Noah worships that British newsy from HBO—how surprising—and sends the undercooked scallops back to the kitchen and Pearl knocks over her Chablis and says it’s because she has schpilkas. Harry crafts jewelry and sells it on Etsy. The waiter returns with scallops and I take the first bite and I nod. “They’re ducking perfect.”

Everybody in our party cackles at my stupid, easy joke and we could be friends in real life. It would be a long Swiffer commercial with dogs and potlucks in Park Slope. I start to wish they didn’t think of me as an aspiring actor named Kevin. But then if they knew that we were both high school graduates who never went to college, if they knew we worked in retail, these people wouldn’t be friends with us anyway. I squeeze Amy’s thigh; that’s what’s real, my take-home.

Amy says I’m for sure going to make it as an actor and Pearl says I have one of those faces. Her husband laughs and Amy’s eyes glisten and she got a little too much sun today. I wish I could hit pause and stay here in this moment, with the light fading. This is what all the love songs are about, the moment when you find your own way forward with someone and there is no turning back.

Amy winks at me and gets out of the booth to request a song— “Paradise City” by Guns N’ Roses—and the band doesn’t know it and she’s pouting while our new fake friends are discussing the menu. I kiss her cheek. “You’re sweet.”

“What’s that for?”

I stroke her thigh and move my hand up to where the jungle used to be. “I get it.”

She is puzzled. “Huh?”

“‘Paradise City,’” I say. “Guns N’ Roses, like the first time, when you welcomed me to the jungle.”

Her face is blank. Pearl wants to know if we prefer calamari or clams casino and Amy says both and she doesn’t remember our Guns N’ Roses connection. She’s not as smart as I am, but maybe it’s better that we’re a little different.

When it’s time to deal with the check, Amy pulls the valet ticket out of my pocket. She excuses herself to go to the bathroom and then I pretend to get a phone call and step outside. We latch onto each other and the valet delivers the ’Vette and we’re gone and it’s like we were never even there.

“I do feel kind of bad,” I say. I liked Pearl & Noah & Harry & Liam.

“Oh please,” she sighs. “When you split a check like that, it’s almost easier if half the people disappear, you know?”

When we get back into the room, she brings her blueberries into the bed and she fellates me with her superfruit mouth and I smush blueberries on her tits. I want to talk about our lies and our parents and Charlotte & Charles but she says we should sleep because of the drive back tomorrow. I know she’s right but at the same time, I can’t stand the idea of being asleep and missing one second of our life together.

While Amy snores, I walk out on the deck and see the lights on upstairs at the Salinger house. Fuck that mug. It doesn’t scare me anymore. I have a partner now, and this time, I’m leaving it behind on purpose.

5

THE ride home is always different from the ride out. We’re both a little burned out, a little hungover. We don’t want to stop at Del’s for slushies and we agree that lemon ice is precisely the sort of thing that sounds great when you start the vacation, but not what you want on the way home. We hit traffic. We laugh about our fake friends and we forgot to find out the brand of the sheets at the hotel. She holds my hand randomly, as if to say, I can’t believe you’re real. This is love, this is Sunday, and when we get back into the city, she strokes my neck.

“Will you hate me if I just kind of want my own bed?”

“I could never hate you,” I respond.

We make it to her street and I signal with my blinker and she laughs and that will be a running joke for us, that time we rented that red Corvette and got pulled over for not using a fucking blinker. I can’t wait to be old with her. I put the car in park. She kisses me.

“Thank you,” she says. “I hope you know how wonderful you are.”

I hold on to her and breathe her in. Someone behind us honks. I wave the asshole around and Amy climbs out. At the rental joint, the guy asks me if I had any trouble with the car. It is with great pleasure that I tell him we had absolutely no trouble at all. He looks at me like I’m crazy and it’s okay because I am. I am crazy in love.

The next morning, I can’t get to the shop fast enough. I can’t wait to see Amy. I can’t wait to tell her that I found Pearl & Noah & Harry & Liam online. I can’t wait to find out if she watched F@#k Narcissism last night and if so what she thought of Kevin Hart. I wonder what panties she’s wearing today and I’m excited to see if this shaving business continues.

I quicken my stride and I reach the shop but the music in my head ends abruptly. The door is slightly ajar. If Amy came in early she would have closed the door and Mr. Mooney hasn’t been to the store in years. I yank the door open and step inside. I see dust particles in the air and my nose adjusts to the shop, the way a place smells different when you return after a few days. My senses are on fire and we’ve been robbed and I don’t want this kind of distraction after such a good weekend.

The violets I bought Amy are on the floor, scattered, dry, the vase in pieces. There are papers everywhere, books tipped over. My laptop is gone. I tip-toe around the counter and quietly remove the machete from my hiding spot below the main entrance. I haven’t held it in a while and it’s heavier than I remember.

I am not calling the cops—they are not all Jenks and I’ve learned my lesson. I creep toward the back of the shop, checking the stacks to my left, to my right. I move past fiction and biography and at the back of the shop, the basement door is ajar too. The silence of the shop bears down on my brain. They are long gone, I think. But if they are still here I’m slicing their throats. I clench the machete as I descend the stairs slowly, soundlessly. When I reach the bottom step, I gasp and drop it. I don’t need it anymore.

There is nobody here, but someone was here all right, someone who eats superfruits. There’s a bowl on the floor next to the gaping hole where the yellow wall of Portnoy’s Complaints used to be.

Amy.

She stole every last copy, didn’t even leave one for me. She took the Yates first edition too, the one she blew me for, the one that started it all. There’s a blueberry-stained copy of Charlotte & Charles on the floor, right next to my computer and the pink keys, the ones I made for her. I grab my phone and call her and of course this number is now dead, out of service, gone, just like all the others.

I drop to my knees and scream. She left me. She stole from me. I bought that bullshit about her needing her own bed and she must have come here right after I dropped her off. I throw her superfruits at the wall. Supercunt.

I pick up Charlotte & Charles. I understand the meaning of that fucking book now. Don’t trust women. Ever. I open it and there is a message scribbled inside:

Sorry, Joe. I tried. But we really are the same. We both hold back. We both lose control. We both have secrets. Be good to you. Love, Amy.

I haven’t made a comprehensive list of everything she took, but so far, I estimate $23,000 in rare books. She knew what she was doing the day she walked in here, and I fell for it. I should be dragged into a field and shot for being so fucking stupid, dick-blind, cock-sucked. We’re the same, she said. Fuck me. Fuck her.

She pulled the wool over my eyes with her latex gloves and her dick-sucking eyes. This was never love, not on the beach in Little Compton, not in this cage, not in my bed. The bitch came here to trick me, to rob me, and I made her fucking keys.