Grabbing Rob’s hand, Lucy pulled him up Ninth Avenue. “Let’s go. I’m freezing.”
Several times a week, Rob and Lucy took a short midday walk. When it was warm out, they strolled along the West Side Highway; on cold days, they roamed the aisles of the Associated Supermarket on Fourteenth Street. A relic from when the meatpacking industry dominated the neighborhood, Associated had a seedy, down-at-the-heels quality, but it was heated, well lit, and offered a destination.
Standing outside the store, Rob waited for the doors to swing open. Lucy was still holding his gloved hand. He considered letting go, but didn’t want to make a big deal of it, particularly if she was merely being sociable. “Come on, Rob!” she said. “You do this every time. It’s not electronic; you have to push.” Using her shoulder to shove the door open, Lucy marched inside. “I’m just teasing you about Evan. Clearly, you were intimate.”
While it was true Rob and Evan never said “I love you,” they had been very physical together. They wrestled like eight-year-olds, clutching each other in choke holds, rolling over chairs, crashing into coffee tables. A natural athlete, Evan had played lacrosse since middle school, whereas Rob, a former smoker, couldn’t climb a flight of stairs without getting winded. But when it came to killer instinct they were equally matched. Still, Rob believed their brutality was rooted in affection—and yes, even love.
“It’s good you reached out to him,” Lucy said. “I hope he’ll want to get together.”
Rob was insulted. Why wouldn’t the best man from his wedding want to see him? “Just because we haven’t spoken in a while doesn’t mean we stopped caring about each other.”
“Actually, Rob, that’s exactly what it means.” Lucy took off her hat, and the static electricity made her hair fly. “It’s warm in here, no?” She unzipped her puffy coat and then leaned forward to unzip Rob’s but he jerked away.
“Lucy, I’m not a toddler.” Startled by her breach of his personal space, he kept his coat zipped, even though he was already sweating.
Under her cardigan, Lucy’s blouse had a coffee stain, but Rob didn’t point it out. Once upon a time she had been an impeccable dresser, but now she wore the same basic outfit every day: black slacks, white shirt, scuffed loafers. (Leo liked to mock her “uniform” when she was out of earshot. “Since when did this place become the fucking Red Lobster?” were his exact words.) Raising daughters had taught Rob that strict rules governed what he could—and, more important, could not—say about a woman’s wardrobe choices; he also knew that Lucy, thirty-eight and divorced, was more sensitive than she let on.
Lucy was still talking about Evan. “I get why you’re curious, Rob. That guy could charm anyone out of her underwear. How many women do you think he’s racked up since 1999?”
“Come on, Lucy.” Rob regretted telling her about Evan’s conquests. So what if he’d slept with a lot of women? He’d also been a good friend, and had brought out a hidden side of Rob, made him more open with people, more willing to take risks.
In the produce section, Lucy inspected the bananas. “So if you guys were such good buddies, why did you wait so long to contact him? And why e-mail him now?”
“I miss him.” The people Rob was closest to—his wife, his daughters, Lucy—he loved deeply, but they were women and thus shared few of his interests. In truth, they overwhelmed him with their moods. Why must they always feel so much, so often? To maintain his sanity, he kicked aside his daughters’ pink tulle and nail polish, hunkered down with his music and TV, and shrank the world until it became manageable. (Same with work: unable to keep pace, he parked in a warm spot and dog-paddled.) But now Rob was in a rut; plus, he was aging—and fast. His knees hurt, his back ached, he couldn’t fuck as long or as hard as he used to. Worse, he had no one to share this with, no one to say, Hey buddy, me too. The guys at Ellery—Leo, Kenny, Peter—were coworkers, not friends, not men to hash out his worries with over beers. Bereft of male camaraderie, Rob felt cold and vulnerable as the second half of his life tunneled before him like a black hole, and while he knew he’d never be eighteen again, Evan’s male perspective might shore him up, help him go the distance. For Rob, getting his best friend back felt like a second shot at survival.
Holding a box of half-price Cheerios, Lucy steered him toward the checkout line. “This morning, Oswald left the office again for some top-secret offsite. No one knows where she is, not even Leo. It’s all very high drama. You have no intel, I take it?”
In the checkout aisle, an elderly man leafed through People. His back was turned, but Rob recognized the coat, a black Burberry trench with leather elbow patches. That’s Peter Dreyfus’s coat, he thought. He leaned forward to say hello, but upon closer inspection, he saw the coat was shabby—frayed collar, torn patches, belt hanging loose. Peter was too fastidious to ever look that sloppy. He was also younger than this guy, whose shoulders slumped in defeat. But when the man turned around, Lucy yelped. “Peter! Oh my God! What are you doing here?” Seeing his face, Rob felt a little foolish. It was Peter.
“Hey, Lucy.” Peter Dreyfus, VP of operations, flashed a strained smile. As he ran his hand through his silver hair, he craned his neck to peer behind them. “Leo here too?”
Rob shook his head. “Nah. Just us. You coming or going?” He gestured to the old-fashioned garment bag in Peter’s arms. “I thought you were on the road all week.”
“I am.” He sounded tired. “Flew out yesterday, spent the day in Atlanta, then flew back this morning to meet with Rosa. Tonight I’m flying back to Atlanta, if you can believe that.”
“Did you meet with Rosa in the office?” Lucy asked, but Peter didn’t respond. They all watched the checkout girl scan his purchases: a Diet Coke, two oranges, a bag of Snyder’s Bavarian pretzels, travel-size Tums. After helping bag the groceries, Peter rested a hand on Rob’s shoulder. “I’m off,” he said. “Have a good week.”
“Wait for us,” Lucy said. “We’ll walk back with you.”
Though the older man nodded, Rob caught his split-second hesitation. Peter was a reserved, quiet man; with his soft leather loafers and dignified air, he acted as the team’s elder statesman. Rob could see he didn’t want to wait, but was too much of a gentleman to say. Rob waved him on. “Go ahead.” He pointed to Peter’s belt, which was dragging on the floor.
Smiling gratefully, Peter ambled away, holding the belt in his hand like a tail. Outside the store, when he bent his body against the weather, he seemed to shrink three inches.
“Well, that was strange,” Lucy said as she put her cereal on the conveyor belt.
“What was?” Rob peered out the window, wishing he had a stronger umbrella.
“Why did Ozzy blow off our staff meeting yesterday? Why did Peter fly back from Atlanta for just one day? Ozzy was out all morning, apparently with Peter, so why didn’t they meet in the office? Plus he’s shopping here, which means he walked an entire avenue in this weather for an orange. It’s like he doesn’t want anyone to know he’s in town.”
“Maybe it’s personal, Miss Marple.” Despite Peter’s twenty-year tenure at Ellery, only Rosa knew him well. He had an ex-girlfriend and an ex-wife, but Rob had never met either one.
“Maybe,” Lucy said, but she didn’t sound convinced. After paying for her cereal, she swung the bag forward and hit Rob’s backside. “Let’s motor.”
Out on the street, Rob opened his umbrella, which Lucy chose to share instead of opening her own. It was clumsy at first, but she linked their arms and pressed her body close so they could move in unison. To Rob, this felt weird—why was she constantly touching him?—though he said nothing.
“My hands are like ice,” she said, clenching and unclenching her right fist, as if trying to leach warmth from the air. “I should’ve worn gloves.” She paused. “I hope you hear from Evan.”
“Why does it matter so much to you?”
Suddenly Lucy stopped, right in the middle of the busy sidewalk. “You’re my friend; I want you to be happy.” She t
ilted her head up, expectantly. A raindrop ran down her neck. “Rob, can I ask a question?” Her lips were parted, her breath visible in the cold air.
Rob’s own breath caught. What was going on? Did she want him to kiss her? Here? Now? “It’s freezing, Luce,” he said brusquely, extricating himself. “Let’s move.” He picked up the pace, not caring that she would get drenched.
Lucy trotted to catch up. “Did something happen yesterday? You seemed miserable during the managers’ meeting.”
“No, nothing.” Frustrated, Rob slowed down. Again, he covered their heads with his umbrella; again, she held his arm so they could match strides and stay dry. Please, Lucy, he wanted to say. Please stop touching me. I’m happily married. Let’s say Rob didn’t have Maddy, and Lucy wasn’t his coworker. Then he might not mind. (She looked pretty right now, too; her cheeks were flushed, her eyes shone.) In fact, if he didn’t have Maddy and Lucy wasn’t Lucy, Rob would definitely kiss her; he’d probably take her to bed. But he did have Maddy, and she was Lucy. Feeling her shivering, he fumbled for his gloves. “Take these,” he said gently. But instead of putting them on, Lucy clutched his arm tighter, tried to draw him in closer.
THAT NIGHT, ROB couldn’t stay hard. He lay on his back under Maddy, who was straddling him and moaning “Robby, Robby.” His wife’s body usually made him stiffen on sight, but now, as she loomed above him, ample and wanting, he felt dwarfed by her size.
Maddy moaned again. Or did she sigh? Was she bored? Rob couldn’t tell, nor could he concentrate. His BlackBerry rang, startling him.
“You gonna get that?” Maddy asked, breathlessly.
“Nah. Who could it be?”
“Lucy?” She smiled playfully. “You should answer. If it’s Lucy, it could be important.”
Maddy started to roll off, but Rob repositioned her and thrust forward. “Hey, get back here.” Thrust again. “It’s not Lucy. Whoever it is will leave a message.” He focused his attention back on Maddy, who, he reminded himself, was the best thing that had ever happened to him. They met in a bar when he was twenty-eight. Luckily, Evan wasn’t with him that night. So spying Maddy across the room inspired Rob on many levels, the top two being her sexiness (big curls, big boobs) and that Evan wouldn’t get in his way. Rob elbowed his way through the crowd. “Buy you a drink?” he asked casually, hedging his bets. Wonder of wonders, Maddy said yes. Yes to a drink, yes to a date, yes, eventually, to marriage. Even more miraculous: two kids and fourteen years later, they were still hot for each other. (That their small apartment often required them to fool around in hushed tones so as not to wake the kids only helped to jack up the excitement.)
“Robby?” Maddy looked down at his face, into his eyes. “You okay? You with me?”
“I’m good.” Lifting his hips, Rob struggled to find their usual rhythm, but his penis was a limp, clammy nub, and the faster he rubbed, the smaller he got. He became hyperaware of his every move: the in-and-out of his breathing, his fingers pressed against Maddy’s skin, the way he frogged his legs beneath her as he worked to gain leverage.
A minute later, he nudged her off. “I’m sorry. It’s not gonna happen.” He moved to position his mouth between her legs so she could finish, but she shook her head.
“It’s fine, Rob. I’m okay.” Maddy rolled onto her back, her hair fanning out on the pillow. “So why are you sorry?”
“Just am.” He reached for his phone. “I should check. It could be important.”
“Lucy Bender.” Maddy grinned. “That woman is in love with you, Robby. And if I didn’t know you were crazy about me, I might be inclined to get very jealous.”
Rob started to disagree and then stopped as he heard the voice mail. It wasn’t Lucy who’d called—it was Evan. Evan called him back! “Bobby Hirsch,” he heard for the first time in years and years. His best friend’s gravelly laugh hummed in his ear. “Bobby Hirsch. Long time, right? How are you, man?”
Rob’s heart soared.
5
LUCINDA BENDER, VICE PRESIDENT, COMMUNICATIONS & POLICY
DECEMBER 2009
It wasn’t love, Lucy knew that. It was a schoolgirl crush, lustful longing to spice up her life. But it was realistic, and therefore unique. No more mooning over men like the delicious yet unavailable Jamie Dimon.1 She was ready to meet someone, to embrace this, this . . .
“This feeling,” she continued. “Evan and I had a connection, a similar sensibility. So what if I haven’t seen him in nine years? You said yourself that strange things happen every day.”
The therapist nodded.
“Evan is forty-three, so he’s the perfect age. He went to Dartmouth, so he’s smart. He’s wealthy, but rather than sponge off his parents, he became an EMT, so he has values. He cares about people. He’s also freaking hot, which sounds shallow but whatever. Oh! This is the best part: his first marriage failed. Isn’t that great?” Dr. Ahmet’s skeptical look reminded Lucy of a face her mother, Valerie, might make. “Because we have that in common,” she explained. Lucy had also been married once, right after college. She was twenty-two and (to her mind) wise beyond her years; he was thirty-five, barely divorced, and her comp lit professor; the whole thing lasted nine months—another inappropriate relationship better left forgotten.
“Is this man, this Evan—is he in a relationship now?”
Lucy didn’t appreciate the way Dr. Ahmet said “this Evan.” It made him feel removed and unlikely, and smacked of disapproval, which again reminded her of Valerie. Funny thing about therapy: Lucy could stifle thoughts of her mother all week, but as soon as she sat down on Dr. Ahmet’s bamboo chair, the old bird ran roughshod. “They’re in the country this weekend,” her mom had said last night, referring to Lucy’s sister, Willa, and brother-in-law, Donald. “Looking at country homes.” Her tone was solemn and reverential, as if her younger daughter were viewing burial plots instead of overpriced real estate.
“Where in the country?” Lucy hated herself for asking.
“Somewhere bey-ond Bed-ford. They want enough lund to board horses.”
Lund? Lucy winced. The bizarre British inflection was a recent development, but no topic thrilled her mother more than the various ways Willa and Donald spent Don’s money. All the Bender women were obsessed with money. Lucy’s father, a jazz musician, had bailed on them when Lucy was six and Willa three,2 forcing mother and daughters to live hand-to-mouth. In response, Lucy had excelled in school and became a solid corporate citizen, while Willa succeeded at marrying well, Don being her third rich husband. Lucy loved her work life; all of it—the fixed schedules, the flurry of deadlines; even her keycard (which sometimes stopped working for no reason at all) delighted her. Still, she resented her sister for having it so easy—not that she dwelled on Willa, who like Valerie, was only an issue during the fifty-minute hour Lucy spent with Dr. Ahmet every Wednesday morning. Then again, Lucy had been seeing Dr. Ahmet for five years (another questionable relationship she had yet to sever), which meant her mother and sister had already gotten way more airtime than either deserved. “According to Google,” Lucy continued, “Evan hasn’t remarried. Rob will learn more when they get together. They were supposed to meet last Friday, but it snowed.”
The snow! The snow! New York had been unprepared for the first snowfall, and the freezing storm paralyzed the city for days. Christmas was next week—New Year’s the following—and Lucy wanted Rob and Evan to reschedule soon, on the off chance Evan needed a date for any holiday parties.
“’Tis the season,” Dr. Ahmet said, adjusting his tie.
Craving Jamie Dimon was not Lucy Bender’s only bad habit. She also stayed in lousy situations too long, believing she could change them despite evidence to the contrary. After graduating from the isolated, suicide-haunted Cornell, she took a job in HR communications at what was then J.P.Morgan & Co. (now JPMorgan Chase). A loyal foot soldier, she toiled in silence for seven years, passing up lucrative offers from competitors along the way. Eminently capable but reluctant to self-promote, Lu
cy wrongly believed her hard work would speak for itself. Indeed, had the less self-effacing Sally Rakoff3,4 not leapfrogged over her, she’d still be at the bank today. Instead, she’d spent the past decade at Ellery. Make no mistake: reporting to Rosa Guerrero aka Ozzy Oswald had been a worthwhile learning experience. But time does march on, and Lucy found herself, once again, at a professional dead end, facing the dreaded question Now what?
According to Dr. Ahmet, Lucy’s inertia and indecisiveness reflected her discomfort with adulthood. This had appalled her. “I’m an old soul, a fucking redwood. How can you say that?”
“The destructive choices we make as grown-ups are responses to pains we suffered as wee tots,” he’d said in his thick Pakistani accent. “You do not assume responsibility and pro-gress, you roost in the nest like a baby bird.”
“Of course I assume responsibility! I make my own decisions. I support myself.”
“You assume responsibility, but not re-spon-si-bility. You say, ‘Deadbeat Dad abandoned me. I have no life partner. My Wizard boss no longer brings me inspiration. Worst of all, I dwell in Queens. I stay where I am because this is my life.’ Better to say, ‘I am angry, I am tired, I am uninspired. This is my life because I stay where I am.’ There is a difference in the two perspectives, no? It is the goat on the mountaintop yet again.”
“Why is living in Queens the worst of everything?”
Dr. Ahmet raised an eyebrow. He was a trim and meticulous man with dark features and long, elegant fingers. “While I do not like that borough myself, I am only repeating what you have told me.”
This, Lucy had realized, was the most personal detail Dr. Ahmet had ever revealed. She also realized her life wouldn’t change until she entrusted her psyche to a doctor whose therapeutic paradigm transcended Aesop’s fables. Still, she adored Dr. Ahmet, who did occasionally produce a well-turned metaphor.5 Plus he was in-network, so her co-pay was only forty bucks.6
This Could Hurt Page 4