Cold Feet

by Amy FitzHenry

  “What did he say?” I asked, ignoring the fact that we had thirty minutes to shower and get to the ceremony at the Hearst Greek Theatre.

  “No,” she said flatly. “He chose her. I thought this was going to be it, our time to be together finally. I didn’t tell you this yet, but a couple months ago he got asked to come teach at Seton Hall for a year. We were going to get an apartment together in the city. I love him, Emma.”

  “I know you do.”

  “The worst part is, after he said no, I started to backtrack. I suggested maybe they separate for now, but he still come to New York. Then he said no, I was right, this couldn’t go on. Even after that, I still tried to convince him that we could stay together long-distance. It was so embarrassing. But it didn’t matter anyway. I couldn’t change his mind.” She looked wild-eyed and desperate. “This isn’t possible. This can’t be how it ends. He can’t just decide to end it.”

  But that was the thing about relationships. He could. Although I didn’t blame her one bit for feeling that way, and I had certainly experienced the same frantic loss of control myself, I knew she was wrong. He could make the decision. He could decide to end it all on his own.

  I’ve noticed that when someone gets his or her heart badly broken, this is usually the first reaction, citing these pledges of commitment. “She said he would love me forever,” or, “He swore he would never do this.” Sometimes even, “I gave him another chance because he promised this would never happen again.” But, at the end of the day, these are only words. There really isn’t any guarantee that these vows will be kept. And when it comes down to it, people are going to choose their own happiness over a promise they made to someone else, every day of the week.

  This brought me back to the present, to my own situation and the sense of powerlessness and confusion I was feeling. I couldn’t change what Sam did in Charleston. Now, however, the tables were turned. I could break up with Sam. I didn’t have to marry him. I didn’t have to forgive him, or try to understand, or even ever speak to him again if I chose not to, and he couldn’t stop me. I could make that decision all on my own.

  CHAPTER 15

  “Do you remember senior year of high school, when I wanted to join the dance team?” Liv asked, as our waiter plunked down two extra-spicy Bloody Marys.

  We had walked to North Beach, my favorite part of the city, due to the beautiful views, stunning churches, and welcoming parks, not to mention that it was home to the best part of San Francisco: Little Italy. Liv declared that we needed a drink and a bite in order to figure out our next move, and I wasn’t about to disagree. She pointed us toward a beautiful restaurant on the water with a back deck exclusively dedicated to day drinking and staring into the blue water of the San Francisco Bay.

  “Of course I do.”

  “Do you remember how I forced you to try out with me because I didn’t want to do it alone? And we came home after school every day for two weeks and practiced the routine over and over.” Liv looked way too excited about this unimportant footnote in our friendship.

  “Yeah, to the Spice Girls’ ‘Wannabe.’ And your CD player kept skipping, so we made Benny hold it for, like, three hours a day.” Her little brother was so thrilled to be included that he would agree to anything, even pressing pause and play when we screamed out instructions. Liv and I really had no business trying out for the dance team. We couldn’t do a pirouette to save our lives. But we were seniors and it was spring semester, so they’d pretty much let anyone in our position shimmy on the gym floor for a few minutes during pep rallies.

  “You didn’t even want to do it, but I couldn’t try out alone, remember? I was too embarrassed, so you did it with me. And then, once we made the team—and I use that term loosely—I decided I wanted to do the musical instead and ditched you?”

  “Yes, of course. I blame Mrs. McCarthy, who lured you away with the promise of a solo—although you were a great Golde.” Liv may look like a floppy bird when she does the running man, but the girl can sing. Despite the aging makeup and long cotton layers, her performance in Fiddler on the Roof ensured that every drama guy in school fell in love with her immediately.

  “Thanks, I think it was all that practicing for a bat mitzvah that my Catholic parents wouldn’t let me have,” Liv reflected, taking a swallow of her Bloody. “But wait, I haven’t gotten to why I brought this up!” She took a pause as if to recapture the seriousness of her point. “The point is, even after I quit, you stayed on the dance team.”

  “That’s true . . .” I said, completely lost.

  “You didn’t need me! I couldn’t possibly have gone through something so embarrassing without you, but you had no problem doing it alone.”

  “But you did the musical instead,” I said, trying and failing to get her point.

  “I’m a good singer—the musical was no sweat—plus, I had a crush on Tevye so I was really convincing. But we had zero experience dancing. We looked completely ridiculous, no offense. It was going out on a limb and really taking the risk of looking really silly. To do that, I needed you, but you didn’t need me. You just went for it.

  “Here’s the thing, Em,” she went on. “You talk about not having family in your life, and I disagree to a certain extent, because you do have Caro.” I guffawed. “Okay, maybe she’s not the warmest person in the world, but you always have me, and the Luccis. And Sam—which I know is complicated right now. But that’s one of the amazing things about you. You’re independent. You moved to L.A. not knowing a soul! I only agreed to go all the way to Berkeley once I knew you were going, too. Do you know how much I wish I could do that?”

  “I guess.” I wasn’t sure how to feel. It was nice, but it was complicated, too. Plus, the thought of having Sam hurt so deeply it took my breath away.

  “Emma, no matter what happens with Hunter and Caro, or your relationship, or your job, for that matter—”

  “What’s going on with my job?”

  Liv ignored my joke and finished, “No matter what happens, you will be fine. You can take care of yourself. Emma, you’re brave.”

  “Thanks, Liv,” I said quietly.

  There was something very true, and also somewhat sad, about what she was saying. I liked that quality in myself. I knew I would be okay on my own, despite life’s up and downs. To be honest, it was one of the things I was most proud of, my ability to be alone but not lonely. But I didn’t like thinking how I got that way, or what consequences that might bring.

  The summer before, I’d chosen to go on a vacation to Hawaii alone. Sam had to work, Liv was in arbitration, and I had vacation time, so I picked somewhere that I’d always wanted to go and went. I spent ten days in Paia, a tiny surf town on the north shore of Maui, eating at Mama’s Fish House, tearing through novels, and learning that water sports were no different from the terra firma variety—I sucked at them. Even so, it felt like heaven.

  From an enjoyment standpoint, the adventure lived up to expectations. But there were certain points in the trip when I felt almost too proud that I was doing it on my own, too eager to show myself and the rest of the world that I didn’t need anyone.

  Everyone who heard about it was overly impressed about my decision to travel by myself, which definitely wasn’t why I did it, but it gave me a certain measure of pride. When we had to fill out the arrival card at Kahului Airport, I’d been tempted to write proving a point in the space that asked our reason for travel. There was something about the experience, and the joy I took in it, that made me wonder if all those years of not needing anyone had made me unable to truly want anyone. If maybe I couldn’t adjust to the steady presence of another human being in my life. I thought about how long I’d kept the secret of wanting to look for Hunter, even from Liv. As well as the feeling of relief I got when I realized I could leave Sam forever, start over on my own, that it was my decision to make. It all felt related.

  “Thanks, Liv. It me
ans a lot that you think that.” When she kept staring at me, waiting for more, I confessed what was holding me back. “Only sometimes, I wish that I needed other people a little bit more. Sometimes I get nervous that, at the end, all that independence is going to leave me all alone with my cat, who isn’t even really my cat!” I was referring to a stray cat that lived in my yard and I fed. I bought her organic cat foot, rubbed her belly, and named her Sausage, and she, in turn, hissed at me regularly. It was a symbiotic relationship.

  “It’s funny how often the things we like the most about ourselves are also the things we want to change,” Liv remarked. I knew what she meant.

  “There’s something else . . .” she added. Liv looked like she was in pain. “I’ve been wanting to tell you.” She looked hesitant, like she was wrestling with herself. Finally she closed her eyes and plunged in. “Emma, my dad cheated on my mom.” Liv’s eyes were practically closed, either from the pain of the memory or in an effort to avoid my reaction.

  “What? No. You’re joking. Why would you joke about that?”

  She was silent a moment, giving credence to her statement, which didn’t make an ounce of sense.

  “I’m not joking,” she said in a raspy voice.

  “Why are you telling me this? Because you want me to forgive Sam?” I said impulsively, regretting my words as soon as they were out of my mouth.

  “No, Em. I’m telling you this because, for one, I’ve kept this from you for over a decade and I’ve been wanting to tell you for as long. And two, because I know how you feel about my dad. I mean, not in a creepy way. I know that you think he’s perfect, and I think you should know that no one is, you know, before you meet your own dad. I didn’t even think about the Sam thing.”

  “I’m sorry, Liv. That was stupid. Start over and tell me what happened.”

  She sighed like she regretted even bringing it up.

  “When I was sixteen and we were juniors, do you remember when my dad went to that immigration trial in Florida for a couple months?” I did. Mr. Lucci—I couldn’t help but call him that to this day—was called out of the blue to go to Jacksonville for a six-week trial that year. I remember thinking that the life of a lawyer was unbearably exciting and pictured him arguing in a huge sunny courtroom objecting loudly, with white sandy beaches in the background. Once I grew up and drove through Jacksonville on the way to Key West, the image changed, but my perception of Mr. Lucci never did.

  “They made that up. Actually, the entire time my dad was staying in a hotel in Alexandria. My mom kicked him out after she overheard a phone message some woman had left on his”—she choked the words out—“car phone.” There was a long pause, and I struggled to take this in. “Remember car phones?” she added. “Weird.”

  I nodded and looked at Liv, who wasn’t meeting my eyes, reaching for what to say. “I am so sorry. That is beyond terrible. Do your brothers know?”

  “Nope. My parents didn’t tell anyone. The only reason I know is because I caught my mom crying one afternoon after he left and she confessed everything. I think she was really relieved to tell someone, but to tell you the truth I wish I never knew.”

  “But they worked it out, I guess?” I said tentatively.

  “Yeah. I don’t really know the details, but I think the woman went overseas for a diplomatic appointment—that was where my dad met her, at the State Department—and eventually things went back to normal.”

  After looking at me for a second, as if to make sure her words had had their required impact, she motioned the waitress for another round. I suppose she’d had a dozen years to get used to it, so she wasn’t feeling the same level of shock I was, but I was dumbfounded.

  Why would Mr. Lucci, a man so seemingly happy, threaten everything—his family, his marriage, his Washington Post weekend edition, for a random woman he worked with? It was abruptly clear that I knew much less about life than I thought I did.

  After spending hours analyzing the bombshell Liv had dropped, drinking several rounds of Bloodys, and brainstorming increasingly absurd ways to find Hunter—the subject of Sam, his cheating and our impending marriage studiously ignored, as I requested—we realized that the warmer than usual Indian summer afternoon was coming to a close.

  “You know what we should do tonight?” Liv said mischievously, as we stared out into the slowly darkening sky. “Something we haven’t done in forever. Find the diviest karaoke bar in the city and sing until we forget our troubles.”

  “On a Tuesday?” I said skeptically.

  “Yes,” she laughed. “Drake says! Plus, we’re on vacation! There are no Tuesdays on vacation. What else are you gonna do? More Hunter research? Call Sam back?”

  As I’d had enough fruitless Hunter searching for the day and I wanted nothing less than to talk to Sam, analyze his texts, or think about what he had done and what I was going to do as a result, I had no choice but to agree.

  “Excellent point. Let’s do it.”

  CHAPTER 16

  “How about ‘Time after Time’?” she asked, flipping through the plastic pages of the karaoke song book.

  “I feel like we can do better than that. But no Journey. I hate how excited people get about Journey.”

  “I know you do. I’ve got it, ‘Love Shack,’ I’ll carry the vocals.” Without waiting for my response, Liv flipped her red-and-gold-streaked waves and headed to the deejay booth to sign up and no doubt convince him to bump us up in the order.

  “Hey, Emma,” I heard an extremely deep voice say from behind and felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and found Carrick and Dusty, owners of the voice and hand, respectively.

  “Hi,” I said in barely concealed surprise. “What are you guys doing here?”

  Carrick produced a rascally smile and pointed toward the deejay booth. “Liv texted us, said it was a karaoke kind of night and to consider this her official tryout for the Isotopes.” Carrick motioned to Dusty in boy sign language and headed off to the bar, presumably to grab some beers.

  “I take it Liv didn’t consult you?” Dusty asked. “She kind of implied you had a hard day and needed a fun night out. Is it okay that we’re here?”

  I turned to look directly at Dusty and took in his dark hair curling in the warm room, his wire-rimmed glasses, which must be replacing contacts as I hadn’t seen them before, and his kind expression. He really was adorable, especially with the glasses. I inwardly cursed Dean Cain for influencing my prepubescent desires and making me susceptible to lookalikes.

  “It’s fine. It’s good to see you!” I said, slightly too brightly.

  “How are things?” he asked, with an emphasis on the “things.”

  “You mean, Hunter things? Well, it appears he doesn’t exist!” I tried to laugh, but it came out more like a rattling cough. Gross.

  “What do you mean?” Dusty guided me toward a table that he seemed to locate as if by magic.

  I sat down and faced him. “I’ve found two Hunter Moons, neither of whom was him, one because of you and another because of a Magic Postcard. I’ve looked everywhere else. I’ve combed the Internet and called every organization in the city. He’s not out there. Or, at least, I can’t find him.”

  “That really sucks,” Dusty said genuinely, his eyes crinkling worriedly behind the wire rims. I shrugged in silent agreement. “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want.”

  “Yeah, that would be great, actually,” I said, relieved to be off the hook. I heard the distinctive notes of “Don’t Stop Believing” in the background as the entire bar erupted in cheers. The large screen lit up with its fluorescent green words, as Liv and Carrick walked up and handed us beers.

  “People really love this song, huh?” Dusty commented. “It’s pretty annoying actually.”

  I laughed despite myself. “Agreed.”

  We clinked bottles, and I realized I was glad Liv hadn’t told me
she was inviting them. My knee-jerk reaction would have been to say no, and in the end, I was kind of glad I wasn’t given a vote. Tonight might actually be fun.

  By closing time, Carrick had crooned three rock ballads—turned out he was musically gifted with or without the bass—Dusty and I had performed Captain and Tennille, and Liv had sung numbers from Grease with pretty much everyone in the bar and positively killed “Rhiannon.” The pain of the afternoon was completely gone; the alcohol had loosened the tightening in my chest and convinced me that, for the moment at least, I didn’t really care how much the men in my life had failed me and how much, to a certain degree, I was failing them.

  When we got home from the bar, Carrick put on some music—not his own, thank God—pulled out a deck of cards, and asked if we knew how to play hearts. Liv, who had a secret talent for counting cards and once hustled the entire cast of Music Man playing backstage during rehearsals, said we’d love to.

  It was the perfect plan, since I didn’t want to be alone with Dusty and it gave Liv and Carrick an opportunity to flirt—taking peeks at each other’s cards and laughing at each other’s stories. A couple tricks in, Carrick asked me how the father-finding mission was going. Dusty looked guilty, but rather than being annoyed at him for revealing my secret, I felt touched that Carrick inquired. Also, drunk. I felt drunk. But touched nonetheless.

  “Pretty bad, actually. I didn’t find him.” I felt a wave of sadness wash over me, but it didn’t take my breath away like it had earlier in the day. Maybe saying it out loud was the key. I tried again. “I can’t find him.”

  Carrick nodded but didn’t look up from his cards. “You know what, I’ve known my dad my entire life, and the only thing I’ve ever gotten from him is constant confirmation that I’m a disappointment and the occasional comment that I’m ‘definitely no Seger,’ so maybe it’s not such a bad thing.” He proceeded to lay down the queen of spades, successfully shooting the moon and making me wonder how much attention he could have been paying to the topic at hand. (Nice one.)