People Who Knew Me (28 page)

“True.”

He took a bottle of wine out of the basket, along with a sleeve of crackers and a plastic-wrapped plate of cheese cut into little squares.

“I did the best I could with the hour I had,” he said.

“Pretty impressive.”

He poured wine into plastic cups—one for each of us. Thankfully, the cups were red, not see-through. I took a fake sip and set my cup behind me. I'd pour out some of the wine whenever he turned around. It was silly, but the only alternative I could think of to blurting out,
I can't drink, I'm pregnant
.

“So,” he said, with a long exhale that warned me he had something on his mind. I'd hoped this would be one of those romantic outings when both parties maintain the illusion of having nothing on their minds besides each other.

“So,” I repeated.

I nibbled on a cracker, nervously.

“We've been together a year now,” he said.

Had it been a year? It all went by so fast.

“Have you and Drew talked about the trial separation? Like, making it a permanent separation?”

I gazed off at the castle, thought of the princess I'd imagined, her storybook life.

“Not exactly. Not yet,” I said.

“I think it's time,” he said, resolved. “You can move out and move in with me.”

I thought of the teachers in school saying at the end of exams, “Time's up.” I had to know this moment would come. Maybe it was meant to come. I was pregnant now, after all. It sounded idyllic—living with Gabe, having this child with him. I just couldn't imagine telling Drew. Maybe I could just end things with Drew without him ever knowing about the pregnancy. There were all kinds of ways to be a coward.

“I want that,” I said.

“Good,” he said. “So do I.”

His sincerity made me understand the phrase “tugging at heartstrings.” I felt that—the physical pull in my chest.

“I think about us sharing an actual life, taking vacations together, getting married one day.”

Starting a family?
I wondered.

“You have the imagination of a woman,” I said. I was trying to be funny, but he was tight-lipped in response.

“I'm serious,” he said. “What we're doing now isn't enough.”

He had the ultimatum of a woman, too.

I fiddled with a cracker, turning it over and over in my palm like old men did with dominoes during afternoon games in the park. A dog barked behind us. When Gabe turned around to look, I tipped over my cup, let the grass drink my wine.

I had to make a choice, finally. I couldn't keep putting it off. Gabe would end it. And then I'd be left with Drew, unhappy again. It was a risk to choose Gabe, to hurt Drew. It was becoming clear, though, that I had to take it—not just for me, but for the baby.

I looked up at the sky, scattered clouds descending on me and Manhattan.

“Do you want a family?” I didn't realize how scared I was to ask until the question left my mouth.

“Of course,” he said. He leaned back, weight on his hands, pressed firmly into the ground.

The relief, oh, the relief. That was it—I would leave Drew.

“Come here,” he said. He reached out toward me, coaxing me to fall into him. I crawled across the blanket and let his arms envelop me. He made me feel small; he made my worries feel small. He lay back onto the blanket and eased my body down to join his. He was lying flat, gazing up at the sky. I pressed up next to his side, one leg swung over him, head on his chest.

We lay like that, intertwined like a couple of homeless people trying to stay warm, until a cloud broke open and a few raindrops fell. Then he said, “Let's go home.”

*   *   *

We lay in his bed, in the middle of the afternoon, naked. We'd lost any sense of time, alternating between sex and naps for hours. It was luxurious, hedonistic, what I imagined a honeymoon to be. I've never been the kind of person to use the phrase “made love,” but that's the only phrase appropriate for what we did in the middle of that afternoon.

“You know, if you had a life with me, I'd annoy you,” I said, sitting up in bed. “Eventually, I mean.”

He sat behind me, rubbing my shoulders, leaning in every few minutes to kiss my neck. If he was trying to convince me to be with him, to choose him, he was doing all the right things.

“Maybe,” he said. “But I'm fairly certain my adoration of you would outweigh the annoyances.”

He seemed so sure, so confident.

“Sometimes I clip my nails while I'm sitting on the couch. The noise will drive you crazy,” I said. “And I'll blame you for things that aren't your fault. I'll have bad moods. I snore. Did you know that?”

He laughed. “I want to know all the details of you—even the ones you consider bad,” he said. “And, yes, I know you snore.”

I turned around. “Do I keep you up at night?”

“Nope,” he said. “I just nudge you a little, ease you onto your side, and the snoring stops.”

I turn back, face forward again, looking at the TV that isn't on.

“What if you feel this way—we feel this way—because this isn't real life we're living?”

He was quiet.

“This is a fantasy,” I said, stretching my arms out wide to indicate I was referring to his bed, his home, us. “That's what all affairs are, aren't they? An escape?”

“This isn't an affair for me,” he said. I'd offended him.

“I didn't mean it like that. It's more than an ‘affair' to me, too,” I said, putting air quotes around the offending word. “But if we're not sneaking around, if it's not so
thrilling
, maybe we'll feel differently about each other.”

“Em,” he said, coaxing me to turn around and face him. I did. “I never wanted thrilling. I'm not twenty years old anymore. I can't even tolerate roller coasters. I'd love to be boring together. Not bored—never bored. Just boring. Ordinary. Together. I'd love that.”

I hung on that word—“love.”

“Boring together,” I repeated.

Maybe it wasn't cowardly to leave Drew. Maybe it was cowardly to stay. I'd told myself to sit through things, to wait it out, like an antsy child in the backseat during a seemingly endless car trip. I'd told myself the destination would be worth the journey. We would trudge through and count ourselves as one of the bruised and battered—but emboldened—couples who “stuck with it.” I'd heard older couples tell stories of their own turmoil, how they stood by each other's side when leaving would have been easier—even better. I respected them, applauded them, looked to them as the example that my own mother could never provide. But I'd come to wonder if they deserved the accolades. Perhaps applauding them was just applauding cowardice.

Perhaps there is truth to the notion of two people growing apart.

Perhaps we don't want to say we're unhappy—out loud, to ourselves, to the world—because then we'd have to do something about it.

Perhaps the truly courageous thing is to leave.

“I've had my exciting times, Em. I'm ready to settle down,” Gabe went on. “Somewhere, right now, my mother is thanking God.”

I laughed, then changed the subject: “You hungry?”

“I am. You?”

“Starving. Should we go out into the world?”

“Let's stay here,” he said. “Order in.”

He got out of bed, put on his boxers. He ran into the kitchen and returned with a small stack of take-out menus.

“Tell me what sounds good,” he said.

I picked Chinese. I had a distinct craving for oil and salt. He paced back and forth in front of the bed while he was on the phone calling in the order. I watched him and wanted him, every part of him. The late afternoon light through the window hit his body just so, shadowing each muscle. He was like a charcoal drawing of the perfect man.

If Gabe and I were ever unhappy, we'd admit it to each other. Somehow, I just knew that. That was the difference between what I'd have with him and what I had with Drew. Drew and I were living the common lie lived by all people who fall out of love, until one person musters the courage to be honest. I would have to be that person; he never would.

I wanted to tell Gabe, right then and there, as he finished repeating back the take-out order on the phone, that I'd decided. I would do it. I would leave Drew and move in with him. I wanted to scream it. I wanted to jump up and down on the bed with excitement. I wanted to tell him about the baby, to paint a complete picture of the life we'd have together. But I told myself to be calm, to sleep on it—if sleep was even possible in the midst of exhilaration. I would tell him the next day, at a nice dinner:
So, I've decided.
Then nothing would be the same ever again.

“Food will be here in a half hour,” he said with a smile.

He dove back into bed next to me.

“We should do this every day,” I said, which was the closest I'd come that night to telling him what I'd decided.

He kissed my still-flat belly as if he knew what was within.

“You make me happy,” he said, letting his lips linger on my skin.

“You make me happy, too.”

His BlackBerry on the nightstand flashed red—there were messages, emails waiting. He didn't seem to care.

“Do you think it's possible for two people to
always
make each other happy?” I asked. It was one more question I needed him to answer.

“I wouldn't ask you to leave your husband if I didn't think it was possible,” he said.

I sighed.

“Are you looking for a guarantee? Because I can't give you that. Nobody could—not with a clean conscience,” he said. “I can promise you I've never felt this way before. About anyone.”

“What else?” I asked, searching for something close to the guarantee he wouldn't give.

“I can promise you I'll be honest with you—even if you don't want me to be.”

That was good enough, the most I could ask for.

“It's a risk,” I said. “Love, in general, I mean.”

“It wouldn't be meaningful if it wasn't.”

I kissed him, the words
I want to take the risk
primed on the tip of my tongue. I withheld, though, exhaled the breath saved for that sentence into his mouth.

*   *   *

We ate chow mein and fried rice and egg rolls in bed, using chopsticks to pick out grains of rice when they fell into the folds of the sheets. He fed me, I fed him. We read each other's fortune cookies. Mine read: “A package of value will arrive soon.” His read: “The past is gone. Tomorrow is full of possibilities.” We played the adolescent game of adding “in bed” to the end of our fortunes.

“Tomorrow is full of possibilities in bed,” he said with a satisfied nod. “Does that mean you'll spend the night again?”

“Maybe,” I said, with a teasing smile.

“You should take the day off tomorrow, be waiting here when I get home.”

I climbed into his lap, straddled him.

“I have a feeling I'm getting special treatment since I'm sleeping with the boss,” I said.

“So? What of it?” he said. “You don't have clothes here. You should start moving some, see how it feels. I'll clear drawers for you.”

This—the drawers—excited me to an embarrassing point of giddiness. I did my best to hide it, but I was sure my face was flushed.

“Sleep here. Bring some clothes back. We'll play house for the week.”

I'd tell Drew I was still really sick, that he needed to keep Bruce with him at his mother's house. He'd probably insist on visiting me, caretaker that he'd become, but I'd tell him to stay away.
I don't want you to get what I have
, I'd say.

“I'll need at least two drawers,” I told Gabe. “For now.”

Still lying in bed, we ate spoonfuls of Neapolitan ice cream out of the carton. It had frostbite, the way ice cream does when it's been sitting in the freezer for months.

The sun set and I said, “This has got to be one of the top five best days of my life.”

He said, “If it's any lower than number three, I've failed you.”

He turned out the bedside light early—around nine o'clock. Even with all the resting, all the gluttony, we were tired. He had an early meeting, had to be at the office by seven to prepare a PowerPoint. He told me he'd be quiet in the morning, said he didn't want to wake me. He detailed the contents of his pantry so I knew my breakfast options. And then he kissed me good night and wished me sweet dreams.

“Right now I think reality is sweeter than any dream could be,” I said.

It was hokey, but I didn't care. My heart beat wildly as I thought about the next night. I'd call around in the morning for a reservation somewhere fancy. I'd tell him about leaving Drew and he'd lean across the table, take my face in his hands, and kiss me hard. He'd be surprised about the baby, but happy. His face would light up. We'd spend hours imagining our future together. The restaurant manager would have to kick us out. And when we went to bed together that night, I'd say,
This is it—the number one best day of my life
.

 

TWENTY-THREE

I'm walking through the produce section of the grocery store, apples and bananas in my basket, when I see Drew. Right there, analyzing the yellow onions, trying to pick a good one, though it's impossible to see through all the layers. I'm frozen, standing on a square tile as if it is surrounded by thrashing ocean water. This tile, my lifeboat. He looks up, sees me. There is no flash of recognition on his face, no confusion. He puts two onions in his basket and disappears, turning the corner to another aisle. I drop my basket on the floor, apples rolling out, and leave.

I wake up in a sweat. The sheets are cold, sticking to my skin. I've been having these dreams—or nightmares, rather—more often lately. Sometimes I run into Drew, sometimes my mom, sometimes Marni or Nancy. People who knew me. It's always in an everyday place such as the bank, the post office, the grocery store. Sometimes they recognize me, in spite of the blond dye job. I still have hair in my dreams. A look of shock registers on their faces and I wake up with a jolt, like when I take an unintentional nap at the movie theater and flinch awake thinking I'm falling off a cliff. Sometimes, more often, they don't recognize me. I'm not sure which version of the nightmare is more disconcerting. Regardless, I can't sleep after.