Kate looked at me very seriously, like she was contemplating the question and how best to respond. I love that about Kate. Her words have always been fully considered, even when we were kids.
“No,” she finally said. “I feel just as alive right now, here in this dressing room with you, as I do when I’m with Tom.”
I handed her one of the bathing suits.
“I feel more alive when I’m with Gabe than I do with anyone else on the planet,” I told her. “Not to take anything away from how much I love you,” I added.
“Or Darren?” she asked.
“It’s just . . . it’s different,” I said. “And I’m worried that it won’t be enough. That what I feel for Gabe is just so monumental that nothing else will ever be enough.”
Kate pulled the bathing suit up and stuck her arms through the straps. “What do you think?” she asked, looking at herself in the mirror.
“Honestly?” I answered.
“Always,” she said.
“Honestly, I think it cuts your butt in a funny place.”
She turned around and then twisted her head to look at her back in the mirror. “Oh wow. You’re right. How strange.”
Kate started pulling the bathing suit off and said, “I was talking to my sister about relationships earlier this year, and she said something interesting.”
Did you ever meet Kate’s sister? I must’ve told you about Liz, even if you hadn’t met her. She went to Brown and is pretty much the opposite of Kate in every way someone could be an opposite—she’s incredibly creative and artistic and moved to Paris after college to work for Vogue when Kate and I were sixteen. She’s had a string of romances with men and with women, and she remains, to this day, one of the most interesting people I know.
“What did Liz say?” I asked.
“She said that she thinks of every romance she’s in as if it’s a type of fire. That some relationships feel like a wildfire—they’re powerful and compelling and majestic and dangerous and have the capability to burn you before you even realize you’ve been consumed. And that some relationships feel like a hearth fire—they’re solid and stable and cozy and nourishing. She had other examples—a bonfire relationship, a sparkler—that one was for a one-night stand, I think—but the wildfire and the hearth fire are the two that I remember most.”
“Are you and Tom a hearth fire?” I asked.
Kate nodded. “I think so. And I think that’s what I want. Safety and stability and warmth.”
“I think Darren and I are a hearth fire,” I told her, ruminating on what she’d just said. “But Gabe and I were a wildfire.”
“Yeah, I think that’s true,” Kate said.
She had a bikini on. It was red-and-white polka-dot, with a high-waisted bottom. “Oh, that looks great on you,” I told her.
She checked herself out in the mirror. “I like it!” she said, nodding at her reflection. “One down, one to go.”
“So did Liz say which is better?” I asked.
Kate shook her head as she unclasped the bikini top. “She said it depends on who you are. On what you want. She said that hearth-fire relationships bore her after a while. That she prefers wildfires, but that she’s starting to think she might want something in between. Oh, I think that’s what the bonfire was—where the relationship is always on the verge of being all-consuming but doesn’t quite go that far. She said she hasn’t had any of those but wants to find one.”
“Can you tame a wildfire or grow a hearth fire?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Kate said, stepping out of the bikini bottom. “Liz said she hasn’t had any luck transforming a relationship from one to the other. But, I mean, if you extend the metaphor, firefighters can tame wildfires, so maybe people can, too. I guess the question is if you can tame them without putting them out completely.”
I handed Kate another bikini, wondering if I should look for a bonfire too. If I should experience all of the different kinds of relationships before I decided which one I wanted.
“The thing I worry about,” Kate said, “is what if you give up a wonderful hearth fire to try out a bonfire, and discover that it’s not what you wanted after all. And then you lost the hearth fire.”
“Are you talking about you and Tom now?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“I guess it’s complicated,” I said. “And that bikini top gives you side boob.”
Kate looked down. “Oh, that’s terrible,” she said, pulling the halter straps over her head. “I think you have to do a kind of risk analysis in a relationship. How happy you are factored in with whether losing that happiness is worth potentially finding more of it with someone else. I don’t know if I’m willing to take that risk. Like, what’s the threshold? If I’m eighty-five percent happy with Tom, do I risk it for the possibility of being ninety-five percent happy with someone else? And what’s the maximum happiness you can achieve with someone? I don’t think it’s a hundred percent.”
“No, definitely not a hundred percent,” I said. “Nothing’s ever perfect.” I wondered what my happiness percentage had been with you. And what it was with Darren.
And then I wondered how you or Darren would answer that question—about your happiness percentage with me. What do you think? Was our percentage the same back then? Were we eighty percent happy? Eighty-five percent? I have a feeling I was happier than you, because you were the one who left, who wanted to go. Even if you didn’t think about it in those same terms, clearly you were willing to take that risk—to see if you would be happier without me in your life, pursuing the career that you wanted.
Did it work? Even for a little while?
I know it didn’t in the end.
xxxix
Sometimes a year feels like an eternity, broken up into tiny capsules of time. Each chunk is so monumental that it seems like its own lifetime within a life. That was my 2004. There was the chunk of time we were living together, the chunk of time after we broke up, the chunk of time after I met Darren. That year had three discrete sections to it. But the twelve months after Darren and I met felt like one solid unit. It almost came as a surprise when Darren said one Saturday, the minute I walked in his door after meeting Julia for brunch, “So, our anniversary is in two weeks. Were you thinking about doing anything in particular?”
I had the urge to double-check the calendar on my BlackBerry, but I knew he was right. He wouldn’t ever forget a date. Besides, the summer was ending, and that was when we met last year—the end of the saddest summer I’d ever had.
“Is that a Montauk weekend for us?” I asked, grabbing myself a glass of water. He’d put in the bids for our weekends and was in charge of keeping track of when we went out to the house.
“But of course,” he replied.
I should’ve known better. He’d probably had the date marked when he gave in our requests.
“Maybe a clambake dinner?” I said, as I added ice to my cup. “At that fancy place on the docks? You know, where it’s mostly grown-ups and everybody gets dressed up?”
Darren crossed the kitchen to kiss me. “We’re grown-ups,” he said.
I laughed. “You know what I mean.”
He kissed me on the nose this time. “I think that sounds great. I had one other thought, too,” he said. “And it’s about gifts.”
I wondered if he was going to talk about an engagement ring. Sabrina had gotten engaged the month before—mostly because she’d gotten pregnant—but still, the idea of it seemed nice. Satisfying, like finding the right piece of a jigsaw puzzle, one you’d been hunting for for a long time and never would have to hunt for again. Not right then, but one day.
“What about gifts?” I asked.
“Well,” he said, “I was thinking about our bucket lists, and on mine it says ‘rescue a pet,’ and on yours it says ‘own a dog.’ And I’ve b
een thinking about doing this for years, so . . . I have a surprise for you. I know it’s a little early, but once I thought of the idea, I couldn’t wait another minute!”
He walked toward his bedroom door, which was uncharacteristically closed, went inside, and came out with a small, wriggling, white, furry bundle in his arms. The bundle barked. A puppy. There was a puppy in his arms. I froze.
“Look what I got you!” he said. “I figured she could live at my place, and then maybe one day you’ll come live with me and the dog.”
“A dog?” I said. “You got me a dog?” I was stunned.
“I’m hoping you’ll share her with me,” Darren said. “That she can be our dog.”
He handed me the puppy, and I automatically took her. She licked my neck and chin and nose.
“She was the sweetest dog at the whole North Shore Animal League,” he said. “I met every single one.”
I looked at the dog and she barked a hello. I said hello right back and she smiled a big doggy grin.
Here was the thing: The idea of getting me a dog was thoughtful, in a very Darren way. But what he didn’t realize about me then, and still doesn’t understand, is that I wanted to meet all the dogs at the North Shore Animal League. I wanted to be part of the decision about which dog to get—or even whether we got a dog. I think he thinks there’s something gallant about presenting these grand gestures to me fait accompli, but it’s just . . . it feels . . . infantilizing. Or . . . patronizing. Like my opinions aren’t worthy of his consideration. You’d never do something like that.
“I wish I’d met every single one of them,” I told Darren. “This is a great gift, but . . . I feel like I missed the fun part.”
He looked confused, eyebrow askew. “The fun part is now! When we get to have a dog!”
I sighed. “I know . . . but it would’ve been nice if we chose a dog together. So it was our dog. One that we both agreed on. I want us to be partners, Darren.”
“Lucy,” he said, closing the space between us. “Of course we’re partners. I just wanted to surprise you with something special. Aren’t I allowed to surprise my beautiful girlfriend with an amazing present every once in a while?”
Once he said that, I didn’t know how to respond. Because in that context, it sounded like I was being silly. I couldn’t tell him never to surprise me, that he wasn’t allowed. And how could I fight with someone who’d just done this incredible thing, who had just gotten me a dog?
The dog tried to lick inside my nostril, like she was hoping to get me to laugh. Maybe she understood.
“Of course you’re allowed,” I said, finally. “So did she come with a name?”
“They found her without any identification,” Darren said. “One of the workers there started calling her Annie, because of her curly hair, but I was thinking we could lengthen that.”
“Angel?” I asked.
“Anniversary!” he said.
And then I did laugh. Because that was an absolutely absurd name for a dog, but also somehow perfect. And she really was a perfect dog—loving and smart and not yappy at all. She wasn’t an engagement ring, thank goodness, but sharing responsibility for another living being seemed like a pretty solid commitment. Once I said yes to Annie, I could see how it would be easy to say yes to other things down the line.
xl
I always figured there were two kinds of people in the world—some who loved giving gifts and others who loved receiving them. I’ve always loved getting gifts, and still do. But the second Christmas I spent with Darren I realized that I loved giving gifts as well.
We were supposed to go with Darren’s family to Colorado that Christmas. I’d met them before—the youngest of his three older sisters first, along with her husband. Then the other two sisters with their husbands and kids. Then his parents. Then various permutations and combinations of them at different events. But this was the first holiday I’d be spending with his family, and the first time I’d be confronted with all of them at once. They were nice individually, especially his dad, who was quiet—the eye of the hurricane that was the Maxwell clan—but I was a little worried about what it would be like to spend so much time with them, and about how much I’d miss my own family.
Darren’s parents had rented a huge place in Vail and his mom promised a big Christmas tree in the chalet. His family had shipped out two big boxes of gifts to arrive in advance. We’d been a little late with ours, so we’d gotten small ones—things we could pack in our suitcases. We contemplated bringing Annie, but my brother had offered to watch her and take her with him to my parents’ place, and somehow having her there felt a little bit like being there myself, so I said fine.
“This is big, Lulu,” Jay had said to me, when I told him my plan to spend Christmas with Darren’s family instead of ours. “Is he your clock reaction, for real?”
I remembered that conversation he and I had more than a year and a half before, when I told him I didn’t want to love anyone but you. My feelings had clearly changed.
“I think he might be,” I told Jay.
I could hear the smile in my brother’s voice when he said, “I’m happy for you, even if I’ll miss you at Christmas.”
“I’ll miss you, too,” I said. “A lot. But I’ll see you when I get back. How about a New Year’s Day brunch? You, Vanessa, me, and Darren?”
“Sounds good,” my brother said. “Already looking forward to it.”
We’d gone to my parents’ house the week before so I could grab the ski pants, helmet, and goggles I’d stored in their basement.
“Darren’s a good man,” my father had said to me, as he helped me hunt for my helmet. “I’m sorry we won’t see you both for Christmas, but maybe we’ll get you next year. And for Easter.”
I smiled. “That sounds good to me,” I said. My family liked Darren, and he and I spent a lot more time with them than you and I ever did. I’m not sure exactly why. Perhaps it was that when you and I were together we didn’t need anyone else, didn’t really think of anyone else. Darren’s and my world encompassed everyone we both knew—he was more the social secretary than I was, making sure we made time in our calendars to fit everyone in.
And he was so excited about this holiday trip. He made list upon list to be sure we wouldn’t forget anything, and after he checked and double-checked our suitcases, he declared us all set to leave the day before Christmas. Then he got the flu.
Darren’s nose had been running and he’d had a bit of a cough on the twenty-third, so he went to bed early that night, hoping that would help shake it. The plan was for both of us to stay at his apartment and then head to the airport together, so I ended up watching It’s a Wonderful Life myself in his living room and slipping into bed a little after midnight, about three hours after he did.
I cuddled up next to him, and let his body heat warm me until I realized that he was really warm. Even warmer than usual. I turned over and pressed my lips against his forehead, the way my mom always did when my brother or I was sick. His head felt hot against my lips.
His eyes fluttered open, and I could see how glassy they were in the semidarkness.
“Darren?” I whispered. “You’re burning up. Do you feel okay?”
He coughed a long racking cough. “Not really,” he said. “My head hurts. Do you think I have a fever?”
I went and got the thermometer I knew he kept in his medicine cabinet, and he took his temperature. 102.4.
“Maybe it’s broken,” he said.
I cleaned it with alcohol and took my temperature. 98.6.
“I don’t think it’s broken,” I said. “And I think you might have the flu.”
I got him some Tylenol, and we both fell asleep.
He woke up early the next morning with the same high fever, the same body-racking cough, and a headache and runny nose that had intensified.
“I’m really
sick,” he said, when his coughing woke me up.
“Yeah,” I said. “You are.”
And then his eyes filled with tears. It was the first time I’d ever seen him cry. “Our plane’s taking off in four hours. I don’t think I can go to Colorado today. I don’t even know if I can get out of bed.”
Even though Darren was the one who usually handled logistics—and still is—I quickly called the airline and, with some pleas and explanations, got our tickets moved to a flight two days later. Then I called his mom and explained the situation. And then threw on some boots and a coat and went to the drugstore to get him whatever I could find—cough suppressants and fever reducers and cold-and-flu medications.
“I’m sorry for ruining your Christmas,” he said when I got back.
I kissed his feverish forehead and said, “As long as I get to spend it with you, it’s not ruined.”
He took some medication and went back to sleep, and I snuck out of the apartment again. I bought a three-foot-tall tree—the biggest I could carry on my own—and lights and tinsel and glitter snowflakes that had already been marked twenty percent off at Duane Reade. I got a box of red and gold ornaments, too, and a ballerina for the top of the tree, because everything else had been sold out. Then, while Darren slept, I turned his living room into Christmas. I even unpacked our gifts for his whole family and put them under the tree, which I’d balanced on the coffee table, to make it look taller. It felt like I was giving him back some of the happiness that he’d given to me over the past year.
“Lucy?” Darren called from the bedroom, just as I was sticking the last sparkly snowflake to the wall behind the couch. “Are you moving furniture?”
I heard him padding slowly to the door, coughing as he walked, and then the bedroom door opened, and he was there, leaning against the door frame, pale and rumpled, with dark circles under his eyes. He looked at the living room and didn’t say a word.
“Darren? Is this okay? I wanted to make sure that being sick didn’t mean you missed Christmas.”
The Light We Lost Page 11