Page 86 of Perfect Satisfaction

I recall Angela’s words at LLF. “Because of what she says I did to Sula but that’s just it, Gramps. What did I do?”

His voice is incredulous. “I really didn’t raise you to be this stupid, did I?”

Liza. “She’s a friend, Gramps! You, of all people, know this!”

“That may be, but does your wife?” As I struggle to respond appropriately, he reminds me of the same advice he’s shared since the night I learned about why he and my grandmother separated. “There’s space in the bed for two of three—you, love, or pride. And sleeping with pride isn’t going to keep you warm.”

“I’m not the only one with an overabundance of pride,” I mumble, feeling like a chastened schoolboy.

“Arek, you know I love you.”

“I love you too, Gramps.”

“But I’m hanging up.”

“Okay.”

“Before I do, think about this.”

My ears perk up. “Listening.”

“If your divorce goes through, what will you regret the most? The marriage or never seeing your wife again?” With that, he disconnects the call in my ear.

I stand immobile for an indeterminate amount of time until Hastings’s voice comes through my intercom, reminding me I’m late for a meeting with finance. I fall on the distraction because in those moments, I am not staring out my window seeing an imprisonment of loneliness instead of the endless possibilities that New York has to offer.

CHAPTERFORTY-ONE

A weekend with nothing to do on my calendar.

I don’t know if I should be ecstatic or insulted.

Since I just caught up on about two-thousand hours of sleep, I’m going with the former.

—StellaNova

Late Saturday morning, I make my way into the denfollowing a trail of laughter. I hear Sula say, “Yes! The riff off.” Then confusingly a few moments later, she starts bellowing along with an acapella group excitedly, “Sticks and stones...”

I enter the room to find a movie queued up on the ginormous television that’s typically hidden inside the credenza. A bunch of college-age kids are singing and dancing in an empty swimming pool. And Sula—my Sula—is dancing in front of the television. The popcorn she must have been eating for breakfast is long forgotten as she struts and sings all the parts.

Leaning up against the pillar, I openly admire her ass as she dives for the remote and rewinds to the beginning of Rihanna’s “S&M.” I’m incredulous when she cocks her head to the side before she studies each and every movement on the screen. Her hips, already seductive, bump up their rotation as she practices walking like the ingenues on screen. With a giggle she rewinds the scene back to the beginning before flopping on the couch. “Yeah, I’m too old to pull a move off like that.”

Without thinking, I stride forward and leap over the back of the couch. “I think you’ve got them beat by a mile, sweetheart.”

The popcorn bowl is threatened as Sula jerks away. “Christ, Arek. Give a woman a bit of warning.”

I smirk. “Why? The results were so much better this way.”

She rolls her eyes. “Did you enjoy the show?”

“Verymuch. Want to go for a third time?”

“Not in your life.”

“Who would have thought the genius brain, Ursula Moore, likes movies likePitch Perfect?”

“Why not? It’s a fabulous movie about the strength of what women can do when they come together,” she sniffs.

“Uh-huh.” I reach my hand into the bowl and grab a handful of the kernels. Around a mouthful, I mumble, “Want to try again?