The One That Got Away (13 page)

I shudder.

“The worst part is,” he continues, voice lighter, “I got to ride in a helicopter and I wasn't even conscious for it.”

“That sucks! I know, I'm dying to ride in a helicopter too. But you, though, I'm sure you could find a way. Just go on some reality show—”

“Amazing Race of the Washed-Up Pro Athletes?”

“Exactly, or
The Bachelor
. They're constantly going on helicopter rides on
The Bachelor
.”

“Yeah, but then I'd have a bunch of nervous-gigglers shoving their boobs in my face.”

“Oh, come on, that doesn't sound so bad!”

“No, thank you. I've had enough”—he seems to be searching for something to say that won't offend my nonexistent delicate sensibilities—“just…enough. Of that. I like
Amazing Race
better.”

“You're probably right,” I concede. “They can determine your starting rankings based on how much weight everyone has gained since retiring. You must be up to two thirty by now!”

“You're obnoxious,” he mutters, but his voice is laced with humor. We talk for a long time, then eventually lapse into silence again. At some point I must doze off, because when he whispers my name, I open my eyes to discover the stars have faded, and the silhouette of the mountains is just visible against a cobalt sky.

“Oh shit, I fell asleep!” I say, struggling to extricate myself from him.

He drops a hand on my forearm. “It's okay, I did too. But we should probably go in now, huh?” His hair is mussed adorably, his eyes drowsy and soft. The effect on me is totally unlike the sisterly amusement with which I regard Danny when he's groggy and fuzzy in the morning.

“Yeah. I need to get some real sleep or I'll be useless tomorrow.” I teeter reluctantly to my feet, stiff from the awkward confines
of the chaise. “At least we're not the only ones,” I add, nodding across the ring of chairs to where a few scattered, shapeless bodies are sleeping off the effects of too much celebration.

We shuffle upstairs together and draw to a stop outside the paired doors to our rooms, where I hand him back his jacket. He is so close I can smell the lingering scent of woodsmoke, and the sweet tang of wine on his breath.

“Well…g'night,” he says after a moment, a small, inscrutable smile curling his lips.

“Night, Eamon,” I whisper.

Amber late-afternoon sunlight slants low over the arid mountains as we take our seats to watch Jay and Dominic get married. Since Noah has indicated that a proposal is looming on the horizon, I try to pay extra attention to the details of the wedding—the setup, the décor—but it's all foreign to me. The guys' retro sixties Rat Pack vibe is fun, but I haven't the faintest idea what I'd want, let alone what Noah would. My second X chromosome must be missing a couple of lines of HTML.

At the ceremony, there are no attendants, no unity candles, no pontificating from the officiant about the meaning of marriage. Everybody here knows that there couldn't be a purer example of commitment and family than the two people standing at the front of the lawn, their faces washed with love and sunset light. As Jay and Dominic recite their vows, hand in hand, Dominic says something under his breath that makes Jay duck his head with laughter. I wonder what it was; if it was something the rest of us would even understand, or if it was just some inside joke between the two of them that will one day get referenced on an anniversary card. As I watch them, I imagine what it will be like to share that moment with Noah. Pledging to love and support
each other for the rest of our lives. I am almost, almost ready to do that.

Just not yet. Not…
quite
yet.

By the time we spill into the reception space, music is already pouring through the room, bouncing off the glass walls and polished concrete floor. I fidget in my seat throughout dinner, impatient for the dancing. There's a handful of rude, hilarious toasts, a touching one from Dominic's elderly father, then the cake; and then finally Jay, flushed and laughing, sticks his hands in the air. “All right, people,” he announces, around cheeks still stuffed with red velvet cake, “time to get this party started.”

With an elated shout, Nicole and I bolt from the table like racehorses out of the gate. Giggling, we clasp hands and rush the dance floor, just as the opening beats of Bell Biv DeVoe's “Poison” flash across the room. We're surrounded almost instantly by laughing guests, all of us bumping and bouncing in a heedless crush. After a few minutes, I catch Eamon's eye from across the room—he's been captured by a middle-aged cousin of Dominic's and is good-naturedly letting her use him as a stripper pole. I wink at him and receive an imploring look in return. I shake my head, grinning, to let him know he's on his own, and head off to the bar to get a refill on my wine.

Two hours later, I have a wine stain on my dress, a missing earring, and stubbed toes from three separate dance floor collisions. My attempt at a chignon disintegrated almost immediately, and my bangs are straggling across my forehead. The crowd has gradually thinned out, leaving only my group of friends and a few other die-hards.

I watch Eamon dancing with Jay's glamorous sister, Penelope, and as he laughs appreciatively at something she says, lowering
his dark head to hear her better, I feel a stab of irritation. She smiles up at him adoringly, and the irritation blooms into annoyance. The alcohol must be making me cranky; it could not possibly be less of my business who Eamon Roy flirts with. Or takes back to his hotel room. But all of a sudden, it's like somebody has pulled an invisible plug, and my enjoyment of the evening disappears down the drain with a sad little slurp.

“I think it might be time to pack it in,” I shout to Nicole, who nods, yawning, and reaches behind her for Chris's hand. Together we find Jay and Dominic to wish them good night. As we make our way across the patio to our rooms, late-night revelers, including more than a few wedding guests, are splashing in the glowing pool, their laughter echoing around the courtyard.

When I reach the door to my room, my memory flicks back to the dark, quiet early morning, standing here with Eamon. Not tonight, though; he was still with Jay's sister when I left the reception. I don't think he even noticed me go. I let myself into the room and toss my handbag on my bed. Somehow, the slam of the door behind me is very satisfying indeed.

On the way home, everyone is too tired for I Never (even if there were anything left to share); Nicole, Chris, and Danny all pass out in the backseat as soon as we get settled in the Jeep for the final leg of the journey. Eamon and I talk softly while he drives. As the last miles to Austin wind down, end-of-weekend gloom settles heavily over me. I find myself, for the first time in my life, wishing for traffic, a flat tire, a final stop for gas; anything to postpone the comedown of arriving home. Anything, if I'm being honest with myself, to postpone having to say good night to Eamon.

He drops Nicole and Chris off first, even though they live closer to his neighborhood than Danny and I do.

“I don't want the weekend to be over,” he says as we coast quietly over the dark, empty streets.

“Me neither,” I agree. I wonder if he is talking about anything more than just the weekend itself. I know I am.

“You know,” he says, and I can hear the tiny pause before he continues, “I'm really sorry I never called you.”

I don't even pretend not to know what he is talking about. I can't believe he is bringing this up now, within earshot of Danny, who may or may not be completely asleep—but nothing in the world could make me tell him that we should probably talk about it later. Or that we really don't need to talk about it at all.

Instead I swallow, and ask him why he's apologizing.

He flicks his eyes to me, then back to the road. “It was a shitty thing to do, just disappearing like that. I should have let you know what was going on.”

I feel myself tense with curiosity and dread at the same time, but I make myself sound nonchalant. As if I hadn't agonized over this very thing for literally months after it happened. “Why? What
was
going on?”

“I was seeing somebody. Not exclusively—I mean, I didn't cheat on her with you. Although I'm sure she wouldn't have been happy to hear about you. But it was getting more serious. And then I met you, and I really liked you, and it freaked me out 'cause suddenly I wasn't sure I wanted what I thought I wanted. Which was not a comfortable feeling for me at all. I guess when I was twenty-one I couldn't articulate any of that, so I just vanished.”

I'm quiet for a while as I absorb this. Oddly, it makes a twisted sort of sense, and I feel the last stubborn knot of hurt over his rejection unravel inside me. “It's okay,” I say. “If I were held accountable for everything I did in my dating life before I was about twenty-seven, I'd be in serious trouble.”

He laughs. “Yeah. But still. I'm not suggesting that you actually
cared what I did at the time, because you shouldn't have. I've just been thinking about it, and I wanted to tell you.”

“Well…thanks.” We share a shy smile. I don't correct his assertion that I didn't care about his blow-off; I wonder if he wants me to. But there's something else I want to know. “Out of curiosity, what was it that you wanted, or thought you wanted?”

“My ex, Hannah,” he says, and I remember the bitter jealousy I felt when I first figured out who she was. An image flashes into my brain: her powerful arms, halfway through a stroke, arcing over the water with astonishing grace and speed. No wonder he wanted her.

“Right,” I say. “The girl you moved to California for.”

He shoots me a sideways look. “The girl who was
part
of the reason why I moved to California,” he corrects pointedly, but he's smiling.

“Yeah, that one,” I tease.

“I probably would have gone anyway,” he continues. “Junior year of college I finished just off qualifying time in all of my events at Olympic trials, and I was…not interested in doing that again. I knew I needed a new coach, and it was maybe sixty/forty between Cal and SwimMAC in Charlotte.”

“But she tipped the balance.”

“Yeah, she did. Except for that one day,” he adds softly.

Which one day?
Our
day? “Which day?” I ask. Pretending to be only mildly curious.

“
That
day,” he confirms. “After you fell asleep, I lay there with my mind racing, trying to figure out what the hell to do. I liked Hannah, which is what I was supposed to do, but suddenly I liked you. A lot. And I wanted to move to Cal…but sometime between eight and nine in the morning I actually thought,
What if I stayed here?
And then I panicked. I was so freaked out that I had even thought about deviating from my plan that I literally just
bolted. And then I didn't know how to explain to you why I bolted…so I just didn't say anything at all.”

“I wish you had,” I say. This much I can admit to him. “I did wonder what the hell had happened.”

He shakes his head. “I know. I still can't believe I did that. But, in my twisted mind, I was doing the right thing. I wanted to see you again so badly, but I had this stupid heroic thing where I didn't want to lead you on if I wasn't going to be staying in Austin. And I was scared that if I kept seeing you, I'd start wanting to stay, and I knew it wasn't right for my career. So, I just avoided the whole problem. By avoiding you.”

I can't help but laugh at the irony. All those months I spent agonizing over what I did wrong, when apparently the only problem was that I was too appealing.

“Well, it worked out right for you,” I say, without bitterness. “On both fronts.”

“Cal was the right choice,” he says. “There's no way I could have gone as far as I did without Howard. And Hannah…I guess that relationship was what both of us needed at the time. Things kind of fell apart after I got hurt, though. We were together for so long that everyone figured we were going to get married, including us…except when the shit hit the fan, we realized we weren't actually very good for each other.” He glances at me before continuing. “I think sometimes you get so used to being with someone that it's just a habit, not something that really makes you happy.”

“Yeah.” I stare out my window at the passing houses, wondering what the people inside with lights on are doing. Putting the kids to bed, watching
Daily Show
reruns, making love. Quiet, Sunday-night things. All of a sudden, I am aching with loneliness.

I ought to call Noah as soon as I get home, but instead I dawdle. I play with Newman. I unpack my clothes. I sort week-old
clean laundry, carefully pairing my socks and folding my underwear in an uncharacteristic flirtation with organization. But I can't stop replaying the conversation with Eamon in my head.

I don't know how to feel about what he told me. On the one hand, it's good to know, finally, that I hadn't imagined how he'd felt about me. It's better than good.

But on the other hand, it doesn't change anything. He still left Austin, still chose Hannah, still made all the decisions that made sense instead of the ones that didn't. And I still fell in love with Noah. What-ifs are pointless; we're here now. He is my client, and my friend, and that's all he'll ever be. No matter how much I like the sound of his voice on a dark, sleepy car ride, late at night.

Throughout the next morning, we all take turns emailing our photos from the wedding weekend. There are some gorgeous ones of Dominic and Jay, capturing the joy and hilarity and romance of their weekend, and of course lots of shots of beautiful Nicole. And there's one that twists my gut like a pretzel: Eamon at our table at the reception, eyes closed, rippling with laughter, and me next to him, face buried in his shoulder as I convulse with mirth. His hand is curved affectionately around the back of my head. If Noah ever saw this photo, he would have a couple very legitimate questions to ask me. And yet, I can't delete it. I just leave it sitting in my inbox, dangerous as a grenade with a shaky pin.

Nicole calls me later that afternoon, as I am working on sketches for the built-in cabinetry in Eamon's office. I have started doing all of the drawings for his millwork by hand, instead of on the computer, after he told me he thought my hand-drafted work was beautiful.

“So, Miss Sarina, what was that all about?”

“What was what all about?” I ask, biting my pencil as I study the drawing. The proportions of the bays of shelving don't feel quite right.

“You. You didn't take your eyes off Eamon Roy all weekend.”

I feel a flash of irritation, even though—or, probably, because—the frequency with which he appeared in my photos from the weekend attests to the fact that she's right. “Well, there are worse things to look at, aren't there?”

“There are,” she agrees. “Did you see the implants on that aunt of Dominic's?”

“Oh my god,” I laugh. “Talk about nondairy creamer!”

“Now the other interesting thing I noticed, as I was noticing things,” she says, “is that Eamon couldn't seem to keep his eyes off
you
.”

“False, Nicole. He spent the whole reception dancing with Jay's sister.”

“He's a flirt. But to my knowledge—and I do in fact have this knowledge—he didn't hook up with her. And the only person he snuggled with on a chaise lounge for hours was you.”

“We're friends. It wasn't sexy snuggling.”

“He
also
did not hook up,” she continues relentlessly, “with that random blond cousin who practically had to be strapped down to keep her from attacking him.”

“Well that's no surprise…women probably throw themselves at him all the time. If he slept with every one who was halfway attractive he'd be worn to a nub by now.”

“Fine. But my
point
is, he could have slept with any of several different women this weekend, and he didn't. I don't know any single guys who would pass up a perfectly good opportunity to get laid unless they had their eye on someone else,” she announces.

“Oh Jesus, Nicole. Maybe he only dates models.”