I knew I still had to call Alex, but every time I tried to move, I couldn't help but think how comfy this carpet seemed to be, and how nice it would be to morph into a piece of the fibers so that I would become something incapable of feeling everything I was feeling right now.

When finally I found it in me to get up and get on with my night, I could only send Alex an email. I didn't explain what happened – I vowed I would never tell him – but I did ask when he'd be back. The sooner the better, as far as I was concerned. With both of my clients due at early interviews, I would have to be up long before dawn, and that didn't appeal to me in the least at this point.

I thought that if I could make myself cry, I could rid myself of that uncomfortable, shaky feeling that happens when you've made a complete ass of yourself. But then, if I cried, I would wake up all puffy, and that's not acceptable. So long story short, I was fucked in all ways but the good ones.

The only solution was to talk to myself. Naturally.

I reasoned that since he hadn't said anything to me after the kiss/hug/most embarrassing moment of my life/career/anyone's life, that must mean he didn't even realize what I was doing. Maybe he just thought that was how I kissed on the cheek. Maybe he thought it was some weird cultural custom, or that no one had ever properly taught me how to kiss someone on the cheek. Maybe he thought it was hilarious, and not at all stupid or sad or any of the things I felt it was. And maybe he just didn't say anything because he didn't want me to feel bad.

But...

Then maybe the reason he didn't say anything was that he couldn't think of anything to say that wasn't rude or demeaning or a nice way of saying, "I'm going to have you fired, you creepy piece of shit."

And as I talked to myself, and as the evening turned to night, and night became the witching hour, and the witching hour led to the prequel of the dawn, I knew I hadn't really resolved anything. I was only making things worse.

And so without sleeping, I got out of bed, took the longest shower I'd taken in almost three weeks, and cried just enough to let the emotion out, but not enough that those little red marks I get on my temples when I cry would show.

I grabbed Greer's things first. It was almost five now, and I was sure that whatever assistant had been found for her had woken her up and shooed her Mr. Carson out of the room, or at least out of sight. At least I hoped so. I had enough to deal with without adding her and her person – and who he was to her exactly was still something of a mystery – to the mix.

I knocked.

After only a second, Greer answered. She looked more beautiful than anyone should be allowed to look at that hour, and to my surprise, she smiled and welcomed me inside her suite. She pulled her pink silk robe tight around her slender waist and walked to the bedroom. "I'll be right back, hon. And do you think I could wear my hair up today?"

"Yeah," I answered. "Sure." I hung the dress beside the vanity and her shoes in front of her chair, laid out my bag of tricks, and waited for her.

"Ah, Sarah!" I turned when I heard my name, and noticed Henry there emerging from the bedroom. "It's Sarah, right?"

"It is. Henry?"

"That's right." He was lounging in flannel trousers and a plain white t-shirt, and he looked somehow more handsome this way than he had looked the other night in his $3,000 suit. To me, this is always when men are most handsome, for some reason.