On Second Thought

by Kristan Higgins

  Last night, I'd had a dream about Nathan. We were hosting a party. I didn't know anyone there, but it was our house, and as I went to find Nathan, I saw him heading for the cellar door. I knew in a flash that if he went through that door, he wouldn't come back, that he'd cross to the other side. I called to him, and he turned and smiled, that sweet, sweet smile...and went in anyway. I tried to follow, but the door had disappeared, and everyone was telling me what a great party it was while I groped along the wall, trying to find a spring or latch so I could find Nathan and bring him back.

  Ainsley was back on her side of the counter, checking the roast.

  "I'm so glad you're here," I said, and her face lit up.

  "Really? I feel like an idiot half the time."

  "You're not. You've been fantastic, Ains." Ollie, aware that someone other than himself was getting praise, put his paws against my legs. "And so have you, Ollie-Dollie," I said, picking him up. He had the silkiest ears in the universe. I could well understand the value of therapy dogs.

  "So what's new with you?" I asked, dipping my finger in the wine and letting Ollie sniff it. Not his vintage, apparently, because he jumped down and trotted back to his blanket.

  "Oh, let's see. Judy came to see me at work today," Ainsley said. "To beg me not to give up on Eric just yet. She thinks he's got PTSD."

  I thought he had asshole-itis, personally. I'd seen a snippet of him on Good Morning America and hit Off so fast I nearly broke the remote. "What if he does come crawling back, Ainsley? Would you give it a shot?"

  She didn't answer right away, putting the spinach in the frying pan. "I never pictured a life without him," she said, not looking at me. "I know we had a...retro kind of relationship, but it really was all I ever wanted. So I guess I'd try to forgive him, sure. He'd deserve that after eleven years, right? I mean, what else would I do? It's not like I love my job. I was never the career people you and Sean are."

  "You were so good at NBC," I said.

  "You mean covering for America's most lying newsman?"

  "You can't take the blame on that. You didn't know."

  She was quiet for a minute. "Eric exaggerated on his blog, too."

  "Yeah, no kidding."

  "You knew?"

  I snorted. "Of course I did."

  "Do all men lie, do you think?" she asked.

  "All people lie at one point or another." I paused. "Dad lied to Mom for years."

  "Right." She nudged the potatoes. "Did Nathan?"

  I paused. "No. I don't think so."

  "He was so nice."

  For a second, I imagined Nathan coming in here, wearing one of his beautiful suits, tossing his keys into the tasteful wooden bowl he had for the sole purpose of holding keys, and saying, Was? What do you mean, was? He'd kiss me and then go hug Ainsley and say something nice to her...and...and...

  His face was growing blurry to me.

  That horrible spike was back in my throat. I took another healthy sip of wine.

  "What's it like?" Ainsley asked, her pretty face kind. She still looked twelve to me.

  I didn't answer for a moment. It feels like someone peeled off my skin. Everything hurts or stings or bleeds. I don't even feel like a person anymore, just a raw piece of meat that has to get out of bed.

  Some things you just didn't want to put into words. "It's like being in a dream. Like I'll wake up in my old apartment and think, 'Wow, that felt so real!'"

  "Does the group help?"

  I'd gone twice now. "Yeah, it does, actually. Just knowing they're alive. Leo's really happy these days. Even LuAnn--you know, the one with the makeup and the Bronx accent? She's heartbroken, but she's still laughing. So. Maybe I'll get there."

  "You will."

  The wine was giving me a nice buzz. "That photo shoot I did in Brooklyn the other day? That was a good day. I saw an old friend. It was fun."

  "You deserve some fun."

  "It was nice while I was there, like yeah, I lost my husband, but I could handle it. And then I got back home here, and I ended up sleeping on the couch, because our bed is just so big."

  I wasn't used to this...heart-to-hearts with my sister, who'd always seemed so different from me, so much younger. Yet here she was, pretty much saving my life by living here, even if it wasn't her choice. "I felt like I was cheating on him," I went on. "Because I'd had a nice day. Had dinner with a friend, who's a good-looking guy."

  "So no nice days for the widow. And you have to ditch all your good-looking friends. Got it." She cocked an eyebrow at me. "You think Nathan would want you to be miserable? Don't you think he feels guilty enough, dying and leaving you alone? Get real, Kate. If you have a good day, grab on to it. Now sit. Dinner's ready."

  She chattered about work, about a coworker named Rachelle who'd gone out with a guy who owned seventeen ferrets he regarded as his children, but because he had a job and paid for dinner, Rachelle agreed to a second date. About how the magazine would be sponsoring a Thanksgiving pie contest, and all the ingredients had to be from within a fifty-mile radius.

  She was gifted at charm. I never valued that in her before, but I felt like kissing her hand now. I should write to Eric and thank him for being a self-centered idiot.

  I ate enough to get me to the next meal; food had lost its taste, though Ainsley was a great cook. Then I shooed her off to do her thing and cleaned up the kitchen. I still didn't know where everything went, but cleaning was satisfying, making everything perfect again, the way Nathan had liked it. I oiled the soapstone and scrubbed the sink and looked for the switch that would turn on the undercounter lighting, because that was how my husband had liked it.

  "Nathan?" I whispered. "Are you okay?"

  There was no answer.

  Maybe I'd call a medium, someone who'd know where Nathan was. She could tell me he felt no pain and that he loved me and I should live a happy life.

  Except I already knew those things, mostly. The coroner said he died instantly.

  I gave up on the light switch and went into the den (or study), found the switch on the first try and sat down. This was where Nathan had worked from home.

  The room still smelled like him.

  He'd been making a plan for his parents--a home expansion so they could live on the first floor. Their house was huge, but formal, and he'd had this idea of knocking out the back, redoing the kitchen and putting on a big bedroom with a huge, wheelchair-accessible bathroom, should that day ever come. It was going to be a surprise, these plans. Their gift for their fiftieth anniversary.

  I had a sudden flash of inspiration. I'd have someone at Nathan's firm finish the plans--Phoebe, was that the name of the nice woman? I could give the plans to the Coburns, and they'd have part of him, his beautiful work, in their home for the rest of their lives.

  I clicked on his mighty Mac and waited. The desktop background was our wedding picture.

  There he was. The little mole on his cheek, his reddish blond hair, the slash marks (not dimples) that showed when he smiled. Pathetically, I touched the screen, wanting to remember what his cheek felt like.

  At the bottom of the screen, the little red number on his email icon went from three to seventy-four.

  Shit. I should've checked this before. I'd have to close his account.

  I clicked the icon and started scrolling through the new messages.

  Three were from coworkers on April 6, before he...fell. The other seventy-one were junk mail about exciting investment opportunities and seminars and a few for cheap Viagra.

  "He didn't need it," I said to the computer.

  His email folders were neatly labeled: Wildwood, Jacob's Field, Oak Park--all developments his firm was building. I wondered if I should forward these folders to the firm. I'd call Phoebe, if that was her name.

  There was another folder called Travel, which contained details on a few upcoming business trips he wouldn't go on. Another called Computer Info, which had warranty information and the like.

  And there was a folder
called Kate. Unable to resist, I clicked on it.

  All the emails I'd ever sent him.

  From the first one, sent not even a year ago, to the last--the day he died, I'd asked him to pick up (you guessed it) wine.

  I'd signed it Love you, you big dork. I can't remember why I'd called him that. I mean, he was a big dork, but... And he'd saved even that note. Something as mundane and ordinary as that, but he'd taken the time to file it away.

  I felt the tears coming, felt my eyes moistening, and thank God. All this time, I hadn't cried a single drop. Surely, this would make me feel better, more normal, would start the healing process. If I could have a good cry, maybe that spike in my throat would start to disappear.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw another folder.

  MRT.

  The tears paused. No, no, keep coming, I told them, but even then, my hand was on the mouse, clicking the folder after only a second's pause.

  All these emails were from Madeleine Rose Trentham, the former Mrs. Nathan Coburn III.

  There were quite a few of them. Twenty, twenty-five. All read, some with the little purple arrow indicating a reply.

  The first one was dated September 28, four or five weeks after we'd started dating.

  The last one was dated April 5.

  The day before he died, ninety-five days after we got married, he'd been talking to his ex-wife.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ainsley

  On Friday at 5:01, Jonathan and I got into his stupid Jaguar and headed into the city.

  "Are you prepared for this?" Jonathan asked.

  "No!" I snapped. "I told you this is a terrible idea."

  He sighed and put on his signal to turn onto Route 9. "Ainsley, I realize this is painful for you on a personal level. But professionally, you have to acknowledge that you were the one who forced the issue with The Cancer Chronicles. The fact that Eric finally managed to write something interesting, while shocking, was the original point of the column. Eric's notoriety will increase readership. Controversy sells."

  "I know, Jonathan," I snapped. "But this isn't exactly Time magazine featuring a mother nursing her fourth-grader! This is Eric being a dick. How does that fit into a lifestyle magazine? Our last cover was about the lost art of blacksmithing!"

  "I remember," he said drily. "You did a nice job with that, by the way."

  "Was that a compliment?"

  "It was."

  I stared straight ahead. "Well, it doesn't make up for this."

  "While we're discussing work, perhaps we could schedule your employee review."

  "I think I'm suffering enough, Jonathan, don't you?"

  "You can't avoid it forever."

  "Can't I? I'm going to try."

  "Now that you're here, and I'm here--"

  "Jonathan. Please. Not now. I'm doing this pitch for you, okay? We'll do the review next week." Or not, if I could help it.

  "You were late again this morning. That makes seventeen days in a row."

  Jesus. "I'm sure you have more statistics back in a file in your office, just waiting to humiliate me. Let's wait so we can milk it for all it's worth, shall we?"

  He sighed.

  "You can always fire me, you know," I suggested.

  "I was thinking that if you landed Eric as a columnist, I'd have to give you a raise."

  I hadn't had a raise since I'd started.

  And now that I was trying to support myself, a raise would be really helpful.

  Jonathan glanced at me.

  Funny. His eyes, which I could've sworn were blue this morning, looked very green now. And I wanted to see that little flake of gold again. I'd Googled the term he used--heterochromia. Very cool, making my own run-of-the-mill brown eyes feel very dull by comparison.

  I adjusted my skirt. Oh, I'd gotten dressed very carefully this morning, let me tell you. I wanted to look chic, sophisticated, calm and so frickin' beautiful Eric would feel like his legs were shot out from underneath him. I'd squeezed myself into some horrible thigh-to-neck undergarment to make me look smooth and curvy, if not exactly svelte, and chosen a sleeveless black turtleneck dress, wide red leather belt, oversize mustard bag and leopard-print shoes with red soles (fake Christian Louboutins, very affordable). It had taken twenty minutes of blow-drying, ten minutes with the hair iron and three hair care products to get my cute little elfin cut to look completely natural and unself-conscious. Of course I'd been late for work.

  "Having Eric with us would be very good publicity for the magazine," Jonathan said.

  "I know." It irritated me that he had such a beautiful speaking voice.

  "I think the pitch would be more effective coming from you."

  "I know."

  "And I appreciate you doing it. Thank you for not quitting." He slowed down for the Henry Hudson Bridge tollbooth.

  So Jonathan was being nice, which made me even more off balance.

  The thing was, I hadn't seen Eric since he dumped me.

  I missed him so, so much. I missed feeling special. I missed his laugh, his beautiful thick hair, the way he got down on the floor and played with Ollie, barking at him till our dog ran in circles of joy so fast he was just a little brindled blur. I missed sex. I missed feeling like I was home.

  "So where are we meeting?" I asked.

  "The Blue Bar at the Algonquin."

  Of course. If you were an aspiring writer, as Eric now seemed to be, you'd pick the most pretentious (and expensive) bar in New York City.

  I let out a huffy breath.

  By the time we'd inched through Times Square traffic, I was seething inside. I loved Eric. I hated Eric. This was not going to go well.

  We parked in one of those underground garages that charges a kidney and both retinas for two hours, and walked up to the Algonquin. I might have to break it to Eric that Ernest Hemingway was dead, and they weren't about to be best friends.

  Jonathan held the door for me, and I took a deep breath, sucked in my stomach (why couldn't I be more like Kate and lose weight in times of stress?) and went in.

  There he was, already at the bar, martini glass in hand.

  Everything inside me squeezed. Love, betrayal, anger, loneliness, everything, wadded into a tight ball of emotion.

  "Hi," I said, and to my irritation, my voice was husky.

  "Ainsley." He got up and kissed me on both cheeks. He smelled different, but the same. A new cologne, but still my Eric.

  I had to press my lips together to avoid crying.

  "You look beautiful," he said, smiling. I didn't answer. Round one went to Eric--I was more shaken by seeing him than he was at seeing me. "Jonathan. Good to see you. How are subscriptions?"

  "Very healthy, thank you. We've seen a bump since your column."

  Eric smirked. How gratifying for him that Jonathan, who'd clearly thought his blog was idiotic, was now wining and dining him.

  "Shall we get a table?" Jonathan suggested, and we did, the blue light making us all look like aliens. The waiter came right over.

  "What would you like to drink, Ains?" Eric asked. "I'm having The Hemingway, and it's delicious."

  I glanced at the menu. Name aside, it was a girlie drink with fruit juice and a sugar rim. To be true to Hemingway, it should've been a shot of whiskey mixed with bull semen. "I'll have a Ketel One martini, extremely dry, two olives, please," I said. I could drink a real martini, thank you very much.

  "Bowmore single malt," Jonathan said.

  "On the rocks?"

  "Good God, no." So round two went to Jonathan.

  "I'll have another Hemingway, Jake," Eric said. Ah. He was friends with the server. How cute.

  My chest hurt.

  Eric wore a dress shirt unbuttoned a few, a gray suit jacket and jeans. His hair had grown in the weeks since I'd seen him, and he'd gelled it to stick up in front.

  He looked hot, in other words.

  "Ollie says hello," I said.

  His eyes flickered. "How's he doing?"

 
"Great. Sweet as ever. Perhaps a little confused."

  Eric looked down for a second. "Maybe I'll come see him before I leave."

  "Still planning to go to Alaska, then?" Jonathan asked.

  "Of course." He looked meaningfully across the table. "I made a commitment to Nathan's memory. I'm doing this for him, on some level."

  "What about your commitment to me?" I couldn't help saying.

  "We didn't have one." He gave me a sad smile. A sad, fake smile. My fists clenched in my lap.

  "A trip that big must take a lot of preparation," Jonathan said, and Eric lit up and started talking about walking sticks and ice picks and the best kind of tent.

  Our drinks came. Mine went down fast.

  "I don't know if I told you, Ainsley," Eric said, "but I may have a book deal in the works! Isn't that great?"

  "So great."

  "It's about my cancer journey and, of course, the trip to Denali. My agent is fielding offers."

  He had an agent now?

  "Congratulations," Jonathan said. "And it brings up the reason we'd like you to stay with Hudson Lifestyle. Obviously, your column struck a nerve."

  A nerve right in my heart, you asshole. I narrowed my eyes at Eric, who just smiled back.

  Jonathan looked at me. "Ainsley? Why don't you tell Eric what we have in mind?"

  "Before you start, Ains," Eric said, "I just want you to know that my agent is in talks with Outdoor Magazine, GQ and Maxim." He smiled. "So Hudson is feeling a little...provincial."

  "That's incredible," I said. "I mean, they were never interested when the blog was just about you and your testicle. It was only when you crapped all over our relationship that things heated up. How will you sustain interest? Just keep dumping women after they've given you everything?"

  "I understand your anger," he said. "Thank you for sharing it with me."

  "And thank you, Eric, for so generously understanding."

  Jonathan took a sip of his scotch and said nothing.

  It didn't take a shrink to figure out why I was really here. I wanted to see him, to see if he was really sticking to his corpse guns.

  God. What if he did come back to Hudson Lifestyle?

  On one hand, it would be nice to be able to edit Eric's column each month, which would consist of me putting a big red X through it and saying you can't write for shit in a helpful, constructive way.

  "A very big raise." Jonathan's voice was extremely quiet.

  Eric frowned. "Excuse me?" he said.

  "Nothing," Jonathan answered.