People Who Knew Me (26 page)

That tentative, let's-just-enjoy-this agreement lasted for months. And then Gabe became increasingly agitated. He would say things like, “Let's go to a play on Saturday. Oh, wait, my girlfriend sees her husband on Saturdays.” Or, “If only I didn't have to live out of a bag during the week.” In March, six months after that first night at his place, he said, “I think I'm falling in love with you.” Then: “You're going to break my heart, aren't you?” I felt like I couldn't breathe, which meant either I was falling in love with him, too, or I was afraid I would break his heart. Or both.

*   *   *

There was this one night in June when I thought he would end it. It was a Friday. We had tickets to a comedy show that night. We did things like that—comedy shows, plays, movies—like we were a typical couple. I worried that we'd run into Marni somewhere. She was always out and about doing things. I hadn't told her about Gabe, not because I was afraid she would judge me (she wouldn't), but because I knew she would reiterate what Gabe said—I had to leave Drew.

We went to a bar near the theater for drinks before the show. It was annoyingly loud. Gabe took my hand as he pushed his way through the crowd of people to the back, where we found a little table. Our knees knocked against each other when we sat.

After one gin and tonic, he said, “I've been thinking.”

I knew that wasn't good.

“We need to just be together, you and me,” he said. “Officially.”

Of course I'd thought about it. Multiple times. But leaving Drew? I didn't think I could do that. I didn't think I could accept myself as someone who did that.

I looked down at my drink, as if the ice cubes were little crystal balls.

“Em?” he said. He put his hand on my thigh. “We have to talk about this.”

“Right now?”

“Is there a better time? I've been trying to talk about it since day one. My intentions have always been clear. I don't know what yours are.”

What were my intentions? To stay in a bad marriage and have this thing—this
affair
—to keep me happy?

“I've been trying to give you space, but—”

“I know,” I said. “You've been great.”

It was a stupid thing to say:
You've been great
. That's what you say to summer interns who don't make the cut for fall hiring.

“Look, I respect that you're apprehensive,” he said diplomatically. There was this tone he used sometimes that reminded me he was my work superior.

“I just don't want to hurt Drew.”

“Don't you think you've already done that?” he said.

I didn't, in fact. I knew that for Drew, ignorance truly was bliss.

“He still wants us—me and him—to work. As delusional as it may be, that's what he wants.”

“Of course he wants that. Why wouldn't he?”

I nodded, the way people nod when a doctor comes into the waiting room, after hours of anticipation and fear, to explain the extent of a loved one's injuries after a horrible car crash: a nod of reluctant acceptance.

“Still,” I said. “It would crush him.”

“What about you? Won't this crush you, continuing like this?”

Would it? I had thought, stupidly, that we could continue on like this forever.

He took his hand off my thigh with an air of irritation.

“Okay, then, it will crush
me
,” he said. “Don't you know that?” Then: “Do you even care about that?”

“I do, but—”

He slammed a twenty on the table and stood.

“I'm so fucking sick of your ‘buts.'”

We still went to the comedy show. Gabe stomped along in front of me to the theater. We took our seats without saying a word to each other. He didn't hold my hand. I can't even remember the headliner. It was a guy, someone famous. I was barely paying attention, but I laughed with gusto in an attempt to forget the discussion at the bar. Gabe didn't laugh at all.

We went back to my apartment after. He had his own place; he could have gone there. I figured he wanted to make up, apologize. He didn't say anything that night, though.

The next morning, Saturday, as he got ready to leave, he said, “I can't do this anymore.”

I'd used those same words before, with Drew. I knew the desperation that created those words. The way my stomach lurched when he said them confirmed that I was on the verge of loving him and losing him. I knew I had to do something.

“I'll talk to him,” I said. “Today.” My head spun with the commitment. Here I was, ready to destroy a marriage based on nine months of sleepovers.

He looked surprised, then pleased, then doubtful.

“Today?” he said, calling my bluff.

“Yeah,” I said. “Today.”

As he packed up his things—an efficient routine he had down pat—I ran through what I would say to Drew. I wouldn't tell him about Gabe. I knew that much. I would use a script tried and true by others before me:
It's just not working. I'm not happy. You're not happy
. He wouldn't be shocked, or he shouldn't be. I'd let him have Bruce. He'd need the company more than I would. And besides, I couldn't keep Bruce at Gabe's place. It would be a constant reminder of what I'd left behind. Just the jingle-jangle of the tag on his collar would produce pangs of guilt.

Gabe looped his arm around my waist, pulled me close to him.

“Good luck,” he said. He kissed me. “Call me later.”

*   *   *

It was as if Drew knew what I was about to tell him and was ready to pull out all the stops. He came home, as usual, with his mother in tow. Or, rather, in his arms. He'd started carrying her up the stairs to our apartment. But, instead of flipping through take-out menus and talking about what pay-per-view movie to get, he said, “I have a surprise.”

I do, too
, I thought. By the sound of his voice, his was much different than mine.

“I arranged with someone at an agency to watch my mom tonight,” he said.

“An agency?”

“Yeah, they have caregiving agencies. Anyway, it's expensive, but I want to take you out,” he said. “On a date.”

“Oh,” I said. “Wow.”

I definitely couldn't tell him that night. Gabe would have to understand.

“Dinner at Bellucci's,” he said. Bellucci's was this Italian spot a few blocks away that had opened two years before. He'd been saying for two years that we should go there.

“What's the occasion?” I said, forcing a smile.

“No occasion,” he said. “I don't know why I didn't think of this sooner.”

I don't, either
, I thought.

A girl named Hazel came to watch Drew's mom. She looked far too young—early twenties or so—for such a responsibility, but she nodded her head obediently when Drew gave her instructions, and then we left. We walked. It was a nice night, warm. Drew worried aloud about his mom. She'd had this cough for a few days, he said. I told him, “We'll only be gone for a couple hours,” and he said, “You're right. God. Sorry.”

There were a few tables outside, on the sidewalk. We sat at one of those. I ordered the gnocchi, he ordered the chicken parmesan, and then we just sat there. I pulled apart pieces of bread, ate them slowly.

“So,” he said.

What did we used to talk about? I had no idea anymore.

“I've been cooking again,” he said. “At my mom's house.”

He'd stopped cooking completely after the restaurant closed, would only eat things that came directly out of boxes.

“That's great,” I said. “Anything special?”

“I'm making my way through Julia Child's French cookbook, getting back to the basics.”

“That doesn't sound very basic,” I said. Flattering him was the least I could do. At least, if I left him, he had his cooking.

“Well, it's classic, I guess,” he said. “Maybe that will be better for a future restaurant than something experimental, like tacos.”

I didn't dare ask about this future restaurant. I just let the dream hang in the air between us.

“I'll cook you something. Next weekend,” he said. “Any requests?”

“You pick,” I said.

Awkward silence ensued, the kind you usually have during uncomfortable first dates, blind dates.

“How's work been going?” he asked.

“It's good,” I said.

He nodded. “Good, good.”

More silence.

My phone buzzed—Gabe—at the same time the waiter brought the dessert menu.

“You want anything?” Drew asked.

“Tiramisu,” I said.

The longer we could stay at this restaurant, the more time I had to avoid reality.

*   *   *

At home, Drew pulled me close to him in bed, kissed my neck. I was disgusted with myself, knowing Gabe had kissed me just hours before. I didn't know how people could do this—carry on with two people at the same time. My mom had a few stints of juggling two or three guys. “They're all losers,” she said, “but put them together, and it kind of works.” Drew and Gabe weren't losers. They were both good guys, in their own ways. I was just greedy.

“Sorry,” I said, resisting him.

“What's wrong?” I was surprised he asked.

“I just don't feel like it,” I said.

He exhaled frustration.

My phone buzzed again. Gabe.

“You have to get that?” he said.

“No, it can wait.”

Then I turned out the light and pretended to fall asleep.

*   *   *

I called Gabe the next day, after Drew and his mom left. I told him what had happened. He just said, “Uh-huh.” I promised I wasn't deterred. I would tell Drew the following Saturday. It would have to wait until then. I had to do it in person. “Uh-huh,” was all he said.

And then, that Wednesday, Drew's mom almost died.

She aspirated on something, the doctor said, and that turned into an infection in her lungs. Pneumonia.

I was at work when Drew called to tell me. I walked straight into Gabe's office to relay the news.

“I have to leave early,” I said. “It's Drew's mom. She's in the hospital.”

He looked up from his computer. He'd been cold with me, businesslike. He hadn't said it was over between us, but it felt like that was imminent.

“Do what you have to do,” he said.

It's awful, that feeling of letting someone down completely.

“I'm going to end things,” I said. “Now is just not the time. She's probably going to die.”

“Okay,” he said. “Keep me posted.”

As if the status of our relationship were the same as the status of one of his business deals.

She was in the hospital for almost two weeks. It didn't look good at first, but then she improved. The doctor said she was “a stubborn thing.” Drew muttered, “You're telling me.”

On our way to her house after they discharged her, Drew said, “I probably won't be able to come home on weekends for a little while. She should stay put, in bed, until she's got strength back.”

We talked about her as if she weren't right there, in the backseat.

“Okay,” I said. “That's probably for the best.”

“I'm sorry,” he said, looking over at me while he stopped at a red light.

“I know you are.”

*   *   *

I called Gabe, told him that Drew wasn't coming home on weekends for a while. I told him it was because I'd requested a trial separation. I lied, essentially. I felt bad about it until I heard the happiness in Gabe's voice.

“Now we're getting somewhere,” he said.

I didn't know where that somewhere was, but I was willing to live with that uncertainty to feel loved by Gabe again. We resumed our sleepovers—every night, now including Saturdays. He still came to my place because I had Bruce. Drew continued calling nightly, so I'd have to do weird things like take the phone into the bathroom with me while Gabe was arranging dinner. Thankfully, the conversations were short. What was there to say?

Most nights, with dinner, Gabe and I split a bottle of wine. He'd always raise a glass and say, “To us.” I'd repeat the toast and think,
Whatever we become
.

 

TWENTY-TWO

The day I found out I was pregnant began with a visit to the restroom at work. It was a Monday. When I came out of the stall, Cassie the receptionist was at the sink, applying one of her many layers of mascara.

“Hey,” she said. “Do you have a tampon?”

I rummaged in my purse and found one. She took it, called me a lifesaver, and I went on my way. When I got to my desk, it occurred to me that I hadn't had my period since the end of July. July 20, to be exact. I remembered because Gabe and I went to this movie—
Sidewalks of New York
—on its opening night. After the movie, back at my place, we started to fool around and I told him I had my period. In the past, this usually stopped things. This time, he claimed not to care about the mess, so we did it anyway. It was the most vulnerable I'd ever felt with a man—streaks of blood on the towel we placed beneath us, his fingers red from touching me.

I told myself that lots of women had irregular cycles, that it was a fluke. But my period had always been on time. I couldn't remember one instance of its lateness. On my lunch break, I went to Duane Reade. I bought five tests, five different brands, just like the teenage girls do in after-school specials. Back at work, in the bathroom, I peed on the first stick and then waited.

The minutes of waiting felt like the eternity every fearing-to-be-pregnant woman says it is. In those couple minutes, I thought about the possibilities. If it was negative, I would consider myself fairly warned, thank a God I believed in sporadically, and vow to be more careful. If it was positive, I would cry. And then I would have to get on with life.