The Lies That Bind

by Emily Giffin

  The back-and-forth continues for several days, going from formal to chatty. I ask if she’d like to include a photograph with the tribute I’m writing; she says yes, she’ll get me one ASAP. She tells me that Grant’s obituary ran in The Buffalo News and wonders if I’d like a copy. I say I’d love one, if she can spare it. She says she has plenty of extras, and could put one in the mail—unless I wanted to meet up for coffee or a drink?

  Knowing that I need to end this strange friendship, I draft a noncommittal reply, saying that sounds nice, but I’ve been pretty slammed at work lately. She writes back that there’s no rush, then offers me a variety of dates. “If none of those work,” she adds, “just tell me what does!”

  I tell her that I will—just as soon as I get the chance to look at my calendar.

  She says great, then, out of the blue, asks whether I’ve reached out to my ex-boyfriend.

  I tell her no—I haven’t yet.

  “Well, don’t put it off,” she writes back. “You never know when it could be too late, and you don’t want to have any regrets.”

  * * *

  —

  Amy’s words haunt me. I replay them again and again, wondering what she meant—whether it is generic advice, the way people tell you to “hug your loved ones” after something bad happens to a member of their own family. Or whether there is something specific she wishes she had said to Grant before he died. It doesn’t matter. I need to move on, because contact with Amy is unhealthy—masochistic, even—and just plain wrong.

  In the meantime, and coincidentally, Matthew calls and leaves a message saying he just wants to “catch up and check in.” At first it seems out of the blue, but then I remember that we said we’d talk in September, way back when we all thought that September would be just another month.

  I don’t call him back right away, but I find myself starting to miss him. Not our relationship—but our friendship. The comfort of being with someone you could always trust.

  So when I do call him back, I’m more relaxed than I ever imagined I’d be, our conversation quite pleasant. That is, until he asks me whether I’m “still seeing that guy.”

  Flustered, I give him a dodgy answer, determined not to lie, but equally resolved not to tell him the whole, awful truth. “No,” I say. “We aren’t together anymore.”

  “So you’re single again?” he asks, sounding hopeful.

  “Yeah. What about you?” I say.

  “Yep. Still single,” he says. “I’ve been single this whole time.”

  “I’m surprised Juliet didn’t try to get back with you.”

  “She did,” he says with a laugh.

  “Ugh,” I say, with the smallest jealous pang. “I can’t stand her.”

  “You’ve never even met her,” he says.

  “Don’t need to,” I say. “I know her type.”

  There is a long silence, and then he says, “So. Do you miss me? A little?”

  I hesitate. “Yeah. Maybe a little,” I say, trying to identify the weird feeling in my stomach.

  “I’ll take it,” he says, sounding the way he did in the beginning of our relationship, when I had his full attention and he was always so excited to hear from me.

  “In all seriousness, I do miss having you in my life,” I say.

  “You do?” he says, sounding so sweetly hopeful. “Really?”

  “Yes, I do,” I say.

  “God, Cess…it’s so good to hear you say that.”

  “Well, it’s true,” I say, surprising myself as much as I seem to be surprising him. “And I want to thank you—”

  “For giving you space and being patient?”

  “Well, sure…I guess….But I was going to say for calling me on September eleventh…for letting me know that I was important to you.”

  “You already knew that. You should know that.”

  “Maybe,” I say. “But that confirmed it…and I realized how important you are to me, too. I mean—I really do care about you, and—”

  “Can I see you?” he says, cutting me off.

  “Yeah,” I say, surprising myself once again—not with the answer, but with the complete lack of hesitation.

  “What are you doing tonight?”

  “Not much,” I say. “What are you up to?”

  “Nothing. I was just going to do a little work….I have a brief due Tuesday. But I can put that off until tomorrow….Wanna hang out?”

  “Okay.”

  “Here or there?” he asks, just the way he used to.

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say, just the way I used to. “You choose.”

  “All right…Come here, then. I just went to the grocery store. We can cook together.”

  “Okay,” I say, realizing that this is the most normal I’ve felt since I first glimpsed those burning towers on television. “I’ll be there shortly.”

  * * *

  —

  After we hang up, I take a shower, telling myself not to feel weird or overthink anything. I’m just going to spend time with a friend—someone who still cares about me. Someone I care about back. So I pull my hair into a ponytail, put on jeans and a blouse, and head over.

  But the second Matthew opens his door and looks at me, I sense that he may have slightly different expectations. His hair is damp and freshly gelled. His face has the pink glow of a fresh shave, and he smells so good.

  “Hi,” he says, looking nervous. Cute nervous.

  “Hi…You look really nice,” I say.

  “You do, too,” he says.

  “No, I don’t,” I mumble. “This whole time post–nine eleven has been so surreal….I haven’t really been eating or sleeping.” I think of Grant, but push the thought away.

  “I know,” he says. “But you really do look beautiful.”

  “Well…thank you,” I say.

  We stare at each other a beat, with matching stiff smiles, before he says, “So…come in….”

  I nod as he steps aside, and I walk past him into the apartment I once knew—still know—so well. Everything looks as immaculate as ever, some of our meal already prepped, onions and peppers diced on his massive wooden cutting board, an assortment of spices pulled from his spice rack. A candle is lit on the stove, and Alicia Keys sings on his stereo.

  “So…is this a date?” I blurt out before I can think better of it.

  Matthew looks sheepish as he says, “No…It’s just…two friends getting together…reconnecting.”

  “Okay,” I say, nodding, relaxing. “That sounds good.”

  “Would you like a drink?”

  “Um, sure…What are you having?”

  He points to a glass of beer on the far end of the counter and says, “A Heineken. Or I could open a bottle of wine?”

  “A beer sounds good, actually,” I say.

  He nods, grabs a bottle from the fridge, then opens the freezer, reaching for a chilled pint glass.

  “The bottle’s fine,” I say.

  He dismisses this with a wave of his hand, then sets about pouring my beer with bartender precision so as to minimize foam. He hands it to me with an earnest smile as memories come flooding back to me. And suddenly, I’m on the verge of tears.

  Matthew puts his beer on the counter and stares into my eyes. “Why are you sad?” he says, his voice so tender.

  “I’m not,” I say, blinking back my tears. “I’m just…It’s just a little weird…to be back here with you again.”

  “Good weird, I hope?” he asks.

  I nod—because it’s definitely not bad.

  He stares at me a long time, then says, “Cecily, I want a do-over. I want to go back.”

  “Back to when?” I say, wondering if he means the beginning of our relationship or right before our breakup.

  “Back to when you believed in m
e…in us.”

  “I’m not sure what that means,” I say noncommittally, wondering if I ever really believed in him—or if I just desperately wanted to believe in him. In something.

  “It means…we were good together…and I know I screwed it up by being scared.”

  “Of what?” I say. “What were you so scared of?”

  “I don’t know…of life, I guess.”

  “So you’re not scared of life anymore?” I say, thinking of 9/11 and how much more scared I am now.

  “Of course I am,” he says. “But I’ve had nothing to do but think over the past few months…especially after September eleventh. And I’ve realized I’m more afraid of life without you.”

  “So it’s still about fear?” I say, wondering if this is just a form of settling. Hedging his bets in another direction.

  “No,” Matthew says, shaking his head. “It’s about love, Cess….I love you. I never stopped loving you.”

  I stare at him, my heart in my throat.

  “Say something,” he says. “Please?”

  I look down, then meet his eyes again. I start to tell him that I don’t know what to say. Instead I tell him that I love him, too. Because I do.

  “Then can’t we please just go back?” he says.

  I sigh, sorting through jumbled thoughts and emotions. “You want to go back? Or go forward? Start over? Or pick back up where we left off?” I ask, really trying to understand what he’s feeling—what he wants—if only because it’s easier than figuring out what I’m feeling.

  “I want to go back to when we broke up,” he says. “And just take the other fork in the road.”

  “I…I don’t know if I can do that,” I say, shaking my head as I try to put it all into words. The feeling that we can’t erase the last few months we spent apart any more than we can erase 9/11. That I’ve changed. That the whole world has changed.

  “Can we try? Can we at least try?”

  I look away, my mind racing, so wanting my answer to be yes. I want to return to that innocence. At the same time, though, I know it was a false innocence. We thought we were safe. We thought nothing like this could ever happen. But we were wrong. Just like I was wrong about Grant.

  I feel Matthew staring at me, and when I look back at him, I am overwhelmed by the concern in his eyes. He really does care about me, and that has to count for something—if not everything.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, now so confused. “What was your question again?”

  He gives me a slight, hesitant smile. “I forget what it was now, too.”

  I shake my head and say, “No, you don’t.”

  “Okay. I don’t,” he says, his smile bigger, more open. “But let’s just enjoy our dinner?”

  Relieved, I nod and tell him that’s a good idea.

  For the next several hours, we just hang out and have a nice time. We listen to music and cook, making shrimp fettucine, garlic bread, and a tossed salad. Things start to feel a little romantic when Matthew opens a bottle of wine and lights candles and we sit at the table, rather than in front of the television. But the conversation stays light. There’s no mention of anything heavy or serious. Not 9/11. And not us. I tell myself to just go with it. At least for now.

  After we finish eating, we rinse and stack the dishes in the sink, returning to our old spots on the sofa, putting the same gray chenille blanket over our legs. The weight and texture of it are so familiar and soothing, lulling me back into our old routine even before Matthew takes my hand in his, working the remote control with his free hand. I start to pull away, telling myself that this isn’t smart. That I should really call it a night and go home. That I’m not ready to jump back into something new—even if it’s also something old. Part of me, absurdly enough, even feels disloyal to Grant. But then I remind myself, once again, that nothing with Grant was real. I thought we were in a relationship, but he was married to someone else, and it was all just an illusion. A lie.

  And why should I punish Matthew for that lie? Why should I punish myself? What purpose would that serve?

  I tell myself to stop overthinking and simply ask myself one question at a time. For now, the only question is whether I want to continue sitting here, under this cozy blanket, with Matthew’s hand in mine. And the answer is yes. So I stay put, the two of us watching television, until we get sleepy and wind up in our old sofa-spooning position. Once again, I tell myself it’s all okay.

  But when Matthew starts kissing my neck, pressing himself against my back, I stop and ask myself a new question. Do I want this to go further? I do and I don’t, so I turn around and face him, staring directly into his eyes, realizing that I’m buzzed. That I actually feel almost good.

  “Hi,” he whispers.

  “Hi,” I whisper back, just as Grant pops into my head again. Something deep inside me, the part of my heart I can’t control, misses him. Badly.

  But I focus on what I can control—this moment I’m in here and now. I tell myself to relax, to enjoy my buzz and whatever is to come. I close my eyes and let Matthew kiss me. I kiss him back. Heaven and earth don’t move, but it feels nice—like coming home after a long, bad trip. The more we kiss, the better it feels.

  As we start to undress, he asks if I want to go back to his room. I say yes, anxious to be in his bed, under the covers, in another familiar place. We stand and hurry to get there. Noticing how tipsy I am, he laughs and says that he forgot what a lightweight I am. I frown and pretend to be annoyed, but he picks me up and carries me the rest of the way.

  “Total lightweight,” he says, putting me down on his bed.

  As he goes to switch off his lamp, I see that there is still a photograph of us on his bookshelf—one that I framed for him last Christmas.

  “Has that photo been there the whole time? Or did you just put it back?” I say, thinking that for some reason this makes a difference.

  “It hasn’t moved,” he says, unhooking my bra and kissing my shoulder. “I had faith you’d be back.”

  “How did you know?” I say as we undress the rest of the way.

  “Because we’re perfect together…” he says, kissing me again, both of us now naked.

  “Nothing’s perfect,” I say, my words slurred.

  “We’re close,” he says.

  I nod, inhaling his familiar scent, knowing what’s to come.

  And with that, at least for now, Grant is gone from my mind. And it’s only Matthew. The old us and the new us. The same us.

  I close my eyes and finally let go.

  The following morning, I awaken with Matthew’s arm around me. For several blissful seconds, I am so at peace. At home. But then I open my eyes and roll over and look at him, and all I can think of is that first morning I woke up with Grant in my bed, back when I didn’t even know his name, and every moment was filled with wonder. I’m not sure which I miss more—Grant himself or that feeling—but I tell myself it’s just the feeling. And anyway, it doesn’t matter because they’re both false; the feeling was based on something that wasn’t real in the first place.

  I also tell myself that even if it had been real, it’s unfair to compare the beginning of one relationship to the middle of another. (Not that Matthew and I are even in a relationship; we’re just friends who had a few drinks and slept together.) No relationship can sustain that early passion and sense of mystery. Eventually things would have become familiar with Grant, too—and that is a best-case scenario. After all, you reach the mundane, comfortable moments only when a relationship is working. When it’s not working, the passion morphs into something twisted and dark. Drama. Jealousy. A never-ending power struggle.

  Most likely that is what Grant and I would have ended up with—and that’s assuming he had chosen me at all. I would’ve found out about Amy eventually, somehow, and he would’ve broken my heart, staying with his wife. Who knows how l
ong it might’ve taken to make that discovery. I think of those men who have dual families for years, some even resulting in half siblings who don’t know each other exists. I shudder. No part of me wants Grant to be dead, of course, but I feel as though I dodged my own bullet. Even if he had left Amy, declaring us soul mates, his character was still deeply flawed. He cheated on his wife, and he lied to both of us. There is no way around that.

  In the next second, Matthew’s eyes open and he gives me a sleepy smile.

  I smile back at him, relieved that he’s awake, so I can stop thinking so much.

  “Well. That was…unexpected,” I say.

  “Good unexpected or bad unexpected?” he asks, reaching for my hand under the covers.

  “If I have to choose, good unexpected,” I say, smiling, our fingers lacing together.

  He frowns a little, and says, “Do you regret it?”

  “No, I don’t regret it,” I say, relieved that this is the truth. “But—”

  He groans. “Hey! No buts!”

  I smile. “Okay. It’s not really a but….It’s just a concern….I just want to make sure we’re not falling back into something simply because it’s comfortable and easy.”

  “News flash,” Matthew says, letting go of my hand so he can ruffle my hair. “You ain’t easy.”

  “You know what I mean,” I say. “I just want us to take things slowly….Maybe don’t do this again until we’re both sure. Really sure.”

  “This?” he says, now touching my breast.

  “Yes,” I say, gently pushing his hand away, even as I have the sudden urge to be with him again. “Or maybe that’s silly given how many times we already have…given that we just did…I don’t know….Let’s just take it a day at a time. We don’t have to label anything.”

  Matthew smirks, like I just said something funny.

  “What?” I say.

  He shakes his head and says, “Nothing…I was just thinking that you sound like the old me—just wanting to take our time and enjoy the moment…and I feel like the old you over here, all worried that you don’t love me.”