Three hours later and ten rain-soaked blocks away from the Cutlers' house, Max Smith sat at his computer, determined to finish a draft of his Times article before going to bed. His roommate, Peter Vega, crouched nearby, placing an empty bucket under the air conditioner so water wouldn't pool on the floor the way it did when it stormed.
"He's obviously paranoid I'm going to mention his daughter," Max said. An email had come from Gabe Cutler a couple of minutes earlier, joking about the commotion and reiterating that it was a misunderstanding.
"Aren't you tempted?" Peter said. "Cutler wouldn't be so upset if she weren't actually knocked up." Peter wrote for the gossipy NYC blog Gotham Gazer, and he was tempted. Things like this didn't happen in Cutler's world of the New York liberal elite—especially not in holier-than-thou Park Slope. And to the daughter of a probable congressman? (A quick Google search had shown she was pretty, too, which always helped—big time.)
"I'll leave the public embarrassment of minors to you, thanks," Max said. "And the lawsuits."
Sadly, Peter knew Max was right. Not to mention that the girl would probably get an abortion tomorrow and make the whole juicy story disappear. It sucked, because Peter hadn't come up with anything good lately, and his editor had been on his case.
The wind picked up outside and water trickled into the bucket, confirming it was in the right spot. Peter stood. He'd done what he could do. For tonight.
