The waitresses makes room for him and Dottie kisses him and invites him to dinner and Forty elbows me. “Don’t waste your time turning green,” he says. “Milo is just our brother from another mother.”
I tell Forty I’m fine and then I’m on my feet, extending my hand. Milo opens up for a hug. “Fuck that,” he says. “Bring it in.”
Milo’s eyes are too big, his smile pandering. He’s overly gracious with the waitresses, too complimentary of the cake that Dottie got for Ray. He’s a fucking liar to the bone. He’s a television producer. “By trade,” he says. “But my heart is in the theater.”
I want to know if his dick has been in Love and she says that he’s way too self-deprecating. All people have a blind spot. Love’s is Milo. She doesn’t understand that he deliberately undersells himself so that she will gush over him. “Milo is amazing,” she raves. “Unlike me, he stayed in law school.” He looks down bashfully and immediately I know that they were fucking on September 11th. Love goes on. “And Milo isn’t just a producer, he’s the producer. He’s the reason New Blood, Connecticut won all those awards. He just knows so much.”
Milo smiles. “The lady doth exaggerate. Please, be a friend, tell me about you.”
But Love cuts me off. “Joe,” she says. “Milo is also a fantastic writer. He’s just back from Martha’s Vineyard where his movie played at the festival, right?”
“Actually it was Nantucket,” he says. “And I think Uncle Barry might have had a hand in that. And it’s just a short.”
I look at Barry Stein, who just shakes his head. “All I did was watch the movie, officer. I swear.”
We all laugh as if this is funny and it isn’t and Milo tells everyone about his short fucking film and Love pays attention to him, not me. I am not involved in this conversation and I slip away to find out a little bit more about this fucker. I go online and learn that Milo is Barry Stein’s godson, not his nephew. I learn that he and Ben Stiller posed for photos together less than twenty-four hours ago. I learn that his short is a based-on-fact retelling of the most searing event of Milo Benson’s childhood, when his older brother shocked Darien, Connecticut, by murdering Milo’s father, hedge fund owner Charles Benson, in cold blood.
Fucking Republicans. They kill each other over money and then the liberal boy left over takes all the cash and makes a career out of repurposing this one event from his childhood, first into a book of drawings and then into a Vanity Fair essay and then into his TV show.
I head back to the table, where Milo and Forty fight for the attention and approval of Barry Stein, who says Milo’s ideas have tremendous potential but pats Forty on the back and tells him that his ideas need work. These are two very different statements, which is idiotic because at the end of the day, either you have something or you don’t. Milo orders an açai bowl and Forty orders a Patrón double. I nudge Forty and tell him that last idea sounded good.
Forty nods and Ray raises his glass. “To family, to food, to fun, to the fast and furious.”
Ray and Dottie are proof that money can buy happiness and Forty groans—Dad, enough with those movies—and Love laughs. “Joe,” she says. “Something you have to know about my dad, he is obsessed with Fast and Furious movies.”
I smile. “That’s fine,” I say. “As long as your father acknowledges that Fast Five is the most brilliant one, an affirmation of family values that simultaneously points the finger at our corrupt judicial system even as it endorses traditional American values like Sunday dinner and loyalty.”
I am fucking on tonight and Ray claps his hands. “Right again, Professor.”
Love groans, she prefers little movies, and Forty is drunk now and quoting The Big Chill, as if his knowledge of acclaimed movies will convince Barry Stein that he has something of his own to say. Ray doesn’t like his son like this, drunk and trying. He doesn’t like it when Barry Stein motions for Milo to move closer and save him from Forty and I bet sometimes Ray wishes he and Dottie never fucked it up and had kids.
It’s an ugly thing, the inside of a family, the disappointments, the disgust, and I am relieved when Dottie tugs on my arm. “Professor,” she says. “I still can’t get over that you read all those Jonathan Franzen books. I loved The Corrections, but I couldn’t get through it. Everyone in my movie club was so excited for The Corrections to become a film.”
“Movie club?” I ask.
“We were a book club,” she concedes. “But we couldn’t get through this one book that had us all stumped, something about Haiti, I don’t know, it was so long and so sad. And Haiti? It’s a reach for us, honestly. I wish I were worldlier but I’m small at heart. Anyhow, now we watch movies. But maybe if we had a guide for which books to pick . . .”
“You should ease back in with something more relatable,” I say. “Maybe Portnoy’s Complaint?”
And I choke on my drink because I didn’t even realize Amy was still on my mind and she is, clearly, or I wouldn’t have suggested that fucking book.
“Hey, Professor.” Forty leans in, only to be interrupted by a waitress who lays a hand on my shoulder. She is sorry to trouble me, but she has an urgent message. I look around for Love and Love is gone and the waitress slips me a napkin.
Order: Joe Goldberg
Deliver to: Suite 79
When: Now
19
LIFE is kind of like one of those Barry Stein movies where everything works out. I take my orders and I find Love’s wing and I knock on the door. She is slow to answer and I take in the luxury of it all, the detail, the panels on the walls. Even the abandoned room service trays look like high art—flutes, cheese knives, truffle fries. The door opens and Love furrows her brow, looking at me blankly.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t order any room service.”
“Love,” I say. “I know you didn’t order any food. I got your note, you know, at the table—”
She cuts me off. “I said I didn’t order room service,” she objects. Then she winks and it’s like that. She tries to close the door and I stop that from happening with my foot. Love is kind, love is patient but also, mainly, above all—yes—Love is perverted.
“Miss,” I say, as if I’ve done this a million times. “It’s a courtesy from the hotel, a token of our gratitude.”
“This is sort of inconvenient,” she simpers, running a finger along her collarbone. “My butler just drew a bath.”
I tell her I wasn’t planning on getting wet and that I have strict orders to service her. She opens the door and it’s like stepping into the vault of a fucking bank, it just feels like money, the parquet floor, staunch hardwood—hard, wood—Love’s little silk shorts and her matching teddy and her buttery skin, slightly darker than the creamy walls. The bed is through French doors and she could have shut those doors but she didn’t and I look at those sheets, white, crisp, and I look at her, white, crisp and she shakes her head.