The First Husband

by Laura Dave

  I, meanwhile, was of little help. It was my first night ever hostessing (note once again: the ill-advised choice to wear my highest heels) and instead of doing the wise thing of sending people on their way—graciously offering to make them a reservation to join us later in the week, or over the next weekend—I was busy making promises I knew I couldn’t keep. Hang here for just another half hour or so. Hang here until I can figure out where I can seat you.

  I was so busy offering false hope that eventually I had to sneak into the kitchen (a pile of menus still in hand) to hide from our increasingly hungry and annoyed patrons.

  “Why aren’t they going home?” I asked Griffin, peeking at their irritated faces through the small kitchen window. “Don’t they know I’m too busy to deal with them right now?”

  If Griffin weren’t Griffin, this would be the moment he’d have said to me, Seriously? I should be asking you the same thing.

  But instead, he laughed—loose and easy—as he continued plating his warm peach salad. Getting ready to move over to the entrée station, where his sous-chefs, Nikki and Dominic, were readying his beautiful branzino and herbs soaking in its parchment paper, his homemade balsamic reduction sweet enough to eat.

  “It’s not a big deal,” Griffin said, “Just go out to the wine shack and grab a bottle of the Prosecco. Look for the Adami. The Adami’s good.”

  “The Adami,” I repeated. Then I realized: “And pour a tall glass for anyone determined to wait it out?”

  He shrugged. “I was going to say, pour yourself one,” he said. “But that works too.”

  I kissed him on the cheek, and headed toward the back door, holding it open against the wind.

  “You’re a genius!” I said. “And a consummate professional!”

  “Be careful though,” he called after me, as I stepped into the alley. “We didn’t install the lights in the shack yet.”

  “I’ve got it all under control,” I said. “I’ll be back!”

  “I’ll be here,” he said.

  I made a beeline toward the small, wooden shack—the cold catching me anyway. And, yet, even as I wrapped my arms around myself more tightly, I couldn’t help but catch a glance of the sky. It was, after all, pretty spectacular. The incredible stars and late-winter moon, lighting it up. It was like nothing I had ever seen, a sky that impossibly bright. I couldn’t help but think that that felt like a good thing—like a good omen—for the restaurant. For the night ahead.

  I removed the padlock and stepped up into the small shack, barely lit—only by that bright sky—and I said it out loud, “Adami,” reminding myself what I was looking for among the dark bottles, some still in boxes, most shelved and ready to go.

  Then I spotted it out of the corner of my eye on a lower shelf—showing off its orange label, the flair of its bright green bottle. A row of Adami.

  I reached down and lifted two bottles out, checking each of their labels to be certain. Which was when, from where he stood right behind me in the wine shack doorway, he spoke up.

  “Hello, Adams. . . .”

  Nick. Saying hello. Just like that.

  I turned around fast. I turned around so fast—absolutely convinced I couldn’t have heard it, what I was absolutely convinced I’d heard—that I dropped them. I dropped both of the Adamis as soon as we were face-to-face, green glass flying everywhere, the sparkly, cool liquid covering Nick’s ridiculously heavy winter boots, my ridiculously open toes.

  I dropped to my knees, immediately starting to search for the sharp, green shards—starting to sop up the bubbly wine. This instead of hello. This instead of, what are you doing here?

  Nick dropped down to his knees too, right across from me, our knees almost touching.

  “Careful there,” he said.

  I ignored him and kept picking up the shards, which made a lot of sense. Because cutting my finger open would really show him who was boss.

  “Maybe we should go inside and get gloves or something?” he said. “It’s a lot of glass.”

  “No thanks,” I said. “I’m fine.”

  It was the first thing I said to him as though it hadn’t been—how long?—since we’d last spoken. The first thing on the other side of our breakup. The other side of my marriage.

  Nick just nodded. “Fair enough,” he said.

  Then he too got to work in the dark, also searching for the visible larger pieces, until he found one of the bottle’s necks, its orange wrapping still intact, holding it out to me, like a present.

  This was when I looked at him—first at the bottle’s neck, then at him. He was dressed in a dumb Batman T-shirt beneath his blue button-down shirt. And back in his old wire-rim glasses again, like he’d never been a day without them. Looking unshaven and intent and exactly like himself. Which, is to say, absolutely perfect to me.

  “I thought you were in London,” I said.

  “I was,” he said. He pushed the wire-rims higher up on his nose. “I mean . . . I am.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “I was in the neighborhood?” he said, trying to make a joke. But his eyes looked tired behind the glasses. They looked sad to me.

  And we were still on the wine shack floor. There was that. We were on the floor, looking right at each other.

  I moved back, farther away from him. “I need to go inside,” I said. “I’m sorry you came so far, Nick. I really am. But I need to go back inside. And you need to go. Right now.”

  I started to stand up, but he reached out and took my arm, gently—like it was his right—keeping me there, on my knees.

  “Wait,” he said. “I came a long way.”

  I shook my head. “No one asked you to.”

  “Fine. But will you just wait for one second?”

  “For what?” I said.

  But I knew for what. Even after so much time, I knew. It was all too familiar between us. Like we could just pick up right where we left off. This was what Nick was counting on. That love would do what it often threatened to do: remind you that it was timeless, as if that were its entire story.

  Nick could ask his questions later. We could fight and talk and get nowhere later. We could figure out whether the details of the time since we parted were only details later. But if he kept me there, that close to him, his hand on my arm, his lips moving closer to my lips—if he kissed me there—he could decide that still meant something, maybe even everything.

  So there I was, about to stand up, about to disengage, but not midmotion yet. I was about to be midmotion, but I wasn’t yet. I was still on my knees. Because there is always a moment, between the moment when you might, and the moment when you don’t.

  And, in that moment, my husband walked in.

  27

  Griffin was standing in the entranceway to the wine shack—a large flashlight in his hands, his eyes fixed on Nick—as Nick and I jumped up, almost in sync, which somehow seemed like the worst possible place to start. The worst possible place for what was coming.

  “Griffin . . .” I said.

  “Hey there,” Griffin said.

  He still wasn’t looking at me, though. He still wasn’t looking anywhere near me, his eyes tight on the one person who should never have been in his wine shack without an invitation.

  I felt the need to fix the situation, fast, but I didn’t know how. This isn’t what it looks like, I wanted to say. But it was probably somewhat what it looked like: me on the floor of Griffin’s wine shack with the last person I should have been on the floor of his wine shack with—two bottles of broken wine between us, his lips making their way toward mine.

  Besides, I’d heard those exact words in too many bad television shows, in too many B movies, where the exact opposite was far closer to the truth. I’d heard them from Griffin, himself, just the other day, hadn’t I? He and Gia talking over coffee—a large, cumbersome bar between them. It didn’t seem to be a good time to point that out, even though part of me wanted to. As if that would make us even.

 
So instead I dug deep to find the right thing to say.

  “What are you doing out here?” I asked. “Isn’t the branzino getting cold?”

  Apparently, I didn’t dig deep enough.

  Griffin held out the flashlight for me to take—meeting my eyes, for the first time, making me wish he hadn’t. “I thought you might need this,” he said.

  “Thank you, I do. I dropped the Adami.” I turned the flashlight on, shining it at the liquid and glass all over the floor, like proof. “I dropped two of them, actually,” I said. “At least it wasn’t three. . .”

  Really, someone needed to shut me up.

  Griffin reached out his hand toward Nick. “And you must be Nick?” he said, a little too calmly.

  “It’s good to meet you,” Nick said.

  And they shook hands. They shook hands in this weird way that I thought someone might be about to get punched. But they let go, and no one was punched. Of course no one was. We were all adults here.

  “I’m really sorry to just show up like this, on such an important night,” Nick said. “I didn’t know your restaurant was opening tonight. Or I didn’t know until my flight already landed, and the taxi dropped me at your house.”

  “Where did you come in from?” Griffin said.

  There was no way to make London sound good. No way in the world. This was probably why Nick didn’t exactly answer.

  “I’m on my way to New York,” he said. “For work.”

  Nick’s eyes were on me now, but I wouldn’t look at him. I was too busy looking between Griffin and the ground. The ground and Griffin. And Griffin was looking at Nick. Just at Nick. It was like musical chairs, the staring version.

  “You ready for this?”

  We all turned to see Jesse standing in the doorway of the increasingly crowded wine shack: Jesse, who was looking more than a little confused, and carrying a supersize bag of BAR-B-Q Fritos. Why he was munching on BAR-B-Q Fritos in the middle of his brother’s restaurant opening, I had no idea.

  “Cheryl’s pregnant,” Jesse said.

  “What?” I said.

  I flashed the flashlight right at him, right at his eyes, Jesse hurrying to cover them.

  “Turn that off,” Jesse said. “Don’t I have enough problems?”

  We all have enough problems, I thought, catching Nick ’s bewildered expression out of the corner of my eye.

  I clicked the useless flashlight off and put it down on a shelf, away from me, just in case I felt compelled to turn it on again.

  Jesse, meanwhile, was shaking his head.

  “I can’t even believe it. I mean, can you? I pick up the telephone tonight, and, bear in mind, this is the first time she’s called in weeks without immediately asking to speak to the little guys and, I’m like, ‘Hello there, wife,’ and she was like, ‘I’m not calling for small talk, I’m pregnant, you asshole!’ Like it’s my fault . . . well, in a way, I guess it is.” He paused, noticing Nick. “Who is this guy?”

  “Jesse,” Griffin said, interrupting his brother, patting him on the back. “Come on. Let’s go inside and talk about this.”

  “I don’t want to go inside and talk about this,” Jesse said. “I want to talk about this here. Where the good booze is!”

  “Well, I’m going back in,” Griffin said. “I have a restaurant of hungry people waiting. So if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  And, with that, he turned to leave.

  “Griffin . . .” I said, calling after him.

  Maybe I should have followed him. But all I could do was stand there as he started through the alleyway, my heart dropping as he went. I could feel it dropping all the way down to my stomach. Just watching him go.

  “What’s up with him?” Jesse said, turning back to me. “I’m the one here with child. Two, apparently!”

  Jesse looked crazed, even in the dark, trying unsuccessfully to get a handle on what he now knew.

  “Annie, I’m so sorry about all of this,” Nick said. “I really am. But if I could just have one minute alone with you before I leave . . .”

  I shook my head. “No way,” I said.

  He looked at me, and nodded, seeing that I meant it. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll go.”

  Which might have marked it as the end—this surprise visit, this bad trip—for then at least. Except for Jesse.

  “Wait . . . so who are you?” Jesse asked.

  Nick was walking past him out the door. Nick this close to already being past him.

  “He’s going, Jesse,” I said.

  But Nick turned back and introduced himself. “Nick Campbell,” he said. “I’m an old friend of Annie’s.”

  Jesse nodded, starting to bring his attention back to me. Then—it was as if something occurred to him—he stopped midswitch, his eyes getting wide.

  “Wait, you’re Nick?” he said. “As in Annie’s ex, Nick?”

  But before Nick could even answer—before I could answer for him—Jesse dropped his Fritos to the ground and reached back, popping Nick hard, right in the jaw. One continuous motion, an unnatural crack, Nick flying backward and landing on the ground.

  I bent down, instinctively, holding on to both of his shoulders. “Are you okay?” I asked.

  Nick nodded, attempting to move his bloodied jaw around. “Yeah. I’m fine . . .” he said. “I guess I deserved that.”

  I looked up toward Jesse. “What the hell, Jesse? ” I said. “What is that accomplishing? We are all adults here!”

  “Didn’t he just say he deserved it?” he said.

  “Doesn’t matter! We are all adults here! ” I said, louder—quite clearly, on my way to completely losing it.

  Jesse just shrugged and—stopping only to pick up his bag of BAR-B-Q Fritos—walked over us and out of the wine shack. Leaving me not far from where I started, alone with Nick, and somehow back on my knees.

  28

  “I want to understand what were you thinking,” I said, “ just showing up here? ”

  Nick and I were in the bathroom in the lobby of the closest local hotel—the Hotel Northampton—the closest place where I could leave him in his state. Me, using one of the hotel’s ancient, monogrammed towels to blot at the blood on Nick ’s busted lip; Nick, sitting on the countertop before me, holding on to the back of his neck with one hand, steadying himself, holding a glass of scotch in the other—steadying himself in that way too.

  “I said I was sorry,” he said. “And I am. Sorry.”

  “Fine,” I said, pulling back, studying my handiwork. “But how’s that the same thing as an answer?”

  He looked at me, confused. “What’s the question again?”

  “Nick, come on.”

  I tossed the towel into the small wicker basket and took a seat in the faded recliner across the small seating area, crossing my arms over my chest. It was too much to think about Griffin’s restaurant opening being tainted by this. It was too unforgivable. But there it was: an undeniable truth. And there I was with the unforgivable party.

  I shook my head. “Everything’s such a mess now,” I said. “You made a choice. I made a choice.”

  “I know,” Nick said.

  I looked up at him. “Apparently you don’t, or we wouldn’t be here.”

  If I were honest, what Nick was doing here wasn’t the most important question: What was I doing here? In a hotel lobby, nine long miles from my husband. Why hadn’t I gone back into the restaurant instead?

  I did. Or, I should say, I tried to. But Griffin was moving fast around the kitchen, back in his element and comfortable, clearly trying to forget what had just occurred—moving so fast, even when he saw me standing there before him. He told me we’d talk later. It seemed kinder to honor his request—to leave him be. To give him back his night, the rest of it.

  And so I came here, instead, believing that in his beat-up state, Nick needed a hand. Believing also that it could be valuable, getting answers to my questions. Getting some final answers, so I could close the door. As if they existed. Final a
nswers, closed doors.

  “Can we . . . talk about something else, please?” Nick said. “For just a minute or two?”

  The blood had dripped all the way down the front of his Batman T-shirt, had fallen onto his jeans. Leaving dirty, brown splotches all over the front of him. It was making him look far worse than I could ever remember seeing him look. It was making it hard to be that hard on him.

  “Like what, Nick?” I said, more gently.

  “Like anything.”

  He was holding up his glass of scotch now, holding it right up to his swelling chin.

  Suddenly, it was too much to fight him, especially when it felt—even though it was his own fault—like he’d already lost.

  I took a deep breath in.

  “How’s my dog doing?” I said.

  “Good,” he said. “Really good.”

  “Yeah? ”

  He pulled his phone out of his pocket. “I brought you some pictures, if you want to see.”

  I nodded. I did. It was the one thing I did want, unequivocally, right then.

  So he tossed his phone across the room, I caught it, and my heart started to speed up as I scrolled through. Looking at my sweet, old Mila, napping on the windowsill in Nick’s flat, walking through a Park—Battersea, I assumed—flirting with a cat by the Victoria railway station sign (yes, a cat). Like me, apparently, my girl didn’t know what shouldn’t be a go.

  “Miss Mila . . .” I said, shaking my head in disbelief. “Who knew she was such a European?”

  “Surprising, isn’t it?” he said. “A little less surprising is how much she misses you.”

  “It’s mutual,” I said. “Low blow though, showing me pictures of her.”

  “You asked.”

  And he was right. I had asked. I wanted to know everything about what was going on with Mila. If I admitted it, I wanted to know more about Nick too. Nick, meanwhile, was taking a long sip of scotch, and I could see it in his eyes. That he was trying to decide whether he knew enough about what was going on with me to feel safe saying it. Whatever he’d come all this way to say.