Panic Attack

seventeen

Adam had played his best round of golf in years. He’d gotten off to a slow start on the front nine, blowing an easy putt on the third hole and needing three shots to get out of the sand trap on six, but on the back nine he really hit his stride. He got two birdies, including one on fifteen, where he used a three- iron from the rough and hit a two- hundred- yard drive and got a great- okay, lucky- bounce and wound up about five feet from the cup and then nailed the putt. He ended up with a ninety- two, only three strokes off his all- time best, which he’d gotten five or six years ago on a much easier course in Fort Lauderdale.

After a couple of beers in the club house with his friend Jeff and a few other club members, he drove back to Queens. He was still feeling upbeat, reliving that big shot on the fifteenth hole again and again. He really nailed that sucker, and the club tournament was coming up in a few weeks. He hadn’t been planning to enter, but if he could hit shots like that…

When he arrived back at the house, he noticed that the SUV wasn’t in the driveway, so he figured that Dana was still at Costco. He was going to call her to tell her about his great round but decided he’d wait till she got home. Besides, she wasn’t interested in golf, and he doubted she’d really care. Instead, as he parked his Merc in the driveway, he called his friend Stu, whom he’d gone to college with but who lived in L.A. now. Stu was a big golfer and would appreciate the story.

When Stu picked up, Adam said, “Wait till you hear this,” and proceeded to describe the entire round. He entered the house through the back door and was heading toward the front of the house, saying, “So then on fifteen my second shot slices right into the rough,” when he saw the piece of paper near the front door. He went over and picked it up, not really thinking, saying mindlessly to Stu, “And then I go for the three- iron.” Stu asked him why he didn’t use a two from that far out, and he said, “I was doing well with the three all day,” but he was getting distracted now as he read:

Adam was still half lost in telling the story to Stu and wasn’t really pro cessing what he was reading, but as he said, “I knew it was heading right toward the pin,” it occurred to him that this note was on the same paper as the note that had threatened his life, and it was written in the same block letters and looked like the same handwriting. Stu was saying something, Adam had no idea what- the dog next door was suddenly barking like crazy, making it even harder to focus- and then Adam said, “I gotta call you back” and shut the phone and read the note again, still trying to comprehend its meaning.

For years, Adam’s patients had been describing to him the shock of finding out about their cheating spouses. They described initially feeling shocked and betrayed and then experiencing a tremendous rush of anger. Just a few months ago, Richard, a patient who had a history of alcohol abuse, suspected his wife was having an affair and said if he found out who the guy was he would kill him. Adam believed that Richard was just acting out, trying to empower himself. Using standard cognitive- behavioral techniques, Adam questioned Richard’s reasoning for wanting to confront his wife’s lover and helped him understand that a confrontation leading to violence wouldn’t accomplish anything other than causing even more pain for everyone involved, especially himself.

However, as Adam well knew, it was much easier to solve a problem when it wasn’t his own. Now that he was experiencing all the emotions of a scorned lover himself, he was as clueless and helpless as any of his vengeance- seeking patients.

“Dana!” he screamed. “Day- na!”

He started up the stairs, then remembered that she was probably still at Costco. He looked at the note again, wondering if it could be some kind of prank; maybe the kids in the neighborhood playing another joke on him. It just didn’t make sense that Dana would actually be having an affair with that young bodybuilder. He wasn’t her type at all, and why would he be interested in her?

But he didn’t see why a neighborhood kid would make up a story about Tony, and, come to think of it, Dana had been exhibiting the telltale signs of an adulterer. She’d been staying out late a lot with flimsy excuses, she’d been on that big fitness kick, losing about ten pounds over the past year, and she’d been taking better care of her appearance as well, going for those photo facials and laser hair removal treatments. Adam also knew that people often chose lovers who were the exact opposite of their spouses, and Tony was as about as opposite from him as you could get.

Now Adam’s rage was starting to hit hard, and he thought, That goddamn son of a bitch. Not only had that big goon been screwing his wife, he’d been screwing with his whole life, sending that threatening note, trying to scare him and his family. He was rubbing it in, not even trying to hide it.

Adam was so upset, so out of control, that as he headed toward the New York Sports Club it didn’t even occur to him that going to confront a guy who was probably twice his size, with at least twice his muscle mass, probably wasn’t such a great idea. Like his scorned patients, he was so caught up in his rage, so hellbent on getting some kind of revenge, that all logic had been pushed aside.

He arrived at the gym, looking hardly menacing, still wearing his off- white, Izod- style golf shirt, with his scorecard and pencil sticking out of the front breast pocket. He went right to the weight room, where he saw a couple of other trainers but no Tony. Where the hell was that stupid son of a bitch? And let’s face it, the guy was a moron. Was that Dana’s way of acting out, sleeping with a retard?

“Where’s Tony?” Adam asked one of the trainers, a blond guy. “Dunno, check out the locker room,” the trainer said.

Adam burst into the locker room, pushing the swinging door very hard into a kid, a teenager. As he went to the locker area, he heard from behind him, “What’s your problem, stupid ass?” Adam went past the rows of lockers, looking for Tony. He imagined himself forcing Tony back against a locker and bashing his face in, pummeling the moron. It didn’t even occur to Adam that he had zero chance of accomplishing any of this.

Adam didn’t see Tony near the lockers, so he went into the bathroom. One of the stalls was occupied, and Adam banged on it and screamed something.

“Hey!” whoever was in there shouted. It definitely wasn’t Tony.

Adam checked the sauna and steam room but didn’t see Tony there either. He was on his way out of the locker room when he heard a guy singing off- key; it sounded like some corny pop song, something about how there was no air. It was coming from the showers, and Adam marched over there and saw Tony in the stall. First Adam looked right into Tony’s eyes, registering his shocked yet knowing expression, and then he looked lower, at his oversized arms and chest, and then at his penis. He did this purposely- to humiliate Tony, the way a rape victim craves humiliating his or her attacker. He thought that staring at the cock of the man who’d been sleeping with his wife would give him satisfaction, empower him. If Tony had had a small penis, a pencil dick, maybe it would have boosted Adam’s fragile ego, but unfortunately, even nonerect, Tony’s penis was much longer and much thicker than Adam’s and looking at the cock only made Adam feel even more inadequate and intensified his feelings of self- loathing.

“Hey,” Tony said as Adam went after him, trying to punch him in the face, but he stumbled, maybe on the ledge leading into the shower, and fell hard onto his knees. If someone had walked in at that moment it would have looked like Adam was performing oral sex on Tony.

Adam was trying to get up as Tony said, “The fuck’re you doin’?”

Holding onto the soap dispenser, Adam was able to lift himself partway up. He was very close to Tony, practically squished against his wet, soapy body. Using his free hand, Adam tried again to punch Tony in the face, the way he’d fantasized doing it, but he was barely able to get any force into the punch, and he hit Tony weakly on the chin.

Tony pushed Adam back hard against the wall and said, “Hey, take it easy, bro, okay, just take it easy.”

Then Adam spat at Tony’s forehead. Tony shoved Adam and said, “Hey, you fuckin’ crazy?” and Adam spit again, hitting him in the left eye. This time Tony lost it completely and grabbed Adam and practically flung him out of the shower stall and Adam fell onto his side. Adam got up and went after Tony again, but Tony, outside the stall now, simply grabbed him and unloaded with a solid right to the face. Adam heard the loud crunch in his left cheek, and then the excruciating pain hit. But Adam was undeterred, and later he’d wonder if on some level he actually wanted to get hurt, if the desire to feel pain, to be punished, was his true motivation. Nevertheless, caught up in the moment, Adam was helpless, and he continued coming after Tony, who kept pushing him away and knocking him down onto the wet floor, like he was some minor annoyance.

When Adam returned from the gym, beaten up and bloodied, he confronted Dana in the kitchen, trying to get her to admit what she’d done, and when she wouldn’t, he revealed his affair with Sharon. At that moment, he enjoyed seeing Dana’s shock set in, watching her whole world fall apart. He felt like the playing field had been leveled- they were both in pain now, both suffering- and it was also a great relief to suddenly be unburdened of the secret he’d been keeping. Finally it was all out in the open; there was nothing left to hide.

Only after Dana ran out of the house- probably heading for Sharon’s- did he realize the incredibly stupid, thoughtless, and hurtful thing he’d done.

He’d counseled many patients about the dangers of revealing a revenge affair to a spouse. He’d told them it might make them feel good initially, but in the end it would only compile the hurt for everyone involved. He’d even suggested that if his patients had the desire to get even they should leave, go away for a few hours to settle down, not act impulsively. But now, like before, he’d done everything he always told his patients not to do. He’d made a bad situation worse, not only further damaging his own marriage but potentially ruining Sharon’s as well.

Marissa, who was still in the kitchen with Adam, said, “Is it really true about you and Sharon? Were you really having an affair with her?”

It was time to finally start acting like a rational adult again, to get in control of this situation. Enough with the acting out and the childish, inappropriate rage. He had to own his feelings, take responsibility for his actions.

“It wasn’t an actual affair,” he said. “It was just a one- night stand… a oneday stand.”

Marissa looked at him in disbelief, and Adam realized how badly he’d hurt her, too. It would’ve been hard enough for her to reconcile her mother’s cheating, but now she’d found out that both her parents were adulterers. What kind of examples had they set for her?

“You are such a fucking hypocrite,” she said. “Telling me how to live my life, giving me all these rules, when your own life is so messed up. And how could you do that to Mom? With Sharon, of all people? My best friend’s mother? What the hell is wrong with you?”

Adam knew she was right, about everything. She had every right to be angry at him, to hate him. After taking a few moments to absorb what she’d said, all he could say was, “I’m sorry.”

“Un- fucking- believable,” she said and left the kitchen. He heard her heading up the stairs, then the door to her room slammed.

After all the yelling and drama, the sudden silence in the kitchen was glaring, but it also seemed foreboding. The way things were headed, the quiet seemed like a glimpse into the future, when he was going to be divorced, living alone in an empty house.

During the whole scene with Dana, his face hadn’t been hurting him as much as it should’ve been, but now the agony was returning. He washed up in the kitchen, watching the pink water swirl down the drain, wincing when his hands touched the cuts and bruises. His face felt very swollen, and it was hard to see out of his left eye. It was probably too late to do anything for it, but he took a few Advils anyway and wrapped some ice cubes in a dish towel and held it against the most swollen areas with as much force as he could stand. He was afraid to look at himself in a mirror because he had a feeling it was even worse than he thought.

When his face started feeling numb and most of the ice cubes had melted, he left the dish towel in the sink and went upstairs. He couldn’t believe what he’d done during the past half hour, how he’d made one awful decision after another. The feelings of self- hatred and self- blaming were so familiar. He was aware that the way he felt right now was the way he’d felt as a child but also how he’d felt after the shooting. He didn’t know why he behaved the way he did, why he almost willfully seemed to make the same mistakes over and over again. Why did his knowledge and training desert him at the worst times?

He realized that he should probably warn Sharon that Dana had found out that they’d had sex. He called Sharon’s cell, but she wasn’t picking up. It was probably too late anyway. Dana had probably gone over there to confront her and cause more drama; Adam didn’t even want to imagine that scene. He knew Sharon would never speak to him again. He’d once told her that, no matter what, he’d never tell anyone about their affair. He’d done such a great job of keeping that secret.

As Adam was putting down the phone, he noticed he had a voice mail. He checked his incoming call log and saw it had only been Stu, calling back, wanting to hear the rest of the golf story. Adam remembered how happy he’d been after he made that last putt on eigh teen. It felt like that had happened years ago.

The Advils and ice hadn’t done anything, and his face was throbbing. He accidentally glanced in a mirror and was horrified by how awful he looked. The whole left side of his face was bruised and swollen, and his upper lip was badly swollen and looked purplish blue.

He was on his way down for more ice when the front doorbell rang, five or six times in rapid succession. It was probably Dana, who’d rushed out of the house without her keys. He hoped she hadn’t actually gone to Sharon’s house, that she’d done what he should’ve done earlier- taken a walk around the neighborhood to calm down and get hold of herself. He had no idea what he’d say to her, if there was anything left to say.

Without looking through the peephole, he opened the door and saw Sharon’s husband, Mike.

Mike looked enraged- eyes widened, jaw clenched- and there was no mystery why. He was a big, stocky guy- he’d been on the wrestling team in college at Stony Brook- and Adam feared he was in for another beating.

“Please don’t hurt me,” he said, resorting immediately to begging. “I’m so, so sorry. Please, please don’t hurt me.”

Mike looked slightly horrified now, as if he’d noticed what Adam’s face looked like, and he said, “How’d your face get like that? Your psycho wife do that to you?”

Adam didn’t know why Mike thought Dana had beaten him up, but he didn’t feel like getting into the actual explanation. “No, it wasn’t Dana,” he said. “It was… I’m just so sorry. I don’t know what else to say.”

Mike glared at Adam hard and then said, “You’re both pathetic. And you better tell your psycho wife to stay away from my wife, because next time she shows up at my house, next time she even rings the bell, I’m calling the fuckin’ cops.”

“Oh, no, what did she do?”

“She tried to strangle my wife, that’s what she did.”

“Oh my God,” Adam said. “Is she okay?”

“Sharon’s fine, but your wife should be locked up at fuckin’ Bellevue.” Mike poked his index finger hard against Adam’s chest. “And you better stay the hell away from my wife, you son of a bitch, or I swear to God I’ll kill you.”

He let that not exactly veiled threat linger for several seconds, keeping his index finger right where it was, jamming it in with more force for emphasis, and then he stormed away without looking back.

Adam remained there with the door open for a long time- he wasn’t sure how long- and then he shut the door, feeling thoroughly distraught.

Marissa was still up in her room, blasting music now. Adam had no idea how he was going to rebuild his relationship with his daughter, how he’d ever regain her respect and trust. His relationship with Dana seemed even more hopeless. When she came home, if she came home, what could they say to each other? He felt like his marriage was almost certainly over. He knew from experience that when two people behave so hurtfully toward one another, they reach a point where reconciliation is impossible, and he and Dana had gone way, way beyond that point.

In the kitchen, Adam saw the note from Tony on the counter. He read it again, in a calmer, less emotional mood than he’d been in before. While the note still angered him and made him feel extremely manipulated and victimized, he was able to read it more objectively. Earlier he’d realized that the note looked almost exactly like the threatening note that had been left at the house- it was on the same plain white paper, was written in the same way- and he’d thought that Tony had only left the earlier note to scare him. But what if there was more to it than that? What if Tony really had been the second intruder in the house that night? Maybe there was some connection between Tony and Carlos Sanchez. Or maybe Tony had been over to the house sometime and met Gabriela and conspired to rob the house with Carlos.

The idea that Tony knew Gabriela and Carlos seemed far-fetched, but the facts were that a note had been left at his house, possibly by the person who’d participated in the robbery, and now an identical- looking note had been left by Tony.

Adam did what he should’ve done right away, before he’d confronted Tony and before he’d acted out so selfishly and thoughtlessly with Dana. He called Detective Clements to let him know about the possible lead.

Her dad and Sharon Wasserman having sex? Marissa was at her desk in her room, staring blankly at her PC monitor, mindlessly scrolling through her iTunes playlist, trying to picture her dad and Sharon doing it. The idea of her dad having sex with anyone was hard to believe, and not just in the way all kids get disgusted by the idea of their parents having sex. With her dad it was actually hard to believe. He was such a serious, analytical person; Marissa just couldn’t imagine him letting loose, having that kind of passion. Especially recently, the last several years, he’d seemed totally asexual. It was particularly hard to imagine him having an affair-a one- day stand- with Sharon Wasserman, of all people. Sharon was so laid- back, so outgoing, so cool, so totally unlike Marissa’s father. And Sharon and Mike had always seemed like the perfect happy couple. Why would Sharon throw all of that away?

Marissa’s cell rang. It was Hillary saying, “Did you just call?” “Yeah, I got your voice mail, but I didn’t leave a message,” Marissa said. “Where are you?”

“The city,” Hillary said, “having drinks at Wetbar with Brendon. What’s up?” Brendon was some supposedly very cute guy Hillary had met one night in the city whom Marissa hadn’t met yet.

“Did you hear what’s going on?” Marissa asked.

“What’s going on with what?”

“I guess not then.”

“What is it?”

“I have some bad news for you,” Marissa said. “Well, not bad news… weird n ews.Fucked- up news.Veryfucked- up news.”

“Can you tell me already?” Hillary sounded very concerned. Figuring she might as well just come out with it, Marissa said, “My dad and your mom had sex.”

Saying it out loud, it seemed even more absurd, almost laughable. There was a long silence, then Hillary said, “No way.”

“Way.”

“This is a joke, right?”

“Swear to God, I just found out. It’s so fucked up. My dad found out about my mom and Tony too. My parents looked like they wanted to kill each other.” “I don’t believe you,” Hillary said, sounding a little edgy.

“Why would I call you up to lie about-”

“I don’t know, but it’s not funny.”

Marissa tried to sound ultraserious. “I am not lying.”

“I have to go,” Hillary said coldly.

“Hill, come on, don’t-”

“Bye,” Hillary said and ended the call.

Marissa was pissed off that Hillary had hung up on her like that- talk about shooting the messenger- but she could understand her reaction. The affair was hard to believe, and it had to be even harder for Hillary to accept because her life had always been so perfect. Her parents had always gotten along so well, and her family had always been one of the least dysfunctional families in the whole neighborhood.

“Welcome to the club,” Marissa said, and then the doorbell rang. She went to the edge of the landing and kneeled down to get an unobstructed view of the front door, where her father was talking to- holy shit- Mike Wasserman, Hillary’s dad. He sounded like he was threatening her father- oh no, this day was going from bad to worse. Marissa hoped her dad wasn’t going to get even more beaten up; who’d beaten him up the first time, anyway? Did her mom do that to him? She’d seemed angry enough to beat him up, that was for sure.

Marissa returned to her room and clicked on a random song on iTunes- ironically and annoyingly, Hinder’s “Lips of an Angel,” a song about a guy cheating on his girlfriend.

She turned down the music and called Xan.

“Hey,” Xan said.

It was so great to hear his voice, the voice of a rational person. “I know you’re busy painting, and I’m sorry to bother you, but there’s some crazy stuff happening here.” She told him about how her father had found out about her mother’s affair with Tony the trainer and then had confessed his own affair.

“It’s been a total mess,” she said.

“I’m so sorry,” he said. “Man, that really sucks.”

“I’ve never seen my mother so hurt, and you should’ve seen the look on my father’s face. He looked like he was enjoying it. It was so fucking sick.”

“Oh, shit,” Xan said. “I’m really sorry, Rissa.”

“I know how busy you are,” Marissa said, “and I really don’t want to burden you, but I really don’t want to be alone right now. Is it okay if I…”

“Yes, definitely, come over. Unless you want me to come there?”

“No, no, trust me, here is one place you do not want to be. But are you sure it’s okay? Becau-”

“Yeah, I’m positive,” he said. “You need to get away from all that craziness, and I want to be with you now.”

“Thank you,” Marissa said. “You’re so amazing.”

As she packed an overnight bag, she couldn’t stop thinking about Xan, how thoughtful he was and how lucky she was that she’d found him. If Lucas hadn’t hooked up with that other girl that night at Kenny’s Castaways, Marissa might never have met him, and she didn’t even want to imagine what things would’ve been like then. Right now Xan was the best thing in her life, the only thing, really.

Her attachment to Xan was weird because Marissa usually didn’t fall for guys so quickly. In the past, when she was starting to get close to a guy, she’d be the one who’d freak out and say, “I need some space” or “I want to take it slower” or “I don’t want to be exclusive,” anything to avoid getting into an actual relationship. But with Xan she didn’t feel trapped or pressured at all. Hanging out with him felt so normal, so natural, so right. Aside from being extremely cute, he was easygoing, sincere, attentive, kind, generous, and funny, and she had so much in common with him it was insane. She loved that he was an artist and that he liked to talk about art. Sometimes when she was with him she felt like he knew what she was thinking ahead of time, like their brains were wired the same way. But the most amazing thing about Xan was that they’d known each other for over a week now and no red flags had gone up; she hadn’t had any what she called uh- oh moments. In just about every other relationship she’d ever been in, the guy would always seem great at first, maybe for the first date or two, but then there would be an uh- oh moment and he’d drop some bombshell, like she’d find out he was a hockey fanatic, a compulsive gambler, a drug addict, a Republican- something horrible.

The morning after they met, she did what every girl in the world did after meeting a new guy- she Googled him. She hoped to find old pictures of him or information about his art, hopefully even a blog. He’d told her his last name was something like Ivonov, but a search for “Xan Ivonov” didn’t bring up any information, nor did a search for “Alexander Ivonov.” Maybe she was spelling Ivonov wrong or, since he was just an aspiring artist, there was no information about him online yet. She was trying a few other spellings- Ivonof, Ivonoff, Evonof- when he texted her, asking her if she wanted to spend the day at the Met. Was that the perfect first date or what? She had such a good time, taking him around, showing him all her favorite paintings. When he went on about how much he loved The Storm, she knew he was just saying this to impress her, but that was exactly what she loved about him, what made him stand out versus other guys. He made that extra effort; he actually cared.

During the week, he wanted to get together practically every night, something that would normally make her feel trapped, but she wanted to spend every second with him. When they weren’t together she felt an incredible void and couldn’t stop thinking about him, and then when they were together it felt so intense that she didn’t want their dates to end. The timing of meeting Xan had been so perfect, because she’d needed to get away from her parents, distance herself from all of the fucked- upness at home, and he was the perfect distraction.

But she didn’t want to sleep with him too fast. She wanted them to really get to know each other first, wait a few dates at least. When he invited her back to his place for the first time, she was ready for something to happen and had a pack of condoms in her purse just in case.

She knew he was worried and insecure about her seeing his artwork- it was so cute to see him get like that- and she kept reassuring him, telling him that his stuff was probably amazing. And she really did expect his work to be incredible. She’d been imagining that he was this major undiscovered talent, the next big thing, and would be hugely famous someday, so when she entered his apartment and saw his paintings it was hard to not feel a big letdown.

His work was extremely mixed. Some of it was very amateurish, bordering on plain awful, but a few of the paintings showed that he at least had some basic talent. His main problem was that his work was unfocused, that he had no singular vision. While he’d told her that he worked in a variety of styles, she was surprised by how vastly different the paintings were. His style ranged from realism to modern to abstract to postmodern, and his use of oils and acrylics seemed almost random. The painting he was currently working on was a total mess; it looked like he’d splattered the paint nonsensically onto the canvas, like a child’s imitation of Jackson Pollock. The pictures looked so different from one another, in their styles and subjects, that his greatest talent as a painter seemed to be his ability to mimic other artists’ techniques, and he didn’t even do that very well. It was no wonder that she hadn’t found any information about him online.

Of course, Marissa was careful to keep all her opinions to herself. She knew that, especially given how insecure Xan was about his artwork to begin with, voicing her true opinions would be an instant relationship killer. So she was very positive and upbeat, going on and on, exaggerating the few positives about his work and ignoring the many negatives. She knew she was taking it way too far- comparing his work to Picasso and Johns was about as overboard as it gets- but at least he didn’t seem to catch on that she thought his work was mediocre. Assuming that things with Xan worked out and they continued dating, she’d have to tell him her true feelings about his paintings eventually, but she hoped by that time he’d realize for himself that he didn’t have much of a future as an artist. Besides, the important thing- and one of the things she found most attractive about him to begin with- was that he was passionate about his art. So many people didn’t have passion for anything these days; they just went along with their narrow, selfish lives without really caring about anything. But Xan was different. She knew that if he transferred the passion he had for art to something else he’d be hugely successful.

When they started kissing on his couch, she wanted to make love to him, but he wanted to wait until he met her parents. She thought this was very sweet, but she was also terrified that her parents would mess everything up for her. Her mother had been so depressed and moody lately, and her father had been incredibly annoying with all his rules. He’d told her it was “time for some tough love,” but she felt like he was just doing it to annoy the hell out of her and make life at home so unbearable that she’d be forced to move out on her own and get a job. He was such a hypocrite, acting so high and mighty all the time, telling her that she was “passive- aggressive” and “acting out” and- the most ridiculous of all- “exhibiting attention- seeking behavior.” Meanwhile, who was going around shooting people? Who was the new Bernie Goetz? Who was the one who’d made a fool of himself in that interview for Daily Intel?

Marissa was expecting dinner to be a total disaster. She knew her father would interrogate Xan, and she was afraid her mother would be in one of her down moods and just sit there and not say anything. But, thanks to Xan and his charm, dinner went amazingly well. Xan handled her father perfectly- taking him seriously, not getting too defensive- and by the end of the meal they were talking like old friends. Her mom was surprisingly conversational and seemed to like Xan a lot, too. Actually, she seemed to like Xan a little too much, getting a little too flirty with him. At least a few times Marissa caught her mother making googly eyes at Xan. She didn’t know what was up with her mother and younger guys these days. Weren’t men supposed to have the midlife crises? What was she going to do next, start buying sports cars?

After dinner, it was great to finally be alone with Xan in a bed. As they undressed each other and during foreplay, it felt different than it had with previous boyfriends. This wasn’t just hooking up with some random guy. This was the beginning of something special.

But unfortunately, just like seeing his artwork, the sex itself was a major disappointment. It wasn’t due to a lack of passion, because Xan was definitely trying. If anything, he was trying too hard, making so much noise. It was embarrassing with her parents so close by, and it was hard for her to relax and focus. She whispered “Shh” a few times and said, “We have to be quiet,” but it was like he couldn’t control himself, and there was a limit to what she could say to him. She sensed that- like his art- sex was something he took very seriously and that any suggestions she made would be misinterpreted as criticism. She definitely didn’t want to offend him their first time doing it. Besides, Xan seemed very inexperienced- he’d only mentioned a couple of past serious girlfriends- and she didn’t want to make him feel self- conscious, like he was doing something wrong and needed coaching. She figured that once they got to know each other’s bodies, and some of his nervous ness and awkwardness faded, the sex would improve. Meanwhile, everything else about the relationship felt so perfect.

She left the house without bothering to tell her father where she was going and took the subway to Xan’s in Brooklyn. On the way to his building, she imagined that she was living with him. She knew she was getting way ahead of herself, but so what? It was fun to fantasize. Xan’s place was small, but it would be a good starter apartment, and with a little decorating and better use of the space it had a lot of potential. Living with a guy would be a blast, and she had a feeling that Xan would be very laid- back and easy to get along with. She had enough money to pitch in for rent for several months at least, and eventually she’d find some kind of job or go back to school or do something. When the timing felt right she’d gently persuade him to find a career outside of art. She wouldn’t really care what he did for a living, because to her who he was was more important than what he was. She’d never been materialistic. She didn’t want to marry some doctor and be miserable her whole life- she’d watched her mother make that mistake.

Xan buzzed her up to his apartment. Although it had only been a few hours since they’d seen each other, it felt like it had been days, and it was great just to be with him, to hug him, to feel close to somebody.

They got right into bed and lay side by side facing each other, kissing and giggling with their noses touching.

“So it sounds like it was pretty crazy over there, huh?” Xan asked.

“You have no idea,” Marissa said. “I walked into the kitchen, and they looked like they wanted to kill each other. My dad’s whole face was bleeding, my mother must’ve hit him or something, and then my dad said that he’s been cheating, too. When my mother comes home it’s gonna be a total disaster.”

She went on, venting, rehashing what had happened at the house. Xan didn’t say much. Occasionally he said things like “It sounds rough” and “I’m so sorry” and “Man, that sucks so bad.” But just having somebody to talk to, somebody who actually cared about her, made her feel so much better.

“I’m so lucky I have you in my life right now,” she said as they rubbed noses again. “I think I must be the luckiest girl alive.”