The Lies That Bind

by Emily Giffin

  “Thank you, Amy,” I say. “So much.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” she says. “I’m really happy to help.”

  * * *

  —

  Later that night, after the party is over, Scottie and I are back in my apartment all tucked into bed (one of us with a buzz). With the lights off, we debrief the party, including Amy. Scottie seems obsessed with her, gushing about how cool she is.

  Part of me wants to remind him that I really don’t love hearing such over-the-top praise about Grant’s wife. But I stop myself both because it feels so wrong to express any sort of jealousy of a widow, even to my best friend, and because I really do like her. Bizarrely, I even find myself thinking of us as a team these days—a Thelma and Louise duo against the man who wronged us, even though only one of us realizes it.

  Maybe it’s the Thelma and Louise imagery, but I awaken the next morning to the most intense, vivid dream. In it, Grant, Byron, Amy, and I are on a road trip out west somewhere with desert scenery. We are traveling in one of those big seventies-looking campers, the four of us playing cards, listening to loud rock music and singing at the top of our lungs, like a band on tour. Like one big, happy family.

  At one point in the dream, though, I suddenly remember that I’m engaged to Matthew, and insist that we pull over at a rest stop so I can call him. He doesn’t answer, and I spend the next few scenes in planes, trains, and Greyhound buses, looking for him but never finding him.

  In the final act, I am in a diner with Byron, who explains to me that Grant and Matthew know about each other, and neither wants anything to do with me. It’s a disaster, he says. They both hate me. As I start to cry, he reassures me that everything is going to be okay, that it’s just going to take some time. I can still see Byron’s eyes in the dream. How wise they are. How much they look like Grant’s.

  It doesn’t take a psychiatrist to interpret the overall meaning here. But I still want to analyze it with Scottie, if only so I can stop thinking about it sooner. I give him a nudge and ask if he’s awake.

  “No,” he says. “I’m sound asleep.”

  I laugh and say, “Come on. Wake up. I need to talk to you. I had the craziest dream.”

  He opens one eye, then closes it again. “I’m listening.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Yes, I am. I don’t listen through my eyelids.”

  “I think I need to talk to Byron,” I say.

  “Grant’s brother?”

  “Yes.”

  Now the second eye is open, too. “About what?”

  “About Grant. About everything.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Kinda.”

  “Why?” he says.

  “Because,” I say, searching for the right words. “Because other than Amy, he’s the only potential path to understanding Grant…and once he’s gone…there is no path.”

  Scottie stares at me. “And refresh my recollection, why do you have to understand Grant?”

  “Because,” I say. “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life with no closure.”

  “But he’s…gone….You can’t get much more closure than that.”

  I shake my head, feeling frantic. “Death isn’t closure,” I say. “And it just doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t add up.”

  “I think it adds up,” Scottie says. “Grant was a womanizer. It all makes total sense.”

  “But he loved me—I know he did. You can’t fake what we had.”

  Scottie squints at me, like he’s really trying to understand what I’m saying. But he just can’t. Not fully, anyway. I guess that’s always the case when it comes to intimate relationships. There are some things that only the two people involved can ever really comprehend—and sometimes those things are elusive even to them.

  “Okay,” Scottie says with a sigh. “So maybe he was a womanizer who fell in love. Maybe you really were the love of his life. But what difference does it make at this point?” He sighs and says, “God, Cecily. I thought you’d made progress with all of this. You seemed so happy in the dressing room when you tried on that dress….”

  “Of course I was happy in the dressing room. What girl wouldn’t be happy trying on gowns at Vera Wang while planning a wedding with a wonderful man she loves?”

  “Okay. Attagirl,” he says, repositioning his head on the pillow. “So focus on that right there. Focus on that wonderful-man-you-love part. And the baby you’re carrying. That is his.”

  “I am, Scottie. And I’m truly happy about both….”

  I start to say more, but stop myself, and simply tell Scottie that he’s right. That I’m talking crazy, and we should both go back to sleep for a little while longer. He closes his eyes and says okay, and a few minutes later, he’s snoring again.

  But the urge to talk to Byron doesn’t subside. Remembering that Amy gave me his email address the day I first met her, I quietly get up, tiptoe over to my desk, and find it in a drawer. My heart racing, I sit down to compose an email to him. The words come slowly and painfully at first, but gradually start to flow.

  When I’m finished, I sit back and read it, make a few edits, then send it, feeling breathless but sure:

  Dear Byron,

  I am so sorry for your loss. I know how close you and Grant were, and I just can’t fathom your pain. I would have offered my condolences sooner, but given the circumstances of our meeting in London, as well as all that I’ve learned about Grant since his passing, I didn’t feel right about contacting you.

  In short, I had no idea Grant was married until I met Amy after 9/11. Since that time, she and I have developed an unexpected friendship, adding another layer to all of this. I have not told her anything about my relationship with Grant, as it feels cruel to burden a widow with any additional grief that would come from knowing she had been betrayed.

  I’m not sure if this is the right thing to do, but after struggling with these questions for weeks now, I felt compelled to reach out to you with the hope that you might be able to shed some light. That there might be something your brother would want me to know? If I don’t hear back from you, I understand. I know this is the least of your worries. I’m so sorry for all that you are going through.

  Sincerely yours,

  Cecily

  * * *

  —

  When Scottie wakes up later that morning, I start to confess what I did. But I stop myself. It really feels like something I need to handle alone. Besides, it’s too late—the message is sent.

  I don’t check my email again until much later that day, after Scottie and my family have left for the airport and I’m feeling that sad—and a little lost—way I always feel when family leaves. I don’t anticipate a response from Byron—for a lot of reasons—but I’m still nervous as I sit down at my computer. It suddenly occurs to me that an email from Amy could await me, saying she’s been apprised of my correspondence by her brother-in-law.

  My hands shaking, I open my inbox and see a boldface Byron Smith. I can hardly breathe as I click to open the awaiting message, then read:

  Dear Cecily, I don’t know where to begin. I know my brother kept secrets from you, and that must feel awful, but I want you to know that it was never about having his cake and eating it, too. It was more complicated than that. He was going through a lot of really difficult things in his marriage and, sadly, heading toward divorce while he was also trying to take care of me. Then he met you and his world turned upside down. In a good way. He should have told you the truth, but he was too afraid of losing you before he even had you. He naïvely thought he could figure it all out and save everyone. It didn’t work out like that. So here we are. I wouldn’t blame you if you hated him, but I hope one day you can forgive him. More important, I hope you go on to have a good and happy life. From everything my brother told me, you deserve the ve
ry best. Byron

  I finish reading, stunned by the answers he’s given me, even as my head swirls with fresh questions. I type as fast as I can:

  Dear Byron,

  Thank you so much for your reply. I know you’re going through so much right now, so it means a lot that you would take the time and energy to respond. I still have questions, though, and I’m hoping you can answer them. Did Amy know they were headed toward divorce? Did she know he was seeing someone? Was he ever going to tell me the truth, and if so, when? Thank you for any answers you can give me.

  Cecily

  Cecily,

  Yes, Amy knew that was the path they were on. But no, she didn’t know about you. (And I agree it’s best for her not to know—as much for your sake as hers.) He was going to tell you the truth about everything the last night he saw you. But it was so late, and you weren’t feeling well, so he decided it could wait another day. You know the rest….I’m sure if he could go back, he would do things differently. A lot of things.

  Byron

  Byron,

  Thank you for your answers to my questions, which must seem trivial in light of what you’re enduring. Please know that I’m thinking of you and hoping you find some solace in the woods.

  Love,

  Cecily

  My email exchange with Byron very easily could have thrown me into a tailspin. Instead, it brings me another dose of closure—final closure, I hope.

  So the following day, when Amy calls and asks if she can drop by my office, I say of course, ready to forge ahead with wedding plans—and also test my fresh resolve on the Grant front.

  She shows up twenty minutes later, looking especially elegant in a winter-white outfit, a camel coat, and tan boots. After we hug hello, she informs me that she has calls in to St. George’s and several reception venues, including the New York Public Library.

  “I think the McGraw Rotunda is available the third Saturday in January. It’s a gorgeous space. Does that date work for your family?”

  “Yes. They’re keeping all Saturdays in January and February open,” I say with a smile. “But wouldn’t the library be crazy expensive?”

  “Not too bad,” she says. “And Matthew told me not to worry about that.”

  I tense up, feeling defensive on behalf of my family. Meanwhile, Amy reaches into a brown leather tote bag and hands me a three-ring binder.

  “Ta-da! Your wedding planner,” she says, putting it on my desk. She flips it open, showing me the colored tabs, a table of contents, and glossy photos slid into protective plastic sleeves. “I worked on it all day yesterday after you told me you felt settled on the Vera Wang gown.”

  “Wow,” I say. “This is really nice of you. Thank you.”

  “Of course,” she says. “It’s my pleasure.”

  We chat for a bit longer about the engagement party, before Amy says, “So I was thinking of putting together a little group for dinner on Friday night. My friend from college is in town and a few others are joining….Are you free? Would love for you to come. And Matt, too, of course.”

  My first instinct is to decline, but it feels so cold and ungrateful. So I smile and say, “Yeah. We’re free. That sounds great….”

  “Fabulous.” Amy beams, putting on her sunglasses. “Will send you deets when I have them.”

  * * *

  —

  On Friday night, Matthew and I arrive at Balthazar—the French brasserie on Spring Street where Amy made us reservations. We get there an hour early so we can have a drink at the bar alone. At an appointment this morning, my doctor actually gave me permission to have an occasional glass of wine now that I’m in my second trimester. But I’m drinking seltzer with lime, still too worried about the drinks I had before I knew I was pregnant.

  In any event, it feels really nice to be out with my fiancé as a normal couple. Even as we talk about serious topics—like the wedding and the baby—I stay calm. And Grant doesn’t cross my mind once until I hear Amy’s voice behind us. I turn to see her, a small posse trailing behind her.

  “Well, hellllo, you lovebirds!” she trills, sounding buzzed, as she goes on to apologize for being a little late.

  We say hello, and she launches into introductions. “Guys, this is Matthew and Cecily,” she says first. “And this is my friend Chad…and this is Rachel…Darcy…and Ethan.”

  My heart stops upon the final introduction. Ethan. The same Ethan I met with Grant at the pub in London.

  Sure enough, I hear Amy elaborate, saying, “So Ethan and I went to Stanford together…and he went to high school with Rachel and Darcy…but I also know Darcy through work. Phew—that’s a lot!”

  I can feel Ethan staring at me, but I keep my eyes fixed on the woman named Darcy as Matthew asks her if she’s a stylist, too.

  “No, no. I style myself,” Darcy says, rather obnoxiously and with a toss of her gorgeous hair. “But we have client overlap. I’m in PR.”

  As Matthew asks a few follow-up questions, and Darcy seems to bask in his attention, I make myself glance Ethan’s way. The second I do, I know for sure that he recognizes me, too. My face on fire, I brace myself for him to say as much, feeling positive that this will be the moment everything unravels.

  But he only holds my gaze a second longer than what is normal, as I feel a silent understanding pass between us that the circumstances of our previous meeting will not be discussed tonight. I tune back in to the group conversation to hear Matthew and Rachel sorting out their own lawyering overlaps. Something about a document review at Skadden Arps. I pretend to be riveted as it crosses my mind to feign some sort of pregnancy-related illness and just leave. Given how nauseous I’m feeling, I may not even need to fake anything.

  Instead, I remain paralyzed as Matthew settles up at the bar, Amy checks in with the hostess, and we are all led to a table in the middle of the very loud, open dining area. I can’t decide whether I want to sit near Ethan or as far away from him as possible—but as it turns out, I don’t have a choice, as Amy tells us where to sit, pointing at chairs as she rattles off our names: Matthew, Rachel, Chad, Cecily, Ethan, Darcy. We follow her instructions, and as Amy takes her seat between Matthew and Darcy, she smiles, announcing how happy she is to be here with all of us. Everyone murmurs in agreement, including me, but inside I’m quietly dying, wondering how I will get through the next couple of hours—maybe longer, as these big group dinners tend to take forever. Fortunately, I don’t have to do much talking as Amy and Darcy take over, holding court and telling stories that are amusing but feel a little embellished. Matthew, Chad, and Rachel are the next biggest contributors to the conversation, while Ethan and I mostly listen. Maybe he’s just quiet and shy, but I have the sense that there’s more to it than that. That he’s as uncomfortable as I am.

  At one point, about halfway through our entrées, Darcy is telling an endless story about how she routinely searches her boyfriend’s closet for a hidden engagement ring. In the middle of it, Ethan leans toward me and says, “She’s brutal.”

  I look at him, amused, and instantly loosen up a bit. “Ha,” I laugh.

  “Me, me, me, me,” he says under his breath. “Been like that since we were kids.”

  As we both look at her, Darcy glances our way and says, “Been like what since we were kids?”

  “And she has elephant ears,” he says, loud enough for everyone to hear.

  Darcy blinks, stares, and all but puts her hand on her hip. “Been like what since we were kids?” she demands again.

  Ethan gives her an innocent look and says, “Nothing.”

  “Rachel,” Darcy says, now staring at her friend, “make him tell me.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?” Rachel replies with a laugh.

  “Tell. Me,” Darcy says, poking Ethan’s shoulder.

  “Dude. Don’t touch me,” he says.

&nbs
p; “Don’t call me dude.”

  “All righty, dude.”

  “Ugh. You’re such a nerd.”

  Ethan shrugs. “And? So?”

  Their routine continues for a moment, until Darcy moves on to another story. I tune her out, and Ethan must be doing the same because he turns to me, while she’s still talking, and says under his breath, “So. It’s nice to see you again.”

  “You too,” I say, my heart pounding as I look around the table. To my relief, nobody seems to be paying any attention to us.

  “How’s your novel coming along?” he asks.

  “It’s kind of stalled, unfortunately,” I say.

  “That’s understandable,” he says. “It’s been really hard for me to write, too. I just keep turning on the news, expecting something else….”

  “Yeah,” I say, knowing that feeling all too well.

  “And how about your job? At The Mercury?”

  “Ugh. The same,” I say with an eye roll. “I really need to get my résumé out there—but that’s sort of stalled, too.”

  He nods, then says, “Well, I hear you’ve been a little busy. Congratulations on your engagement.” He points down at my ring.

  “Thanks,” I say, feeling self-conscious and irrationally disloyal to Grant—like I moved on from him too quickly. Then again, maybe Ethan doesn’t know a thing; maybe it’s all in my head. Either way, I remind myself that I did nothing wrong—and that the only loyalty I owe to anyone is to Matthew. “We’re excited.”

  Ethan smiles and nods, as we both tune back in to the broader conversation.

  But I never stop thinking about our connection to Grant, and later in the meal, I turn to him again and say under my breath, “I just want to say that I’m really sorry…about the loss of your friend.” I start to say Grant’s name but stop myself, just in case someone is listening.

  “Thank you,” Ethan says. “I’m sorry for yours, too. I know how close you two were.”