The Art of Forgetting

by Camille Noe Pagan

  And yet. Nathan showing up unannounced may be unnerving, but it’s exactly the kind of crazy gesture I wish Dave would make once in a while. Steadfast, predictable Dave, whom I love . . . and whom I can’t seem to stop comparing to Nathan. Nathan! A man I don’t even know anymore. Still, the contact we have had is enough to signal that he’s changed little since college. And so, unlike Dave, he isn’t the type to spend his entire life chained to his desk, doesn’t break out in hives if he skips a shave, and would undoubtedly head to Tahiti on a moment’s notice like Dave and I always say we will (and never do). Who wouldn’t be attracted to that?

  “I’d better go,” I tell him, and hoist my handbag back on my shoulder resolutely.

  “You’re always saying that,” Nathan says wistfully. He reaches out and touches my arm. Zing.

  “Have dinner with me tonight,” he says, then laughs. It comes out deep and throaty and I think of Dave’s light, breathy laughter. “That sounds like such a pickup line,” he says. “Seriously, though. I’d really like to catch up, and I want a chance to explain some things to you. Please.”

  Like this time, how you really are in love with my best friend? Not a chance, I think.

  But what comes out of my mouth is, “Where?”

  The rest of the day is a total loss. I pick at my salad for nearly an hour before finally tossing it in the trash. I attempt to read a manuscript four times before realizing that I haven’t processed a single word. I’m so distracted that I can’t even bring myself to play Scrabulous. And although I’m dying to confess to Naomi, I don’t dare do so, because I know exactly what she’ll say.

  To my relief, Dave e-mails to say he’s going out to dinner with a client, negating the need for any explanation about what I’m doing with my evening. I contemplate running home to change but decide it’ll look too much like I care (which I do, but I don’t want to broadcast it). Instead, I dash over to Pauline, our beauty director, to beg for her help.

  “I’m meeting an old friend for dinner tonight and I look like a mess. Can you work your magic?” I ask her.

  Pauline looks up from the pile of eye shadows she’s been sorting on her desk. “I’ve been hoping you’d ask me that sometime this century. Come on over.” She motions for me to sit on the tall stool against the wall and starts pulling products out of the beauty closet.

  A heaping dose of hair product and a generous application of makeup later, I look better. Actually, I look damn good, considering the sorry state I was in not fifteen minutes ago. “Can you please make me up every day?” I ask, checking my reflection in the mirror one more time. “I don’t know what you did, but I need this”—I make a circle around my face—“more often.”

  Pauline grins and presses a lip gloss, cover-up stick, and some grooming cream in my hands. “Samples. Keep them and practice a few times at home before going out in public.”

  “I owe you.”

  “No, you don’t,” she says. “It was fun. And I have to say, it’s not just the makeup. You look so much nicer now that your face isn’t buried under all that hair.”

  I’m not sure if this is a true compliment, but I decide to take it. “Thanks, Pauline.”

  I’m half a block from the downtown bistro where I’m meeting Nathan when a minor panic attack strikes. What are we going to talk about? Am I going to freak out like I did at Beber? Do I look too made-up? What am I going to tell Dave? I am so fraught with anxiety that I’m practically gasping for air when I reach the restaurant. As I ask the hostess about a table, I feel a hand on the small of my back.

  “Hey,” says Nathan, leaning forward and touching his cheek to mine, not a real kiss but an intimate gesture all the same. He smells faintly of freshly cut wood, and his hair looks damp, leading me to believe he just showered. He’s wearing a fresh blue shirt with the same jeans and boots he had on earlier.

  “Hi,” I say, and move slightly to the left so that I’m just beyond his reach. I can’t risk feeling that jolt again.

  “This way,” the hostess says, leading us through the dining room. It’s early enough that a few chic parents are parsing out steak frites to toddlers who look like they belong in a Benetton ad, but the restaurant is dimly lit. We’re seated at a table in a particularly dark corner, which has the unfortunate effect of making this seem even more like a date.

  The waiter appears and runs through the night’s specials, then asks if we want to order wine.

  “Bottle?” Nathan asks me.

  “No, a glass is all I can handle. Have to be up and at ’em early tomorrow,” I say in a chipper voice, although the real reason I don’t want a bottle is because lowered inhibitions are the last thing I need right now.

  We order drinks, and make small talk until the waiter returns to take our order: Niçoise salad for me, duck for Nathan.

  “This restaurant is très chic for a Michigander,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood.

  “I’m in the city once or twice a year and I always try to eat at a French place,” he says, unfolding his napkin and placing it in his lap. “I’m a sucker for the ambiance.”

  “Well, you’ve come a long way from World Cup.”

  “I guess I have,” he says jovially. “And clearly, so have you. Big magazine job, living in New York . . .”

  “Life is good,” I admit. “But look at you, running the most popular new restaurant in Ann Arbor,” I say, referring to the sign I saw hanging in the window at Beber. “You must have your hands full, no?”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” he says, looking weary. “You know when you really dream about something for a long time, and it doesn’t turn out to be quite as fantastic as you were hoping?”

  “Yeah,” I admit, thinking of my job.

  “Well, that’s what the restaurant is like. I love being there, but dealing with the staff and paperwork is enough to send me over the edge sometimes.”

  “But are you happy?”

  “Are you happy?” he says, stretching out the word “happy” with his seductive drawl.

  “I asked first,” I say, and cross my arms over my chest.

  “Ah, there’s the Marissa I know and love,” he retorts, and holds my eye longer than I’d like.

  You mean loved, I think. Past tense. But I say nothing, and set about buttering my bread like my life depends on it.

  Finally, I say, “This is really weird for me. Isn’t it weird for you?”

  “Not really. I wanted to see you, so here I am. Pretty straightforward.”

  “Why did you want to see me?” I blurt, staring at my fork. “If you’re here to ask me if it’s okay for you to date Julia, then yes, it’s fine. I mean, I’m not crazy about the idea, and you’d probably get a better idea of what you’re getting into, given her head injury . . .” I stop babbling for a second and look up. The way Nathan’s gazing at me from across the table is enough to tell me that my fear about him and Julia is just as irrational as when I had it a decade ago. Still, the e-mails between them, Julia’s constant mentions of him, the photos she sent—it all adds up to something decidedly unpleasant. It may not be true love, but Julia is undeniably beautiful, and now she sees Nathan regularly. What are the odds he’s not at least a little tempted?

  “Ah, I see that some things never change.” He sighs. “There’s nothing between Julia and me, and there never will be. She e-mailed me to tell me she was moving to Ann Arbor, and I e-mailed her back; it seemed like the right thing to do. I didn’t know about the accident until she came in to Beber at the beginning of November. It was pretty obvious something was off with her.”

  “You think?” I say, unable to conceal my irritation.

  “I’m not sure what to tell you,” Nathan tells me wearily. “The accident left her a wreck, and she needed a friend.”

  I think back to what Julia said to me a few weeks ago: “Marissa, I’m lonely. You’re not here for me.”

  He continues. “I make her a meal every once in a while, put her in touch with people she might be able to hang ou
t with. It’s not like we see each other all the time. Trust me: I am not the one you should be worried about. You know she’s having an affair with a married man, right?” he says, pushing his plate away as though the thought of it has killed his appetite.

  “I don’t believe you,” I say, but seeing the pained expression on his face, it’s obvious that he’s telling the truth.

  “You didn’t know?” he says, surprised. “Do you know about the shoplifting incident?”

  “About the sunglasses? Yeah.”

  The waiter appears with our meals and we assure him that everything looks fine. The minute he leaves, Nathan turns back to me. “It wasn’t just sunglasses. She had half the store in her purse.”

  “No way.” Julia could have bought anything she wanted in that store. Why would she steal? And what else has she been concealing from me?

  “The only reason they let her off was because of her brain injury. Turns out it wasn’t the first time that the cop assigned to her case had to deal with something like this, so he knew how messed up she was.”

  All of what he’s just told me should be reassuring, if only in terms of their relationship. And yet, even if he’s not interested in her, Julia seems entirely too obsessed with Nathan. “I’m still pretty sure she has a thing for you,” I tell him.

  “She’s not interested in me,” he says plainly. “I think she likes being around me because for whatever reason, I remind her of you. She recently told me her whole reason for getting in touch with me was to apologize. She said something vague about making amends for contributing to our breakup.”

  “She didn’t contribute to it, she caused it,” I spit out before I can check myself. “She was the one who wanted us to break up in the first place.” Verbal diarrhea much, Marissa?

  “So that whole line you fed me about us living in different places and having different goals was a crock?”

  “Not exactly,” I mumble. “It was true, but the real reason I broke up with you was because Julia asked me to.”

  “That’s the one thing she didn’t tell me,” he says, leaning toward me over the table.

  “Well, what’s done is done,” I say, as much for my own benefit as for his. “Things turned out for the best—I’m happy with my life now. I’m happy with my relationship with Dave,” I add. “I don’t see the point in rehashing our breakup when we shut that door a decade ago.”

  “Did we?” he asks, his hazel eyes searching my face. “Because you just told me it wasn’t your choice. From where I stand, that means you never stopped caring. I know I didn’t.”

  Of course I never stopped caring. Otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting here right now. But as light-headed as I am right now, I’m alert enough to not utter this out loud. “Nathan, it’s been eleven years,” I say a little too forcefully, trying to cover the fact that my heart is in my throat. “We don’t even know each other anymore, really.”

  “I know that we had something amazing. Something I’ve never been able to re-create with another person.”

  I don’t respond. What Nathan and I had was amazing. He was my first love, the first person I slept with, and it was magical in a way that nothing else ever will be again. But what I have with Dave is amazing for different reasons. Can I really give that up, having no idea whether Nathan and I would work the same way at a totally different moment in time?

  “I think you’re idealizing what we had,” I finally tell him.

  “Marissa, trust me on this one,” Nathan says, not deterred in the least. “I just went through yet another bad breakup. My fourth in five years. And you know what I finally realized? All this time, I haven’t been satisfied because what I want is what you and I had. I want someone who can spend hours talking with me and not get bored. Who doesn’t think it’s stupid to have fun. Someone who gets me the way you got me.”

  I stare at him, trying to process what he’s just said. It’s no use; the best I can manage is a halfhearted response. “But, Nathan, I’ve changed. I’m sure you have, too. It would never work.”

  “Marissa, I’m looking at you right now, and I can tell from the look on your face that you’re bluffing,” he says quietly.

  Oh God, I think.

  What if he’s right?

  Twenty-three

  Dave’s watching SportsCenter when I get home.

  “Late night at the office?” he asks, turning down the volume. “I tried calling you.”

  “I left my phone off,” I say, avoiding his question, and busy myself with hanging my coat and purse up so that I won’t have to look at him. “I didn’t check because I thought you’d be out with your clients.”

  “They had an early flight to San Fran, so we just had drinks.” He gets up from the sofa and walks over to the kitchen island where I’m standing. He puts his arms around my waist and says in a low voice, “You look gorgeous tonight. Apparently working late agrees with you.”

  “Apparently,” I reply vaguely, and rub my forehead. “Baby, I’m really sorry, but I have a terrible headache.” It’s true; my temples are throbbing. “Do you mind if I shower and hit the hay?”

  “Of course not,” he says, and kisses me lightly. “Want me to get you some water and Tylenol?”

  “No, it’s okay,” I say. Although I deserve to be tarred and feathered, this headache will have to suffice as punishment for now.

  After a quick shower, I slip into a pair of brown silk pajamas with cream lace edges that Dave bought me last Christmas. My limbs are heavy and I’m exhausted, but sleeping is impossible. I toss and turn, and the smooth fabric of my pajamas tangles around my limbs.

  I can’t stop thinking about Nathan. After our discussion about our past, he must have sensed my discomfort, because he quickly changed the subject; we spent the rest of the dinner talking about benign topics—my brain injury article, his restaurant convention, the respective merits of living in Michigan and New York. After we finished our entrees, I begged off dessert, and when we said our good-byes, I made a point to tell him Dave was waiting for me at home.

  “I understand.” Nathan nodded, putting his hands in his pockets. “I’m glad we had a chance to get together.” This time, he didn’t try to kiss my cheek, or even hug me. Instead, he just looked at me. “I’ll talk to you soon,” he finally said, and walked over to the street to hail a taxi.

  As I squeeze my eyelids closed, trying to will myself to sleep, all I can see is the image of Nathan’s face as he stood outside of the restaurant. It was not the look of a man who had moved on. It was the look of a man who was hopeful. Who thought he had a fighting chance. The knot in my stomach is a clear sign that deep down, I am worried that I’m the one who gave him that impression.

  As Nathan sat there babbling about his dog and old friends of ours whom he’s kept up with, my mind spun more and more elaborate story lines about the life we might have had. We’d probably be married, living in a cute house near downtown Ann Arbor. Maybe I’d be writing for magazines part-time when I wasn’t caring for our gaggle of children, who would have my hair and their father’s dimples. We’d spend summers at our cottage up north, and I’d chip in at the restaurant when it was short-staffed, wowing customers with my killer martinis. It may not have been the dream existence I’d conjured for myself with Julia when we were teens, but it would have been good, I decided.

  And although I know it’s entirely ridiculous, I cannot shake the feeling that all that time I was daydreaming, Nathan knew exactly what was going through my head.

  As a child, I desperately wanted a dog, but no amount of begging could convince my mother that dogs weren’t unclean creatures who would destroy her house. Yet so strong was my desire that when my friend Karen Topler’s beagle had puppies, I immediately told her I’d take one. I arrived at her house with my empty backpack, somehow managed to assure Karen’s mother that my mom had given her blessing, and carried the tiny, frenetic animal—whom I had dubbed Henry—home, yelping and scratching in my bag.

  My grand plan (which was admitte
dly harebrained, even for an eleven-year-old) was to raise Henry in the small shed behind our garage and keep him out of my mother’s sight. When she discovered him—as I assumed she eventually would—he would be so charming and well behaved that she’d immediately fall in love and welcome him into our home.

  Henry, who was all of a few months old, was not a fan of being left alone behind the garage, and he let me know it by howling at the top of his lungs. When it quickly became apparent that treats and toys would not appease him, I had no choice but to take him up to my room before my mother came home from work. I decided that the most discreet place for him to spend the night was my closet, so I cleared out the shoes and discarded clothes on the ground. In their place, I bunched up an old towel for his bed and placed a bowl of water and a plate of baloney scraps next to it. I recalled Karen saying something about using newspaper to housebreak puppies, but I couldn’t find any, so I decided some pages torn from an old coloring book would have to do. I swore Sarah—who shared a room with me and immediately heard Henry scratching at the closet door—to secrecy and crossed my fingers that it would all work out.

  What I didn’t anticipate was my own reaction. I felt so sick that I couldn’t make a dent in my Stouffer’s microwave lasagna, which I usually Hoovered off the plate. Despite my suspiciously absent appetite and the fact that I retreated to my room immediately after dinner instead of parking in front of the television as I usually did, my mother never suspected a thing.