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.

“I told you,” she says. “My butler drew a bath.”

She motions for me to follow her into the bathroom and it’s an obnoxiously spartan design, a sink you could find in a walk-up in Reseda, unremarkable chipped tiles on the walls, exposed pipes and a dull shower curtain out of a porno movie, pulled aside to reveal the full tub. But it’s not full of water. It’s yellow and she giggles.

“Don’t tell my dad,” she says, breaking character. “I don’t do this all the time.”

“Is that champagne?” I ask.

“Veuve Clicquot.”

I bite my lip. Why must something always go wrong? I never should have come up here and I don’t want to get into a tub of champagne. She could have said it was fucking André and I would have been irritated because I do not need a bathtub of money. First she wants to pretend that I’m her servant and now she wants to rub her money on my cock, literally, she wants me to soak in her wealth. We are young and new to each other and this is the good time, the new time, and we don’t need a tub of money and she knows that I can’t afford to fill a tub with Veuve Clicquot and I don’t need to do that because my dick alone is good enough.

She slips out of her shorts and a proper lady would have taken off her shirt first. She is bare as I expected she would be; no jungle there. She moves one strap over her shoulder, exposing one of those Love tits I’ve wanted to see and she lifts that round Love tit and licks her tongue against that firm Love nipple and the shirt collapses onto the floor. She steps into the tub and sinks into the money water and I don’t move and my head explodes with bad Love word play:

Is this Love is all you need is Love for real?

“Come on in,” she says. “It’s so good in here.”

But I won’t come on in. Of all the fantasies she could have gone with, she had to make me into a servant. She could have opened that door and pretended that I was a CIA operative or the hotel doctor or an escaped convict. But in her fantasy, I’m servile, a have-not, and she’s a princess. This is not my fantasy and she is not the boss and I tell her to get out.

“Joe,” she says. “What’s wrong?”

“Get out of the tub.”

“This is for us.”

“Drain the tub, Love.”

“This is twenty-five thousand dollars’ worth of champagne,” she argues. “Why don’t we just get in?”

I step closer. “Drain the tub.”

She doesn’t want to drain the tub and she grinds her teeth. “Why?”

I look at her. “Because I don’t need twenty-five thousand dollars. Of anything.”

“I thought it would be fun,” she pouts. She stands, parts of her body obscured by bubbles, and she hits the drain. The money begins to disappear into the sewer system and I tell her to dry off. I slam the door. Fuck her if she thinks she can buy me.

I kick off my shoes and peel away my clothes. I hear her snag one of the many plush towels. She’s drying up—fuck you, symbolism—and she’s pissy, slamming cabinets and draining the tub, ashamed and lecturing me about waste. Yes, the girl who fills a tub with champagne is gonna teach me about conservation. This is good, she should feel ashamed, that money could have fed a lot of poor kids. And this is my room now and I am in charge and she yanks the door open and she’s wrapped in a towel.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” she asks. “Really, I want to know.”

“Take off that towel.”

She looks around, as if I’m the kind of asshole who would record something this intimate. I tell her the rules. “No talking.” She nods. I’m going to re-create what we had in the room at Soho House. “We’re gonna play Joe Says.” She opens her mouth. “Joe says no talking.” She smiles, complicit. She drops her towel.

“Joe says hand on pussy.” She slaps her right hand over her vagina.

“Joe says left hand on pussy.” She switches hands.

“Rub your clit.” She looks at me. Our eyes are locked and I step even closer.