by Emily Giffin
“You will,” I say.
“Maybe that’s the real reason I want this to be Tony’s fault,” she says. “If it’s his fault, I can still have a baby.”
“You mean with someone else? You’d leave Tony?” I say, horrified.
“Oh, God, no,” Daphne says. “I was more talking sperm banks…something like that,” she says.
I almost ask her if Tony would be willing to go down that road. It would surprise me if he would. He would do most anything for Daphne, but he strikes me as the sort of macho guy who wouldn’t be able to handle that. But I decide not to stir the pot. Daphne has enough on her mind.
That afternoon, after I return about a dozen phone calls from various agents and authors, I find myself thinking about Ben and our marriage and how it wasn’t what I thought it was the day we said I do. After all, people who belong together stay together despite major setbacks and disagreements. They may deal in fault and blame temporarily, but ultimately they work things out. Love conquers all. In sickness and in health. That’s what good marriages are all about. I think of an extreme example—how Dana Reeve stayed with Christopher even though she couldn’t have possibly wanted to be married to a quadriplegic. Their love was strong and real and more important than all the collective things they could no longer do together. It was more important than fantastic sex, or horseback riding, or having more babies. Dana had to let a lot of dreams die, but she did so willingly. He was worth any sacrifice.
I sit at my desk for a long time, my back to the computer, ignoring the ding of new e-mails, likely from Richard, and wondering whether Ben would have left if I had been diagnosed with a serious illness. If I had only a few years left to live. Or, if I couldn’t conceive—as opposed to being unwilling to do so. I can’t imagine Ben leaving me under any of those circumstances. So how could he leave simply because I didn’t want kids? I wasn’t throwing hardship at him; I just wanted things to stay the same. Couldn’t my husband just love me enough to stay? Was that really so much to ask?
Sixteen
It takes me a good three days to really shake the Ben funk settling back into my psyche. During this time, I avoid Richard. Not completely—we still talk and e-mail with staggering frequency. But when he inquires whether I’m free for dinner, I make up an excuse and ask for a rain check. I do not want to have sex with him while dwelling on Ben even though Jess insists that sex with Richard could be the very thing to help me get over the unexpected hump. I know from experience that having sex with a man while you’re thinking of another can have the catastrophic reverse effect, and I remind her of my breakup with my college boyfriend Paul. My only other truly significant split.
During those early days in New York, right after graduation, Jess went out virtually every night, but I spent most of my evenings in, doing pathetic things like listening to The Cure’s “Pictures of You” on repeat and calling into radio shows to dedicate songs to “Paul in Denver.” I couldn’t snap out of my misery—nor did I really want to—until I met Anders at a roof party on the Upper East Side. Anders was a twenty-year-old Swedish tennis pro with long blond hair and a lopsided grin. We hit it off right away, although I recognized that he was the sort of guy with whom everyone hits it off and girls easily fall in love.
So I was psyched when he found me at the end of the night and asked for my phone number. We went to dinner and a movie the following week and began to hang out pretty regularly, although we never really analyzed what we were or where we were headed.
About a month later, we had sex on his futon, under a scratchy rainbow-colored afghan his grandmother had knitted for him. It didn’t top the best of my sex with Paul, but it was way better than my first time with him, which I thought was significant and promising. Afterward Anders made us a midnight snack of Fritos and boiled hot dogs. Then he fired up his lava lamp and we danced to Marky Mark’s “Good Vibrations” until his neighbor pounded on the wall for us to shut up. I remember thinking that although I wasn’t in love with Anders, I couldn’t rule out the possibility of it happening. In fact, I was hopeful that it would.
A few days later, right before another date with Anders, I got out of the shower and noticed a blinking red light on my answering machine. Even though we hadn’t talked in nearly three months, I knew right away it was Paul—which marks the closest thing I’ve ever had to a psychic moment. I hit the play button, and sure enough, it was Paul, drunk and rambling about how he really hoped that I was well. It was hardly an “I miss you like crazy and wish I had moved to New York with you” sort of message, but still, he was calling me on a Friday night while drinking—something I had, with Jess’s resolve, managed not to do. I listened to the message twice and then made myself delete it, fighting the urge to save it for further analysis. (Jess is gifted at reading between the lines and interpreting things like drunken voice-mail messages, perhaps because she had left her fair share up to that point. Then again, who doesn’t drink and dial in their early twenties?) I had serious pangs as I erased Paul’s familiar husky voice, but mostly I just felt proud of myself. I was a well-adjusted young urbanite dating a European with longish hair and a ferocious serve. I was so over my college boyfriend.
So in keeping with my image, I saw to it that Anders and I had a blast that night. We ate at El Teddy’s, my favorite Mexican restaurant (one that has since closed) in Tribeca and got wasted on margaritas on the rocks with salt, which made me feel sophisticated with every sip as I only drank frozen margaritas in college. Then we met up with Anders’s friends, mostly fellow tennis players, and danced at a velvet-rope club in SoHo. Anders was a great dancer, but didn’t take himself at all seriously. Every once in a while he’d break into his hilariously manic “running man” dance. He cracked me up and made me feel buoyant, in a way you can only feel in the aftermath of true misery.
Then something very strange happened. Back at Anders’s apartment, as we were having sex for only the second time, I found myself thinking about Paul’s message. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, I was crying. I told myself that it was just the margaritas. I reminded myself that I was happy. I prayed that the moment would pass quickly and that Anders’s room was dark enough for my tears to go undetected. But no such luck. Seconds later, I felt Anders freeze over me. He gently touched my cheek. “Are you crying?” he asked, sounding more horrified than worried. He didn’t wait for an answer, just sat up, snapped on the light, and gave me a fearful look. I told him I was sorry. He hugged me and said, “Don’t be.” Then he asked me questions, about what was wrong, about why was I sad, had he done something wrong? I told him I wasn’t that sad, just drunk and tired. He pressed me on it, so I told him all about Paul, what had changed in our relationship, his unwillingness to move to New York, how I still sometimes missed him when I heard certain songs—all the typical postrelationship melodrama. I even told Anders about Paul’s message earlier that night, how I had deleted it after only listening twice. I apologized along the way, and Anders was an excellent sport. He said it was fine, and at my insistence, shared some of his own stories of past loves.
Of course I was embarrassed to have cried during sex, but in my mind, Anders and I had crossed a threshold together, and the night had taken on an important, almost cathartic quality. I was finally ready to move on from Paul. The next morning, Anders kissed me good-bye, with no sign of a problem. I returned home and told Jess that I finally felt like I was completely over Paul, and that I was ready to take things to the next level with Anders. The only problem was—Anders apparently didn’t feel the same because he never called me again. Of course I never called him again, either. But it was pretty clear who was blowing off whom. It always is.
I still cringe when I think about that night and wonder what would have happened had I not cried in the middle of sex. Not that I think Anders and I were meant to be together or anything crazy like that. I just think that I screwed up what could have turned into a more significant relationship—or at least a lasting friendship.
With all of this i
n mind, I decide that I’m certainly not about to make the same mistake with Richard. I never want to cry during sex again (unless it is that good—Ben once moved me to tears). I want the lines to stay clear. I know I’ll think about Ben for a long time to come, but I’d strongly prefer if those thoughts did not transpire in the sack with another man. I don’t want to taint my fragile start with Richard. Not that there is anything particularly fragile about my relationship with Richard—it’s just that by definition, all starts are fragile.
Then, just as I think I’m moving beyond the rough patch, I get something in the mail that messes with my head all over again. I recognize Annie’s handwriting immediately and feel a stab of guilt for not returning her recent calls or accepting her invitations for lunch. Annie and Ray are the only friends caught in the divorce crossfire, the only couple who is impossible for either Ben or me to fully claim. Everyone else is either more my friend or more his friend—and we have an unspoken deal where I stay away from his friends and he steers clear of mine. It’s a respect thing. I am thinking all of this as I open the envelope, expecting a note of some sort. Annie is big on sending notes for no reason and often laments that the age of e-mail is eviscerating the art of letter-writing. But the correspondence is not a note; it is an invitation to Raymond Jr.’s baptism.
“Shit,” I say aloud because I know Ben is opening the same invitation tonight, and the last thing I want to do is see him. Yet—at the same time—seeing Ben is what I want most. I hate myself and him all over again.
I slide the invitation back into the envelope and calmly consider my options. I could call Annie and tell her the truth. We are close enough friends that I should be able to confide in her. I would probably take this path if she were inviting me to, say, a random party. But because it is her firstborn’s baptism, a very sacred event, I just don’t feel right about the truth option. I know it would come across as incredibly self-involved. After all, such a move would be self-involved.
I consider lying. Making up an excuse. Telling her that I’m out of town that weekend. That I already have my nonrefundable airline tickets in hand. But then I would have to make up a whole, grand lie about a trip to Vegas or L.A. or New Orleans and always remember that I allegedly went on a jaunt on this random weekend in August. It would be just my luck to forget about my cover mid-weekend and answer the phone and have it be Annie asking Jess for her rum runner recipe. It seems to be the cruel law that people who don’t lie like champs are precisely the ones to get busted on the rare occasion when they opt to deceive. Besides, in combination with all my recent excuses to Annie, she will strongly suspect that I’m lying. I would if the tables were turned.
I berate myself for not accepting at least one of her invitations to lunch or drinks over the past month. For not stopping in to see Raymond Jr. If I had made even a minimal effort, then blowing off the baptism would be less egregious.
I suddenly wonder exactly why I’m going out of my way to avoid Annie and Ray. I guess it doesn’t exactly take a degree in psychiatry to decipher the reasons. In part it’s the baby factor. The last thing I want to be around is a baby. I don’t want to be reminded of what Ben chose over me. But I also don’t want to be around anyone or anything that reminds me of Ben, period, and I’m afraid that Annie will offer up unsolicited details of Ben’s new life. Details I most certainly don’t want to hear. Unless those details include that he’s single and miserable. And there’s no way that that’s the case. After all, I saw him yucking it up with Tucker. He may not be in love with her, or even with her at all, but by no means did he appear to be a broken man.
Of course I could always tell Annie that I don’t want to hear anything about Ben, but I don’t want to come across as the big relationship loser, and I would appear to be emotionally unstable if I ruled out conversation about the most significant thing to happen to me, ever. Then Annie would pass this along to Ray who, as a man, would not have the good sense and tact to keep it to himself, and would instead tell Ben what a very pitiful case I am. Moreover, if Annie obliges my request to avoid mention of Ben, I inevitably will read all sorts of things into her ensuing silence. I will wind up thinking that, yes, I told Annie that I didn’t want to discuss Ben, but if the report were favorable to me (unfavorable for Ben) she’d somehow find a way to sneak it into the conversation, as in, I know you didn’t want to hear anything about Ben, but he asks about you every time we see him and he seems desperately lonely without you.
In any event, this invitation forces my hand.
I know exactly what Jess will say—and so I laugh when she comes home from work, glances at the invitation and says it. “You have to go. You have to take Richard. And you have to look hot.” Her eyes are lit up for the first time since her conversation with Trey—who has not called back to change his mind, or even say hello.
I tell her that there’s no way I am inviting Richard.
“Why not? I’m sure Annie wouldn’t mind.”
“I wouldn’t do that to Ben. Or Richard, for that matter,” I say. “Besides, it looks so obvious. Pathetically so.”
“I disagree. I think it looks the opposite of pathetic. I think it looks like Richard is your boyfriend. People bring boyfriends to events like this.”
“He’s not my boyfriend, and you know it.”
“He sort of is.”
“No,” I say. “He’s really not.”
“Then what is he?”
“He’s this guy I like. A guy I’ve slept with once.”
“So sleep with him a few more times and then take him.”
I laugh and shake my head.
She says, “Fine. But you’re going to be really sorry you didn’t listen to me if Ben brings someone.”
I stop cold and look at her. “You think he’d do that?”
“He might.”
“No way. Never.”
“Never say never,” Jess says.
It’s been her mantra for years, and I think I’m finally beginning to agree with her. There are no absolutes in relationships. You can’t take anything for granted. You can count on absolutely nothing but the unexpected. You only get in trouble when you start thinking that you’re some kind of exception to the rule.
I pick up the phone and dial Annie’s number.
She answers with a cheerful, “Hey, stranger!”
Before I can talk myself out of it, I say, “Hey, Annie. I got your invitation, and I wouldn’t miss it…Mind if I bring someone?”
Seventeen
I feel a little guilty about using Richard to get at Ben. Or using Richard to make myself look good in front of Ben. Or using Richard at all. But Jess points out that I’m not really using him because legitimately liking someone negates the concept of using. She asks me whether I’d bring Richard to her theoretical baby’s baptism. I answer yes as quickly as possible because I don’t want her to dwell on the baby she’s not going to have with Trey—and because I know exactly where she’s going with her reasoning.
Sure enough, she smiles as if she’s just proven a complicated theorem and says, “Well, then. You should have a perfectly clear conscience.”
I shake my head and laugh as she slaps me a high five. It sure comes in handy to have a master rationalizer as your best friend.
So a few days later, I’m over at Richard’s apartment, and we’re making dinner. Or more accurately, I’m watching him make dinner and accepting small, uncomplicated assignments, like “wash lettuce” and “dice onion.” I’m okay with the lettuce-washing; I take my time spreading the leaves on sheets of paper towel and then dabbing them dry before putting them into a big wooden salad bowl. Yet when I start slicing the onion in the wrong direction, Richard laughs and says, “Seriously, Parr, how can you not know how to cut an onion?”
“I know,” I say, feeling a little chagrined. “I’ve learned a bunch of times—and then can never remember. It’s the same with tomatoes.”
He gently takes the knife from my hand and says, “Allow me.”
I play helpless—which I guess isn’t too much of an act—and watch his perfect slicing technique and fast, effortless chopping.
“Is it weird that that totally turns me on?” I ask. I’ve always had a thing for people with unexpected talents, and I wouldn’t have pegged Richard as being particularly adept in the kitchen.
He laughs as I admire the crinkly lines around his eyes. He must have just showered before I arrived because his hair is still damp in the back and his cologne is a bit stronger than usual. He is barefoot, wearing dark jeans and a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. I watch him scrape the onion with the backside of the blade, transferring it from cutting board to his frying pan of olive oil. It makes a satisfying sizzling sound as he smugly says, “Voilà!” Then he wipes his hands on a dish towel, opens a bottle of wine with a professional corkscrew—another thing I can’t do—and pours two glasses. He hands me one, and we clink glasses without making a toast. I’m a fan of the no-toast, unless you have something really worthwhile to say. The here’s to tonight or here’s to the chef or here’s to us brand of toasting has a way of diluting the moment. Or worse, creating an awkward lull, sort of like the question, “What should we talk about now?” Besides, if a man really looks in your eyes at the second your glasses meet—as Richard just did—it can be far more enticing than words.
I smile as Richard steps toward me, leans down and kisses me. He is a good head taller than Ben, which makes kissing while standing more difficult. Most girls prefer tall men, but I’ve always liked the intimacy that comes with compatible heights. It makes for more intimate slow dancing. Among other things. Not that I would change a thing about Richard. I kiss him back and taste wine. I decide that the first kiss of the night is always the best. Maybe Richard is thinking the same thing because we linger for a moment before he turns toward the stove and stirs his onions.