Life After Yes

by Aidan Donnelley Rowley

  I nod because I want to believe him. But still I wonder if it’s ever just a dream?

  He doesn’t ask who the other guys were. Maybe he knows, maybe he doesn’t care. Maybe it really doesn’t matter.

  “I just hope that on Saturday, you choose me,” he says.

  And we take off.

  The stewardess’s name is Victoria. She asks if we’d like a drink.

  “Keep them coming,” Sage says. “We’re struggling to celebrate.”

  And as the plane stumbles upward into darkened skies, I say, “I’m not sure I want to go back there.” To New York? To the law firm? To our sad and predictable dance of mutual deception? “Might be time to start over.”

  But I think: Can you ever really start over?

  “Ah, so you have your new herd to abandon?” he says, and laughs. “Just do it then.”

  “I want to write a story,” I say.

  “Just don’t start with a dream. Too clichéd. You’ll end up in the slush pile.”

  And I think: We are a cliché.

  “What? A post–9/11 New York story about a privileged Petra Pan who returns from her honeymoon and quits her high-paying job, jumps ship, and writes in an effort to find clarity is a bit cliché?”

  “Not at all,” he says facetiously, smiling big.

  “And don’t write things like ‘the air was thick and smelled like peanut oil’ or ‘crucified the deep silence.’ Too pretentious.”

  “But I am pretentious,” I say. “And messy. And difficult…Are you sure you want me?”

  “I do,” he says, smiling. “I do.”

  And for a moment, we sit there silently, stirring drinks with our pinky fingers like my parents used to do. And the engine hums.

  “You can’t write a story about the law when you’ve barely set foot in a courtroom.”

  “Of course I can,” I say.

  It would be a story, not researched, but dreamed and lived. Full of bits and pieces gathered. It, like the slush pile that is life, would be formulaically seasoned, peppered with predictability and profanity and platitude. Because real people are often stereotypes and stereotypes are often real. Because at one time or another, we all struggle and swear and stumble. Because life is never a fairy tale no matter how much we want to believe.

  This story would also have fierce flashes of rawness and honesty. Its characters wouldn’t be perfect people, but gorgeously flawed Nietzschean souls. Souls who individually, and collectively, dance that fabled forward thrust. Souls who have no choice but to live the good struggle that is life.

  I imagine coming home married. There would be chatter about my leaving the firm. Colleagues would whisper words of prudence: “Wait until bonuses. That’s a lot of money even for someone who has money.”

  But I’d think of all the people in those Towers who sleepwalked their way to work that morning, who counted down the days until they would allow themselves to do something else, to be someone else. Mortgage and tuition payments, fear, or apathy, I-don’t-know-what-else-I’d-do-with-my-life thoughts kept them there.

  And then it all ended.

  At the firm, they’d encourage my plan, though. “Writing a book? Good for you,” they’d say while thinking obvious thoughts: Why did you go to law school? and At least she’s not going to a competitor. To them, this would all be code for taking a breather, setting up house before popping one out. Or maybe they’d assume that it was hard after everything that happened for me to keep up in this world. Anyway, I’d be just another woman full of untapped potential who opted out, leaving room for another generation of Porterhouses and Poultry to float to the top.

  So very predictable.

  They’d throw me a departure party like they do for all the associates who bow out. They’d serve the same shrimp curry and the same white wine, and those people whose lives I’d glimpsed would approach me gingerly, ostensibly wishing me luck, but really pleading that I be kind in characterizing them, and this world they for now can’t, or don’t want to, escape.

  And I would giggle heartily, swallowing the generic well-wishes with the bad white wine. And I probably wouldn’t say it, but I’d want to; that they have nothing to worry about. That I have nothing to vilify, that if I was going to rip anything apart, it would be a world far bigger than the four walls of this firm, a world of excessive ambition and privilege, of sadness too often camouflaged by designer clothing, and profanity, and booze, and distance. A world I could study and observe, of course, but one I couldn’t myself escape if I tried.

  I would pack up my office. The pens, the parched high-lighters, the prudent stock of Excedrin ready to combat the inevitable late night headaches. I would scatter good-byes and a few awkward hugs.

  “See you on the bookshelves,” a few would say.

  I’d turn in my BlackBerry, my best friend and biggest foe.

  And I would travel down in that elevator once more, eyes fixed on the little TV that reminds us of the life—and death—beyond this vertical grind.

  I would click away on the marble floor and spin through the revolving door once more. The fresh air would feel different this time.

  These thoughts zip through me like lightning, and momentarily, I’m empowered. High in the sky, I’m neither here nor there; this feeling is electric.

  This is up to me.

  Or maybe this is just another dream. It rivets as long as it lasts.

  We sip drinks and talk. About how the most we can strive for is to be real, imperfect, honest. We talk about happiness. What is it? Is it attainable, or is the fruitless search for it what really makes people unhappy? I tell him about my theory that happiness comes in flashes. He doesn’t use fancy words, but his own words. His grammar is less than perfect, but not bad. But for the first time in so long, it’s his voice that carries. His own words. Not Plato’s. Not Nietzsche’s. Not our parents’. Not society’s.

  And I think: We are judge.

  I look at him, those impossible deep blue eyes. The tears waiting, just waiting, to break free. And I see that fly fisherman on Halloween, that boy I first met.

  “I miss him,” he says.

  I nod.

  “I miss him too,” I say.

  And it doesn’t matter that we’re talking about two different people, two people who will never see us walk down the aisle. Or grow up.

  Our best men.

  And the plane bumps along. For the first time, the turbulence lulls me. It’s normal. Nothing but a reminder—at once humbling and oddly comforting—that we are always up against something bigger than we are.

  “Sage,” I say. “I don’t like flowers.”

  He nods and smiles. “Okay. Anything else I should know?”

  I pause. “I’m not your other half.”

  He nods, and it seems he needs no explanation. “I know,” he says.

  His smile says: You are that girl I met.

  “Now I have one question for you,” he says.

  Cruelly, he pauses, and fear rushes through me. I do what a well-trained attorney does so naturally: I contemplate answers to questions not yet posed.

  “How does this hypothetical story of yours end?” he asks, those blue eyes brimming with hope and fear, promises and apologies.

  I look at him and leave him with those words a good lawyer knows not to utter too often, those words my fourth grade teacher deplored: “I don’t know.”

  Chapter 31

  I’m losing my freckles,” I announce from the bathroom.

  “Congratulations, Bug,” Sage says, laughing. “One less thing for you to complain about.”

  One less thing for me to hide.

  He packs his things in the bedroom. Tomorrow is our wedding day, and per tradition, we’re spending the night apart. Tonight, Sage will join the rest of the wedding guests at the Clubhouse, the rickety old lodge that perches on the edge of the lake. Modest rooms, ancient mattresses, communal bathrooms; it’s just like camp.

  “But they’re being replaced by wrinkles,” I say, st
udying my face in the mirror. “Lovely souvenirs from my past year.”

  “Wrinkles should merely indicate where smiles have been,” he says.

  “Thanks, Mark Twain.”

  “You’re beautiful,” he says, coming at me from behind, wrapping his arms around my waist. And as we watch ourselves in the mirror, he kisses my bare face, lingering longer than usual, pinning me with a look of pride and anticipation and victory. And for a moment, I’m envious of the seemingly effortless optimism that buoys him and I wish that it were contagious, that it could pass, like the common cold, through a simple kiss. Or that it were genetic like freckles. That at least our children, when and if they come, will more often than not see things brightly too.

  He returns to the bedroom, grabs his bag, and pulls his tuxedo from the closet. And leaves something behind. That suit his mother got him, a milky tan.

  Another peck on the cheek. “Until tomorrow,” he says, grinning, drying his eyes.

  “Don’t go,” I say, and grab him.

  And on the night when we are supposed to separate gracefully, sleep in solitude, and contemplate a future of togetherness, I miss him even before he goes. Because as long as he’s next to me, as long as I can see him, things are okay.

  “A night free of my snoring,” he says. “It’ll be a treat.”

  I grab his face and memorize the blue of his eyes before he walks away.

  “Make sure to steam it in the morning,” I say, pointing to his tux.

  He shrugs and smiles. “Nothing wrong with a few wrinkles.”

  “See you tomorrow,” I say, coyly, casually, as if tomorrow’s just another day, the logical consequence of today, just the next in line.

  “Walk me out,” he says.

  So I do. I walk him onto the porch. Into the moonlight. As I lead him to the screen door, he resists. Pulls me in the other direction.

  He walks me to the porch swing. Where Dad read me stories. We sit. Swing slowly. The lake glows.

  “Quinn, do you remember the morning after we met when my mother called?”

  “I do.”

  “You called me a mama’s boy. And you were right. I am one. After I hung up, you jokingly asked if I told Mama that I’d found The One?”

  I nod.

  “Well, I didn’t,” he says. “But what I did tell her was that I found my blackberry girl. A girl whom I wanted to know, whom I wanted to know me, everything about me, even the difficult things. I wanted you to know about Henry. That’s why I told you about him on that very first night. And I was right. You’re not perfect. In fact, you’re often quite a mess, but you’re it for me. You’re my blackberry girl.”

  “Your blackberry girl?” I say as the tears come.

  He nods. Crying like that very first night. A little boy again. “And that’s why my mother’s had such a hard time. Because I told her you were it. I announced loud and clear that you were the girl.”

  “Your blackberry girl. I love that.”

  “Good,” he says.

  Something strikes me. Something silly and cheesy and true. “You know what, Sage? You are my Cheerio guy.”

  “Your Cheerio guy,” he says. “I’ll take that.”

  And here we are, late in the game, speaking our very own language. A simple, childish language. A beautiful language that’s all ours.

  But then Sage reminds me of something. “Blackberry girl. Cheerio guy. You know these are just code words for The One, right? That concept you hate, Bug. These are also code words for other half. They all mean the same thing.”

  And I hate it and I love it, but he is right. Absolutely right. “We strive so hard to be original, but life is all one big cliché,” I say. “But I think I can live with that.”

  “I have something for you,” he says. He pulls a small fly box from the pocket of his khakis. He opens the transparent plastic top. And I peer in. At the Woolly Buggers and the Jitterbugs and the Hula Poppers and the…

  Ring.

  My ring. A ring he chose all by himself.

  It’s far smaller. A simple round cut.

  He reaches for it.

  He takes my hand. Holds it for a moment, studies each finger. He pulls the ring, the one his mother picked, from my hand.

  “Will you marry me, Bug?” he says, his words so simple they are profound, so profound they are simple.

  “Yes,” I say, smiling at him, looking at the lake.

  And miles from Paris, centuries from Plato, next to him, I feel a flash. Of happiness.

  Mom and Michael are sleeping, and once Sage is gone, the only noises are those I make—clumsy footsteps fueled by bundling nerves, a hairbrush yanking through stubborn knots, the cracking of knuckles. Without these sounds, the silence overwhelms. Suddenly, I crave the city sounds, the staccato of sirens, drunken laughter floating from sidewalk revelers, snippets of rap music blasting from speeding cars, garbage trucks halting clumsily to cart away our trash.

  In the living room, I boot up Mom’s old computer. BlackBerrys don’t work here. I dial up and the connection is slow. Though I am a fan of speed and instant gratification and efficiency, tonight the slow motion is welcome, the rainbow images a retreat.

  I type in “freckles.” I learn what I pretty much already know: They are genetic, rare on infants, common on children, less common on adults.

  I log into my e-mail and there’s a message from Kayla. I open it.

  Q,

  Sometimes a kiss is just a kiss. Here I sit. Missing you. Your practical wisdom, your cautious laughter, your quiet, but unscrupulous judgment. Your willingness to listen to my nonsense, to swallow my bullshit when it doesn’t matter. But to call me on it when it does.

  You’ve been there for me through it all—the drugs, the men, the poor decisions. You propped me up even when I didn’t deserve it. And now, certainly I don’t. You held my hand when I thought I lost the first thing that really mattered and then when I saw that furious flicker of life.

  I did kiss him. I was curious and jealous and desperate. You were not there. But when you are, I see the way he looks at you—proudly, with quizzical amazement and the deepest of affection. He revels in your neuroses and your accomplishments. He finds your imperfections delicious. In a moment of weakness (and there are too many), I wanted to taste what you get to taste every day, and wanted to see if he would look at me that way too, if anyone would. And when I kissed him, he was gentle with me. He didn’t slap me, or yell, or reprimand. He pulled away and was polite. He didn’t say it, but I heard it loud and clear: “I’m taken.”

  And he is. He’s all yours.

  I wish more than anything you would forgive me for my selfishness, for my constant insecurity masquerading as confidence. For the sadness I hate to admit, the loneliness I’ve only now made worse.

  Sometimes a kiss a just a kiss,

  Your MOD (Maid of Dishonor)

  Just then, a reminder flashes across the screen. It’s the little paper clip guy with the googly eyes. “Today is your wedding day!”

  I shut down, return to my room. I rummage through everything I’ve brought—the clichéd stash of honeymoon lingerie with tags still on, the box of thank-you notes I’ll write on the flight, and I find it.

  Phelps’s flannel. I hold it up to my nose and inhale. One last time.

  I wander out to the porch, sit on that old wooden swing where Dad read me stories, where Phelps and I grew up, where Sage finally spoke up, and stare out onto the lake. The lake Dad loved like a child, where we would’ve scattered his ashes if given the chance. Like me, the lake appears calm, and stone-still. But under its deceptively placid surface, chaotic currents roil.

  And soon the haunting silence is filled in. Bullfrogs gulp good night. The whippoorwills croon their nightly lullaby.

  I step into Dad’s old wading boots that wait like they always do by the screen door on the porch.

  The moon is bright and lights my way. Leaves crunch underfoot. And soon I’m there. At our spot near the dock, under the mess of sc
raggly branches. For some reason, I fold the shirt, out of respect for childhood firsts and fond memories perhaps, and place it down, on the damp ground. Where he will find it. Or won’t.

  I look at it, the small square of faded plaid on the dark ground. And I begin to walk away.

  “Fancy meeting you here.”

  Phelps. He too is in pajama pants and fishing boots. He smokes a cigar and carries a plastic baggie of cheese curds and a bottle of red wine.

  He waves the bag of cheese in my direction. “Wisconsin’s finest,” he says.

  I shrug and take a curd. Pop it in my mouth and chew slowly, waiting for words to come.

  “Why are you here?” I ask.

  “For your wedding,” he says, smiling.

  “No,” I say. “Here.” I point around us.

  “I come here sometimes,” he says. “When I can sneak away. It reminds me of happiness. The kind of happiness before you know any better. When everything seemed possible. Why are you here?”

  “To return something,” I say, picking up that shirt again, handing it to him. “The problem with keepsakes or relics is that they work. They make you remember.”

  And it strikes me that we can try to control what we remember and forget but it doesn’t really work this way. Some things leave us and some things stay. It’s not up to us.

  He smiles. “I like to remember.” He holds the flannel, his old shirt. In his eyes, sadness gives way to something different. He hands me the bottle of wine, and puts the sweating cigar between his lips. He puts one arm and then the next through the old shirt.

  It still fits him. Barely. Differently. But still.

  “That’s not going to help me forget,” he says.

  “Good.”

  He smiles and walks toward the dock. I follow. To our boat.