Tyranny stood, smoothed her dress down, ran a hand through her hair. She wouldn’t look at Conner.
“Do you love Dan?” Conner asked.
Tyranny sighed. “I’m not prepared to talk about this.”
Something had changed. She was different. He could hear it in her voice, see it in her posture.
Conner said, “Leave him and be with me.”
“Look, it’s all very-”
“Complicated. You told me that already.”
“I have to go,” she said. “I’d appreciate it if you’d wait two minutes before following me back to the house.” She looked at her watch. “Shit. Dan wanted to introduce me to Jasper. There’s an internship available at MoMA this season, and Jasper might be able to put in a good word.”
She saw the look on Conner’s face, touched his cheek, and smiled wistfully. “Try to enjoy yourself. Get something to eat. We’ll talk about this later.” And she was gone.
Conner knew they would not talk about it later. They’d never talk about it. He realized what he’d always secretly known on some level. Things would stay the same. She would not leave her luxurious, beautiful life with Professor Dan.
Conner had been fucked, and that was all.
He pulled up his pants, left the pool house. The smokers had gone inside. Out of spite, Conner picked up a heavy potted plant and heaved it into the deep end of the pool, his ribs protesting only a little. The pot splashed big, plunged to the bottom, and landed with a ceramic tunk. He felt a vague, juvenile satisfaction, which faded by the time he was back in the house.
Tyranny reinserted herself into the swirling party, returned pleasantries without thought, avoided being drawn into lengthy small talk. Her head buzzed, couldn’t form cold, logical thoughts. She felt sick at her stomach.
So stupid stupid stupid. It had seemed so right, a perfect little romantic moment. Moments, however, never stay moments. They never stay preserved, like a picture-perfect scene in a snow globe. The fantasy leaks out, seeps into reality, spoils everything.
She found her husband.
“I’ve been looking for you,” Professor Dan said. “We’re starting the buffet, and I need you to-what is it? Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
Her mind raced. She knew Conner so well; poor Conner, he would never forgive this. He surely thought this was the beginning of something beautiful. His expectations were so pure and final. Tyranny was complex, a churning cauldron of thoughts and emotions and conflicting desires, and Conner would simply never understand that Tyranny could not be tied down to Conner’s idea of love. It was impossible, all simply broken and ruined and impossible.
“You’re crying.” Dan took her arm, pulled her aside, and looked over his shoulder to see if any of the partygoers had noticed.
“I’m not crying. Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll be back in a minute.”
“I need you down here,” Dan said.
“Just a few minutes.”
She avoided meeting anyone’s eye, went upstairs to her room, closed the door, locked it. She picked up the phone and hit Dr. Goldblatt’s home number on speed-dial. The doctor answered.
She told him what happened.
“Do you love this man?”
“I’m not even sure what love is anymore.”
“Some say love is merely a set of electrical impulses formed by our brain after receiving specific external stimuli. All of that romantic nonsense was invented by poets.”
“I hate you, Dr. Goldblatt.”
“My wife often expresses a similar sentiment.”