“I love you so much. Thank you for this.”
It is the most inadequate response, but it’s all I’m capable of in that moment. I know that she knows what I want to say. She knows me. Sarah knows me.
Chapter 20
Sarah
TOWARDS THE END OF JANUARY, Danny is working so many hours that I’m beginning to worry that he’s spreading himself too thin. His career is on fire; it seems like he can’t miss right now. Math and science standardized test scores for Taft came in at the highest in the district, and he’s been asked to document his department’s curriculum and teaching approach as a blueprint for others schools in the district to emulate. Meanwhile, his consulting assignment with Project Learning is becoming more time-intensive, as they’re less than six months from launching their pilot program. And on top of all of that, he’s finishing his dissertation and the summer course proposal he’s submitting to Stanford.
Selene’s parents come to town for a visit, giving me a perfect reason to leave Danny to his work, guilt free. Apparently, the San Francisco Symphony is hosting an all-Brahms concert with Iván Fischer and the Budapest Festival Orchestra at Davies Hall. Selene’s mother, Helen, is a big fan of Brahms, and considers this one a ‘can’t miss’ event.
The original plan had been for Mr. and Mrs. Georgiou to take Selene and Kevin as their guests, but Kevin had a last minute issue at work and couldn’t attend. So I agreed to take Kevin’s place.
The concert itself is lovely. Davies Hall is a gorgeous venue, and there isn’t really a bad seat in the house–particularly for a concert, which is more about listening than watching, anyway.
Just before the end of the intermission, I break away from the group to use the restroom. The lines are crazy, and it takes forever. I don’t know why they don’t make the women’s bathroom twice as big as the men’s room. Has no one figured this out yet?
By the time I get to the front of the line, intermission is almost over, and the bathroom is nearly empty. I’m just finishing drying my hands when a stall door opens and Carolyn Martin steps out. I see her reflection in the mirror for a moment before she notices me.
Carolyn is so beautiful that she almost doesn’t look real. For this occasion, she’s wearing a very fitted knee-length black cocktail dress that gathers Grecian-style at one shoulder. Her shiny chocolate brown hair is swept into an elaborate updo that I wouldn’t begin to know how to achieve with my own hair. Her jewelry is kept simple, except for a stunning pair of gold chandelier earrings that amplify the gold flecks in her blue eyes. And she’s wearing killer black strappy heels that make her at least six feet tall.
All in all, she looks polished and elegant. I’m in the same red dress that she saw me in before, Selene’s red dress that I seem to pull out now for every occasion. When Carolyn glances up at me in the mirror, I’m quite sure she notices that, too.
“Sarah, what a surprise,” she says flatly, approaching the sink next to me. “I wouldn’t expect to see you here.”
The last time I saw her at the Christmas concert, she was at least pretending to be friendly. This time, there is no pretense, at all.
Her tone is unmistakably snide, and I know I should just walk away.
Do not do this, I coach myself. Do not take the bait.
“Carolyn,” I respond. “I wish I could say it’s a pleasant surprise.”
Dammit. I took the bait.
That makes her smile. Not the nice kind of smile, but the kind that says, “Oh, thank you, Jesus. You’ve just made my day.”
“I’m the Senior Arts and Entertainment editor for the Chronicle, Sarah. It’s my job to attend all of these events. Or didn’t Danny mention that?”
Her voice is dripping in condescension, and she can obviously tell that, no, in fact, Danny had never told me that. He hasn’t really told me much of anything about their relationship.
“To tell you the truth, Carolyn, he rarely mentions you,” I say, recovering quickly. I need to get out of here.
“So, then, he never told you that we were pre-engaged?” she says, washing her hands.
“Pre-engaged? That’s kind of like ‘a little bit pregnant.’”
She smiles again, like she’s enjoying the challenge.
“Yes, well, we both know Danny struggles with commitment.” She meets my eyes head-on in the mirror. “Plus, he was waiting until he finished his Ph.D. I think that’s almost completed now, correct?”
“How does that make a difference for you?”
I don’t know where she’s going with this, and I’m working hard to keep my reactions from betraying an increasing sense of unease. As if she can read my thoughts, she turns to face me directly.
“Because I’m the one he’ll come back to. We have five years of history, Sarah. What did you think this was between you?” She’s almost laughing at me. Like I’m somehow missing the biggest joke of all. “You’re the escape, du jour–a detour while he gets serious about his life, and finally figures out what he wants.”
She reaches for a towel to dry her hands, with a mean little smile lingering on her face. If I were prone to violence, I’d slap that exotic face right now. And, unfortunately, she’s not even close to being finished.
“If I had to guess, I’d say you were a little gold digger, dressed in your retread outfit, just waiting to hit pay dirt with Danny. Am I right?”
I don’t understand the reference. But as I process her words, I hear echoes of past conversations.
I have plenty of money, Sarah. Trust me on that.
The house has been in my dad’s family for a long time.
I’m pretty sure she can read it all on my face. And she goes in for the kill.
“Wait a minute; he didn’t tell you that he’s loaded?” Her eyebrows are raised high, and her smile is triumphant. “I wonder why that would be, Sarah? Perhaps he knew you were a gold digger, and he didn’t trust you enough to tell you? Or perhaps it’s because you’re nothing more to him than a mid-life crisis–a casual little screw with a much younger girl who strokes his ego and lets him pretend for an instant that he doesn’t need to get his act together and settle down. How long do you think you can hold him, Sarah?”
I desperately want to leave this bathroom. But I feel like my feet are stuck to the floor and her venomous, superior gaze is pinning me in place. I can’t look away.
And, in my stunned immobility, her words hit squarely on the mark.
“You’re what 22? And a student?” That draws a laugh from her. “How long do you think you’re going to be interesting to him? He’s eleven years older than you, and his career is about to take off. He’s going to be ready for a wife and a family. Can you give him that right now?”
Her tone suggests that she knows the answer is no. And all of my mother’s words come back to me, further adding to the damage being inflicted on my self-confidence.
“I didn’t think so,” she says smugly.
“Well, if he had wanted those things with you, he wouldn’t be with me right now.”
My words sound logical, even to me, but somehow I can’t quite put the conviction behind them to convey any confidence in their veracity. Why would he not have told me about the money? It wouldn’t have made a bit of difference to me. I’ve never been someone who dreamed of being wealthy or wanted much in terms of material things.
But maybe he assumed, because of my circumstances, that I would have cared. Maybe he felt that if I knew, I would try to manipulate him into buying me things or settling my debts.
God, is that what happened with the piano? The piano is beautiful, but what I love most about it is that I thought he bought it because he wanted to give me a special place in his home, in his life.
But maybe Carolyn is right. Maybe his earlier talk about marriage was just something that felt good in the moment. Maybe if he were really serious about us, he wouldn’t have kept something so major from me. Maybe like my mom said, he’s just having a little fun. It’s not as though I have such a great track re
cord with choosing men.
Oh God, I feel like such an idiot.
And Carolyn witnesses it all, bleeding right out of me. I know it. She looks like a kid at Christmas.
“I guess we’ll find out soon, won’t we, Sarah?” she says smiling. Then, she moves past me, and quietly exits the bathroom.
I just stand there for the longest time. The lights flicker to indicate that the concert is beginning and, still, I just stand there. People come in and leave again, and I don’t move. They probably think I’m on drugs. I’m just frozen. Nauseous and paralyzed with fear. With anger. With regret for my own stupidity.
I think about calling Danny, but I don’t know what I would say. What would I ask him?
Why don’t you trust me? Why are you playing with me?
Do I want to know the answers to those questions?
The bathroom door opens and an attendant comes in. “Is it okay if I clean?” she asks hesitantly.
I look at her wordlessly, and manage a nod.
Then, I turn and walk out, finally making my way back to my seat under the merciful cover of darkness.
“What took you so long?” Selene whispers.
I struggle to contain the tremor in my voice. “Long lines.”
And, there in the concert hall, my heart shatters to the masterful works of Brahms. The tears flow silently, as the life I’d imagined comes completely apart.
Chapter 21
Sarah
BY THE TIME THE CONCERT ends, I collect myself enough to get through the motions of thanking Selene’s parents for including me. I try to give the illusion of being reasonably attentive to the conversation on the car ride home, but I fail.
“You seem really distracted. Is everything okay?” Selene asks me when we reach finally our place.
She looks concerned, and the very last thing I can handle right now is a lot of questions. So, instead, I regress to deflection.
“I’m not feeling great. I think I’m just tired.”
She looks at me skeptically, but nods and rubs my arm, too good a friend to insist on the truth.
“Okay, if you’re sure. Sleep well.”
I feel my cell buzz in my purse. It’s about 10:00 p.m., and the time I told Danny I’d be home.
As I walk to my room, I take the phone out, and glance at his text.
I hear it’s possible to play Brahms on the skin flute. Thought you might want to practice.
The old me would have laughed and responded with a witty retort. The new me feels a little sick. I close the door quietly and set the phone down on my desk. I’m nervous and anxious. I don’t know what to do. I should call him. Talk this out. Listen to his explanation, and be open-minded.
But I can’t. I’m taken back to that moment of humiliation when I discovered that my relationship with John was not what I thought it was. But this is so much worse because, in this case, I put myself out there. I didn’t hold anything back from him. I fought my own issues with intimacy to open myself up in a way I never have before. Only to find out now that he hasn’t done the same with me. It’s not that I want or need to know everything about his finances; it’s the fact that his not telling me something of such significance makes me question the true nature and depth of our relationship.
I have no idea how much time passes while I sit numbly on the edge of my bed. But finally another text arrives.
Hey–still coming by?
With shaking fingers, I answer, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.
His response is immediate. Why?
Let’s talk tomorrow.
Why, Sarah? He insists.
Because I think you broke us.
After that, my phone goes conspicuously quiet. I know I don’t want to have a conversation like this over text, yet the silence feels ominous. The silence in our apartment is worse–oppressive, suffocating, unrelenting.
But it’s not long before our buzzer rings. I hear Selene get up to answer it.
“Is she here?”
Danny’s deep voice fills our apartment, and moments later, he knocks softly on my bedroom door. He’s wearing a black V-neck sweater over a white t-shirt and jeans. When he sees me sitting on the edge of the bed, he comes over and sits beside me.
“What do you mean, I broke us?”
I just look at him, expressionless. “Why didn’t you tell me about the money?”
He blanches, and I know in that instant that Carolyn was telling the truth. If she was right about that, what else was she right about?
“Who told you?” he asks quietly.
“Your ex,” I answer, with as much disdain as I can muster.
That seems to be a blow, and he rests his elbow on the desk, rubbing his face with one hand. “I was always going to tell you. I just…” He looks so lost–like he needs my help to come up with the words.
But I’m not offering any help at all.
“Sarah, please. You have to let me explain.”
“What are we talking about here? Millions? Tens of millions? More?”
I’m baiting him, I know. But at this point, I need to know what price tag he’s put on our relationship. How much money was worth keeping a secret that could risk what we have together?
“Around $20 million dollars in cash, plus the property,” he says, carefully watching me for a reaction. I won’t make it that easy.
“We’ve been together for more than seven months. Did you not trust me? Did you think I was the kind of person who would use you for money?”
“No!”
“So, it was just that you didn’t think our relationship was going to be long-lived enough to merit the discussion? Or am I just a fun little screw on the road to someone else more meaningful?”
He looks like he’s been punched in the gut, with an expression of bewilderment so desperate as to be almost comical. His eyes are wide, and he’s shaking his head emphatically back and forth.
“NO! It’s not like that!” He reaches for me, but I pull away.
“Sarah, you know I never thought that!”
“I thought I knew. But to be honest, when I look at you now, I’m not sure what I know and don’t know about us.”
“That’s not true! You know me. You know us.”
I don’t respond. How can I?
There is total dismay in his face, and he stands up in frustration or anxiety. He rubs the back of his neck as he starts to pace.
“Let me explain.” He takes a deep breath and swallows hard. His hands are trembling, and he crosses his arms over his body, tucking them away to hide it. “The money is inheritance from my parents’ deaths. I never wanted it. I hate it because, for one, it’s blood money. And, two, it was given to me out of spite.”
I understand the first part. I didn’t inherit anything from my dad except his camera, but I can understand feeling like money is no compensation for a loss of that magnitude. The second part, I don’t understand. But I’m tired of pulling information reluctantly out of him. Instead, I just sit like a statue, making no eye contact.
But he knows exactly what I’m thinking, and he continues.
“Casey told me you asked her about my father. And you may have guessed that his family was fairly wealthy, even though he was never flashy about it. What you may not know is that his ultimatum to me was a breaking point for us. He tried to use money as leverage in our relationship, instead of respecting me enough to let me make my own choices.
“He never saw me, Sarah. Not once. All he could ever see was someone who wasn’t him. So, when I rejected his ultimatum, I wasn’t just rejecting college tuition; I was rejecting all of it.
“And he knew that; he knew how I felt about the inheritance. Yet he gave it to me anyway. He couldn’t even respect that choice.”
He breathes in, and then purges the breath audibly. Like maybe just speaking the words relieves some of the burden they hold.
I remember our conversation from Labor Day weekend.
We just seemed to find so many points of contention�
��all the way to the end. And ironically, even after the end.
“Maybe he gave it to you because he wanted you to know he loved and respected you,” I reply softly. “Maybe he just didn’t know how to communicate it.”
Danny doesn’t respond. He’s standing with his hands on his hips, and his head is hung in regret. “I’ve never touched one dime of that money. Not a single dime.”
“What about your house?”
“My uncle passed away of lung cancer when I was finishing up at UVA. He was an entrepreneur and a workaholic, and he didn’t have any kids. Most of his estate went to charity, but he also left something to Casey and me. We were close. And his generosity never came with any strings. I knew his bequest was his way of showing how much he valued our relationship.”
“You should have told me about this.”
“I know. I do know. I just don’t like to think about it. I try not to most of the time. But since I have this money, I decided that someday I’d really like to start an educational foundation–make something good out of something bad. It’s a big part of why I’m getting my Ph.D. But, in order to really make a difference, you have to know the system. You have to know how to negotiate the unions, and the politicians, and the red tape. That’s why I’m also doing the consulting work–because I need to learn those things and make contacts. Otherwise, the money will be wasted, or ill-used, or tied up in bullshit.”
I just stare at him in disbelief, searching his face for something that’s familiar.
“Money aside, you never told me that was the intent of your Ph.D. or your consulting work. Or even that you’d be interested in running a non-profit.”
That may actually be the most painful admission so far. Not because it’s a bombshell, but because it isn’t. In the scheme of things, it’s a rather harmless bit of insight–one that anyone of the rank of casual friend might be entitled to. And yet, he’s never shared it with me.
I tilt my head towards the floor, letting my hair fall around my face for a brief moment of solitude. The hem of my red dress peeks out between the front flaps of my cream-colored wool coat. That coat feels like the only thing holding my insides together. I sense him studying me, and the silence is heavy and pregnant between us.
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