I stood up to take it all in; the crowd screamed as Bono began. The force of the music and the crowd was overwhelming. I remember the crowd even more than the music. Thousands of people—all survivors of one kind or another—swayed and sang together under the colored lights. The concert started on a powerful note and kept raising the ante, sending us all higher. At one point, the house lights came up and illuminated the faces in the crowd. At that moment, I was hit with the realization of Bono’s power. Everybody wanted to touch the live wire. The power the singer held over the people packed into the stadium was like nothing I had ever seen. He was fully engaged in life and he was in the moment, and people connected with that. I thought about how intoxicating that must be, and what a responsibility it was to command that kind of respect and control.
Leaving the show, Carolyn and I stepped out into the still-rainy night. It was coming down hard. We walked in a trance for a few blocks and then took our separate cabs home. You think life is over, and then something shakes you like that. I was shaken to see that energy again. Energy is what I had lived so long beside. Energy is who I had married—the energy that permeates life, that comes out of every pore and explodes into the world. It was comforting and entirely surprising to see it was still there. And just like that, music—which I had muted for so long in favor of silent contemplation—came back into my life.
* * *
Several weeks later, all thoughts of music were behind me as I jetted around the country. It seemed I never stayed put in New York for long, and my travel schedule that spring was particularly grueling. I stepped into an airport in the dry heat of Phoenix and stepped out in the dense, humid air of a Miami spring. The Pat Tillman Foundation, which Christine’s husband, Alex, was leading, had just put on Pat’s Run in Tempe. The run was a major fund-raiser for the foundation and involved around thirty thousand people running 4.2 miles (in honor of Pat’s football number, 42). Both my and Pat’s families turned out among the runners, as did a slew of old friends, coaches, and teammates. The event was successful, but the weekend left me feeling drained. While I loved being around people who loved Pat so much, I also felt sad. I wanted him to be there, hanging out and running with us. The event also cast me into a very public role once more, and I craved hiding out in the anonymity of my apartment in Manhattan for a little while. A retreat home wasn’t in the cards, however, as I was needed in Miami for a work project.
I waited in line for a taxi, then asked to go to the fancy downtown hotel where my colleagues were already working. They had set up camp in the suite of a television producer named J.P., whom I had never met, but who would be working with us on an ESPN prime-time special for the next several months. A lot of hype preceded this meeting, as J.P. was reportedly a pretty powerful, wealthy guy. Rumors painted him as a charmer and a lothario, as a huge presence in every room he entered. He was also an incredibly gifted businessman. We were certain to learn a lot from him, people said, and we started to feel a bit privileged to be given the opportunity.
Under normal circumstances, the hype might have made me nervous. But with Pat’s Run so close to my consciousness, I didn’t really have enough energy for the emotion. When I walked into the hotel suite, the first thing that struck me was what a respite the cool, conditioned air was from the oppressive heat outside. I was also floored by the suite’s enormity. With keyboards clacking and printers humming all around, it felt like an upscale office. Only the open bedroom door revealing the elegant king-sized bed indicated that this wasn’t exclusively a workplace. J.P. hadn’t arrived yet, so after chatting with colleagues for a minute or two, I found a comfortable corner of the floor, pulled out my laptop, and started to catch up on email, willing myself back into work mode.
I looked up when I heard a flurry of activity, guessing, correctly, that J.P. had arrived. At first glance, he didn’t seem that intimidating. He looked to be somewhere in his thirties, had cropped blond hair and blue eyes, and was wearing jeans and a fitted cotton T-shirt. Then I caught sight of the entourage that followed him in—easily five or six people, who were clearly attentive to his every movement and mood. Is this how power is built? I wondered. Get a few people to fawn and then everyone thinks they’re supposed to? I waved hello when I heard someone pointing me out to him, then turned my attention back to my email.
After a few minutes, J.P. came over and stood directly in front of where I was sitting on the floor. He knelt down and extended his hand. “Hi,” he said, smiling. “We didn’t really have a proper introduction. I’m J.P.” His eyes were bluer than they’d looked from a distance, and he had a boyish way about him. There was something magnetic in his presence, and suddenly my stomach flipped.
“I thought we’d have the formal part of the meeting in the conference room downstairs,” he said. “Are you ready? We can walk down together.”
“Sure, yes,” I said. I stood up and awkwardly collected my things while he waited. We chatted easily as we walked to the elevator bank, and I was struck by how unassuming he was, with his thick southern accent and relaxed demeanor. He didn’t seem like a bigwig producer; he definitely had an aura, but he also seemed like a cool, nice guy.
“A bunch of us are going to go for dinner later,” I said, making small talk. “Any recommendations?”
“What kind of food do you guys want?”
“We’re not picky. What are some unique Miami places?”
He listed a few places to eat, but I was so distracted by his presence they barely registered. I’m just being polite, I thought. I’m not nervous; I’m just making conversation because that’s what people do when they’re in an elevator together. But there was something more going on. I just wasn’t sure what. I did know that I felt like a schoolgirl.
I didn’t want to be attracted to this man. It wasn’t the right time, I wasn’t in the right place, and of all people to feel attracted to, he certainly shouldn’t be the one—a playboy with a known predilection for blondes. I didn’t want this. I sat through the business meeting, trying to avoid looking at him, trying not to notice him looking at me, trying to ignore that everyone was vying for his attention. Still, by the time we said good-bye that first day, I was pretty sure that whatever I felt was out of my control.
* * *
Pat had been gone over two years, and by then people were encouraging me to date. My mom’s friends were always telling me how they hated seeing a young girl alone so much. I imagined that I could date then if I wanted to; it might be healthy. But I hadn’t dated since I was fifteen, and outside of fielding the constant encouragement to get back out there, I didn’t think about it much. I worried that as the widow, I was going to be something of a broken girl in the social scene.
The more I talked with my single girlfriends at the office and in my building, the more I came to realize that nearly everyone was a little damaged, one way or another. And that I had once had a great love, and knew what that felt like, was maybe less damaging than having suffered a long string of less meaningful relationships. I was not down on men or love. The city had not pounded cynicism into my heart. I knew how to give love and receive it. I kept that affirmation going in my mind. I was not broken. I would not think of myself in that way. I would not allow myself to be buried with my husband, as some ancients were; I would overcome the mental equivalent of the funeral pyre. I would unfold Pat’s letter and let him tell me again to please have a life.
A couple of times I’d sensed interest from men. Usually I was the last one to notice it, and the first one to panic. Once a friend of a friend came to town and the three of us hung out. We chatted easily all night, and when he emailed me the next week from his home in Chicago, I didn’t think much about it. I emailed him back, and we started a friendly email banter. Then one day he wrote that he was considering coming out to New York for another visit, even though our mutual friend wouldn’t be there. Would I be available for dinner? I was caught totally off guard, and deleted the email without responding. The poor guy got the point and
backed off.
It probably didn’t help my romantic life any that I was still wearing my wedding ring. I just didn’t feel ready to take it off. It also felt like an act of defiance; my mom’s friends and the rest of the world thought if I had fun and had a boyfriend, that would mean I’d moved on. My ring was a reminder that I was not over it, and it wasn’t fair to ask me to be. With my ring firmly in place, no one could question my continued commitment to Pat. This little band placed on the third finger of the left hand held great meaning. Wedding rings have been exchanged for centuries, the circle symbolizing eternity—no beginning, no end.
It also happened to be beautiful. Sometime after Pat gave it to me, I was admiring it aloud to him. “Don’t get used to it,” he’d teased. “That’s the last piece of nice jewelry you’re ever getting.”
My grandma had her own solution to the ring problem. She had moved her wedding ring from her left to her right hand after my grandpa died, and twenty-five years later, it still remained there. One day when I was living in Washington, I’d tried out this approach, placing my engagement ring and wedding band on my right hand. While they easily slid over my left knuckle, I had to wiggle them onto my right finger. The weight felt strange on this hand, but I tried to get used to it. I went about my day, not thinking much about it until I was checking out at the grocery store. The young clerk ringing up my groceries said, “Isn’t your wedding ring on the wrong hand?”
I fumbled over myself. “Uh, oh yeah. I guess it is.” I was embarrassed and a little angry. But it was a fair question. People wouldn’t automatically assume that I, at twenty-seven, was widowed because my wedding ring was on my right hand. Once I’d moved my groceries into the back of the car, I replaced my rings on my left hand. There was no easy transition, literally or physically. The ring was either on or off, and I wasn’t ready to take it off.
* * *
It was several weeks before I saw J.P. again, and I talked myself into believing the initial flirtation had existed only in my imagination. He hadn’t paid me any special attention that day, I thought. I had only imagined he had smiled just a bit more at me, or met my eye across the conference table more than he’d met anyone else’s.
At our next meeting, and the several that followed immediately, his attention grew harder to cast aside, even for someone as clueless as I often was. He seemed to make a point of seeking me out and asking me how I was doing. I didn’t notice him doing that with anyone else. My colleagues were starting to grin knowingly at me when J.P.’s back was turned. Many times when he came over to me to chat, it began with a business question but then turned into a long conversation about running, or travel, or our favorite places to eat in New York City. Then one day I was waiting in line for coffee when I got a text from him. I hadn’t given him my number, I thought, and realized he must have sought it out.
In NYC this weekend, he wrote. Meet us for sushi?
Meet us. Of course there was an us, as J.P. never went far without his entourage. The group took the pressure off, though. I didn’t have to read his message as a request for a formal date. He was just going to be in town, hanging out with a group of people, and since we were now friends, I guessed, of course it made sense that he would ask me along. And there was no reason I shouldn’t go, I thought. He was a nice guy, and it wasn’t like we would be alone. Sure, I texted back.
I felt funny about the possibility of anything happening or anyone else at work knowing about our flirtation. We worked together. He was powerful in the entertainment industry. He’d just been through a breakup, and he had a couple of kids. How could it be even remotely professional for us to get too friendly? I might find him attractive, but I wasn’t ready for something like this. All these schoolgirl emotions had caught me completely off guard in the first place. But it was a nice distraction. Most of the time I felt stressed or sad, so it felt good to have a few butterflies to add to the mix. Was that really so bad?
The night we met up for sushi was fun and casual, and it was nice to hang out in a nonprofessional capacity, although our work relationship was never far from my mind. We saw each other even more frequently as the project we were working on heated up. Always it was the same: “Hey, Marie, how’s it going?” he’d say, then find something small to tease me about—that he could surely kick my butt in a game of Ping-Pong, or that I was all work and no play. He never asked about my past, or asked too deeply about my life, but I knew he knew about Pat. The fratricide news was still all over the papers, and my boss eventually confessed that she had told him my story when he’d inquired after our first meeting in Miami.
When the project was over, I felt a huge letdown. Surely I wouldn’t cross paths with J.P. anymore. In some ways it was good that I wouldn’t spend any more mental energy thinking about him, but in other ways, I would miss it.
We texted casually over the next few weeks, but less frequently. In one exchange I wrote that I was headed to L.A. for work, and he wrote right back, Me too. Meet up with us?
Okay, I thought. There’s no professional reason to meet up or continue an in-person relationship. I know it and he knows it. But why not? It’ll be a big group of people; we’ll hang out and have fun. Maybe something would happen, maybe not. I was going to play it cool. I wasn’t going to do what I saw many of my girlfriends do in situations like these: I wasn’t going to overthink it.
Almost immediately after I showed up at the club, Hyde, my interaction with J.P. felt different. Without the work project between us, it felt like a more serious flirtation. He was sharing his table with a group of seven or so friends that night, and we drank and danced until the early hours of the morning. When J.P. suggested we go back to one of his friends’ houses in the Hollywood Hills for more drinks, even with my light buzz, I knew something would probably happen.
When we kissed that night, all I could think about was how unfamiliar this man was. That didn’t mean I wasn’t excited, but I couldn’t help comparing him to Pat. Even though it was different, I found myself leaning into the comfort of his body. I realized how much I had missed this closeness, and even with this relative stranger, my body reacted.
We’d been playing a game, and we both knew it. What’s more, we somehow both knew the rules. This would be casual; this would be fun. We had a mutual attraction, but we lived in different cities. We also both had a lot of other stuff going on, and a serious relationship wouldn’t make sense. I knew any sort of involvement would be casual, and I wanted it anyway.
Just the same, the excitement of the encounter left me in a giddy daze. When I got back to New York, I had to tell someone. I called Christine.
“Hey, it’s me,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Today was such a nightmare,” she said, spilling over. “I’m exhausted. Scott’s been sick and was up all night.” She launched into a story about the chaos of her life at home with three young kids. While usually I listened actively and empathized, that day I couldn’t contain myself. I cut her off mid-sentence.
“I met someone,” I blurted out.
“What? What do you mean you met someone?”
I explained it all, how we had met in Miami and how I had been instantly drawn to him but thought I must be mistaken about his interest. I rambled on for several minutes about the texts, about Hyde, about going to his friend’s house afterward. When I was done, there was silence on the other end.
“Hello? Christine? Are you still there?”
“Wait a second,” she said. There was a long pause before she spoke again. “I don’t know if I’m ready for this.”
“I know!” I practically shrieked. “If you’re not ready for this, how do you think I feel?”
I instantly understood what Christine meant. Pat had been not only in my life, but also in hers. For eleven years he’d been a big part of our family. Since he had died, she’d mostly focused on me, but I knew she was also dealing with her own devastation and grief.
“It’s just strange for me to think of you with someone else,” she
said.
“I can’t imagine myself with anyone else, either,” I said, “but I’m just attracted to this guy. I can’t really explain it.” I swore her to secrecy. I didn’t want anyone else to know. It was too soon. Even I didn’t understand why I was feeling this way. How could anyone else?
* * *
This affair was ideal, I thought. It was the perfect way to ease myself back into dating. I knew it wouldn’t be too serious, so there was no pressure, and that was exactly what I needed to feel comfortable. We flirted unmercifully when we saw each other, and flirted even more over text while we were apart. I felt young and light. Sitting alone at night in my apartment, I’d hear my phone buzz and see it was a text from him. Thinking of you… I would be instantly lifted by the excitement of this little note. I felt so beat up that on some level, I had questioned whether anyone would ever find me attractive again. So in the beginning, a simple “thinking of you” message would leave me glowing for days.
J.P. lived on a large estate in Charleston, and after we’d gone out in New York a few more times, he invited me to fly down to spend the weekend with him. I didn’t hesitate more than a heartbeat before agreeing. “I’m locked into a business dinner on Friday night,” he said, “so I’ll be having some people over. But I think you’ll have fun—it’ll be a good group.”
It was fine with me; I was now used to tagging along to whatever event or meeting or dinner he had in New York, so a Charleston event wouldn’t feel much different. When we first started seeing each other, I was a little uncomfortable in these situations, wondering if anyone present would know my story or wonder what was going on. But J.P. made everything easier. He had a comfortable way about him, and I noticed that most of the people he surrounded himself with followed his lead. He never introduced me by my full name, and most people assumed I was his latest girlfriend and didn’t put much more thought into it. Feeling secure that my true identity was concealed, I became more comfortable chatting with his associates. I was always polite but vague when asked about myself. In fact, I had it down to a science. I could talk about my job and living in New York for hours if someone was particularly inquisitive. I could easily seem like just another young professional and leave out all the complicated past.
The Letter Page 11