Alexander's Gift

The Playboy- 7

Dean felt like a common criminal as he drove to the Old Congress Hotel. He had the ridiculous fear he would be pulled over and found out, or that Dick would somehow be there, waiting for him. Why was he suddenly afraid of this? He wondered absentmindedly how many of his past conquests had also been married. All of them could well have been, for all he knew. He'd never bothered to ask.

The Old Congress Hotel was, like all of the other establishments Dean frequented, for the glitterati. It figured, given that Dick was more than well-off and not at all stingy with giving Mary spending money. It sent a twinge of guilt through Dean that Mary had made their reservations; after all, she had used Dick's own money. What irony . . . Dick was unwittingly paying for his wife to have an affair with his best friend! The nervous excitement that had been surging through Dean all day was momentarily dimmed. But he shrugged the guilt away, reminding himself that this was between him and Mary, not him and Dick, and that Mary was her own person who could make her own damn decisions.

As he pulled into the hotel's nearly full parking lot, Dean caught a glimpse of the horizon where the rippling waters met the speckled black sky. It was there that he found Mary, just a five minute walk from the lot. The cloud-obstructed moon cast cylinders of light across the snow white shore- one ray caught Mary standing a few feet from the water in a halter top and waist-high trunks.

"The ocean's beautiful this time of night. I always feel as if nothing bad could possibly happen again." Mary said softly as he approached, not turning to look at him from her vigilant position facing the waters. Dean wasn't sure how to respond. To be honest, he'd never thought about how he felt towards the ocean. It had always just. . . Been there. People tended to only appreciate things when they were in danger of losing them.  But the ocean was never going to leave, or die, or be changed. The ocean was just . . . The ocean.

Dean followed Mary's gaze and looked out searchingly, as if for the first time. The waves seemed to pulse as if the ocean had a heartbeat of its own, dancing beneath the silver rays from the moon. Breathing deeply, a saline tang filled his mouth and seemed not at all sharp or unpleasant like many of his friends often complained of.

"If only life were as simple as this. If only we could stay here, without the other people and problems that always seem to come along with them." Mary continued softly, seeming not at all bothered by Dean's silence. Her eyes were wide and full lips slack in the expression of serenity that told Dean all troubles were gone for now, like wiping a chalk slate clean. It was as if she had just been born. But then all at once, as if forcing herself to endure a great chore, a muscle jumped in her jaw, and her eyes closed slightly as if suddenly remembering an old embarrassment or worrisome task meant to be avoided. "It's a lot harder to enjoy something like this when you're about to do something you don't feel quite right about." She looked away from the waters with a humorless laugh, but the smile dropped from her lips as soon as she met Dean's eyes.

"You've gotta stop thinking about it that way. You're only gonna get yourself down, and what'll that do for anyone? Nothin'." Dean said almost disinterestedly, ignoring that he was being hypocritical given his own guilt just a few moments ago. But wasn't that how it worked with everyone? Fake it til you make it, right?

"I suppose you're right . . . Well, we really should get going to our room. All the same, I can't stand being here anymore." Mary mustered a sad smile, and it struck Dean once again the fullness of emotion her face held. Lines of bitter sorrow cut the planes of her face- deeper sorrow truly than the situation allowed. A twinge of discomfort once again entered Dean as the voice inside asked him what he had gotten himself into.

"Come on, then." Dean said lamely in as soft a voice as he could manage, threading his fingers through hers and beginning the ascent up the shore to the hotel.

Once they were safely inside the room with the door locked behind them, relief flooded Dean even before he turned the lights on to see what they were working with. For someone in his position, there was something liberatingly anonymous about a hotel room. It was, to Dean, like writing on a chalkboard, where no matter what one wrote, it simply didn't matter because it could be wiped clean and no one would know the wiser. The only problem came when everyone found out about the wonderful refuge hotel rooms provided for men like Dean so that when the time came to sign in as Mister and Missus Smith , the concierge would look down over his long, hooked nose at the couple who seemed nervous enough to have sweat clear through their clothes, and put down their proposed names anyway despite not even bothering to wear the appearance of belief.

A click was accompanied by the room flooding with light- a large enough room for an elegantly simple king-sized bed, matching oak dresser, and light blue flower print curtains.

"It's lovely, isn't it?" As they stood there looking out at the room, those words made Dean feel as if they were admiring their own house for the first time. He felt a desperate urge to do or say something to change that. "I thought you said you didn't want us to pretend." Dean ended up saying sardonically, but then swiped a tired hand over his face. "I'm sorry, I'm just-"

"I know. Let's get a drink." Mary interrupted graciously, crossing the room to the bottle of champagne sitting in a bucket of ice on the dresser. She suddenly turned to Dean gayly, coquettishly with the bottle held childishly against her chest. "To us."

"To us."