The Muse's Undoing

The mention of the press flings my mind straight back to the gutter with Fischer. Because he’s a member of the press. Fuck, I’m a mess. I don’t know if I can go another day without talking to him. “How long is this gonna take?” I ask.

“Maybe an hour,” Maggie says. “Then lunch. Why?”

“I have some things I want to get done afterward.”

“We’ll be done before dark. Promise.”

Should I go see him? Call first? If I see him, I’m gonna want him. I already do.

My body misses his so bad. My mouth wants to reattach itself to him. My tongue wants to taste him. I have to remind myself constantly he probably doesn’t want that. It’s way more likely he wants her.

Trying to get my mind on literally anything else, I ask Stuart, “Is your mom coming?”

“Nah. She’s got her book club every Saturday.”

“They read a book a week? Seems ambitious for a book club.”

“It’s just an excuse to drink and gossip. No one questions Mother’s book club.”

“Drink up, Matty,” my sister says, patting my shoulder as she breezes behind us. “We gotta get going.”

Mustering what’s left of my energy, I drain my cup and get ready to head back to the Upper East Side.

The florist for The Pierre events is an elderly white woman in a pencil skirt and four-inch stilettos. She’s giving Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada. Not what I expected, and I wonder if she knows about the sex club next door.

Initially, she mistakes me for the groom because Maggie and I make more sense as a couple, but I quickly fall back to stand with my mom, who’s looking toward the entrance. Her face brightens. “Oh, there they are!” She waves.

I turn. Fuck. Fischer.

Of course. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me he would be here. He lives a block away, he’s helped plan a wedding in this century, and Maggie loves attention.

Our gazes meet, and he nods. In a lightweight sky blue sweater and dark, fitted jeans, he looks so good I want to gouge out my eyes.

He’s with Vaughn, who starts running at my mom like a mini freight train. I spot her with a hand on her back so that when he leaps into her arms, she doesn’t go tumbling backward. Fischer gives Mom a grin as he makes his way over to us. “Am I late?” he asks, keeping a safe distance.

“Not at all,” she says indulgently, then turns her attention to her grandson.

Fischer’s actually twenty minutes late. But he could murder someone in cold blood, dismember them in front of me, and I’d still look at him like he walks on water.

“Hey,” he says to me, offering his hand.

If he expects a handshake, he’s an idiot. I may be jealous, I may even be dying inside, but I take his hand in mine and tug him toward me, using my other hand to pull our heads together. “We need to talk.”

He wraps an arm around my back and pulls his head away, staring at me. One look, and I’m already overstimulated. “You look exhausted,” he says.

“So do you.”

“I’ve been lonely. What’s your excuse?”

“You didn’t look lonely last night,” I counter.

“Guys—we’re going this way,” Maggie calls to us. “Hey, Vaughn! Come here!”

Our mother hurries to follow them. Fischer and I hang onto each other and walk that way, too, just…slower. I splay my hand on his hip beneath his jacket, firmly reasserting whatever claim I might have on him. “So coming home with her was a coincidence?” I ask.

“No, she invited me to a show at her gallery.”

“You went on a date.”