The One That Got Away (24 page)

The rest of November evaporates before I even know it. As I always have when my life gets shaken out of my control, I seek comfort in routine. Get up, coffee, run, more coffee, work, lunch, work, dinner. Muay thai Tuesdays, Thursdays, Sundays. Dinner at Albion on Fridays; boozing at Clementine on Saturdays. I go on a binge of making plans with all of the friends I haven't seen in a while; if I stay busy enough, maybe I won't notice the emptiness where John's funny little emails and notes should be. The silence where his weekly phone calls should be.

At one point, my Realtor calls from Virginia to advise me that I have an offer just below asking price on the house. Without hesitating, I direct her to accept it and move to contract. Technically I could keep the house if I wanted—it's been in our family for ages, so all I'd be responsible for is the property taxes, which for one year are only slightly more than I pay to Danny in rent each month. I could probably even lease it out for a modest amount. But keeping it would be foolish and sentimental; I need a nineteenth-century farmhouse in southwest Virginia like I need a broken spine. And I can use the money from the sale to invest in a better website, some real business cards, maybe even a PR person to try to drum up some more business. Selling the house is the only thing that makes sense. Which does nothing in the world to
stop me from sobbing until my throat aches the night I send back the signed contract.

For my first few years in Austin, I used to spend Thanksgiving at Danny's parents' place in the suburbs, until things got serious with Noah. However, since I am quite certainly no longer invited to the Harlow family dinner, Danny's folks are saddled with me again. Yesterday's mail included a small envelope in luxuriously heavy cotton paper with the initials “A.H.S.” embossed on the flap—the
H
larger, the way it's done on proper monograms. The only thing inside was the check I had sent Anne-Marie for the wedding-dress-that-wasn't. No note, just the money. Rejected along with my apology and my regret.

As soon as I arrive at Danny's parents' place, and his mother wraps me in a hug that lasts a good couple of seconds longer than usual, I know he's told them about me losing John. They're going to be on Bereavement Watch all weekend, ready to spring into action at the slightest sign of a sniffle. What sort of action, I don't know—and I'm sure they don't, either—but a quick look around at their sympathetic faces confirms that they are all on red alert. It's going to be the spring of my junior year all over again.

To show everyone that I am, actually, completely fine, I throw myself into holiday heartiness, making a nuisance of myself in Danny's mother's overheated kitchen until she banishes me to the living room. Danny's dad and I play armchair quarterback throughout the endless stream of football on TV. As we scrape our chairs under the table for dinner, I utter a mental plea that nobody will initiate a round of Things We Are Thankful For—while there is no doubt that I have a great deal to be thankful for, I'm not really in the mood to celebrate it these days.

Instead, though, Danny's dad takes his wife's and his daughter's hands. The rest of us follow suit, glancing at each other in silent surprise; a formal grace isn't usually their family's style.

“Well, since we're all gathered together here, I figured I might as well say a few words,” Danny's dad begins solemnly. He pauses for a moment to gather his thoughts. Then his face cracks in a smile. “Rub-a-dub-dub, thanks for the grub!”

I hear Danny's quiet, urgent “Dad!” and then everyone else's laughter goes blurry around me as I stumble blindly from the table and toward the front door. I fold down onto the stoop, bury my head in the warm darkness between my knees, and rock back and forth. But the tears won't stop, even when Danny sits down next to me and silently wraps his arm around my shoulders.

It was John's grace. One of his silly jokes that he would deliver at the dinner table before our holiday meals, always with the same sly, shit-eating grin. The first few times, my mother tried shaming him with a stern glare, but he would just grin right back at her until her lips started twitching, and after a minute she'd give up the fight, her shoulders shaking with laughter.

“Ree-Ree, I'm sorry,” whispers Danny. “I told him about that so long ago, he must have forgotten it came from John.”

“It's not your fault,” I sob. “I just miss him so much. I miss them both so much.”

Danny shifts slightly so he can get both arms around me. We sit like that for a long time, until he finally pulls away.

“Hey, you're shivering,” he says gently. “You ready to come inside?”

“In a minute.”

He nods, straightens, and walks back inside, pulling the door shut softly behind him so I'm alone again.

This is one of the shittiest parts of grief, right here. The absolute futility
of it. The way that no matter how much you feel, there's nowhere for it to go. It's not like a noise you can dial down or turn off—it just squeezes you. And when it's squeezing, all you can do is cry from the pain. And then wipe your stupid face and keep walking. Nothing changes. Nothing suddenly heals. You never actually get to feel
better
—you just get to stop crying. I don't know how one force of emotion can be at once so sharp, so ragged with splintered edges that pierce and rip, and yet also so blunt and blank and immutable.

I suck the cool air into my lungs and tug my sweatshirt tighter around me. I'm not quite ready to endure Danny's family's pity and embarrassment. But I need to try to ease away this desolation.

Halfheartedly, I cycle through the contacts in my phone, but all of my friends are going to be with their families, gorging themselves on pie and falling asleep on the couch. I pause at Eamon's name. He's at home, in Virginia. Eating the turkey he told me his mother always manages to overcook, and the baklava she laboriously makes for her boys every time they come home.

I try to imagine his parents' house—a split-level in a modest neighborhood, with twenty-year-old wall-to-wall carpeting and a brick fireplace that doesn't quite draw properly. Does his bedroom still look exactly the way it did when he left for college? I picture a wall festooned with his teenage achievements, national and NCAA medals pinned to the drywall with humble thumbtacks. A couple pieces of art he snagged from a flea market, maybe some photos from their family trip to Lebanon when he was seventeen. I doubt there's a single detail he's ever shared about himself that I don't remember.

I can't call Eamon. Nothing says “inappropriate romantic feelings” like a phone call on a sentimental family holiday. I think back to a few weeks ago, when we were constantly in touch, all
day, every day; to that last night on my trip home, when I was arguing about the all-time best Stevie Wonder song with him late at night in a Super 8 motel room, with a dopey, infatuated smile on my face. Before my rude awakening arrived in the form of an entry-level sports car.

I know who I want to call. I'm sure he's been in the office all day—in Argentina, it's just another Thursday. But I can't call him, either.

My ex-boyfriend from college would call me, for months after he'd tossed away my heart like a deflated kickball, whenever he was lonely and feeling sorry for himself. He would ramble on about his problems with his family, and I would listen and sympathize and proffer advice that he never, ever listened to. He would tell me how good it was to hear my voice, and how much he missed me; a few times, we met up for drinks and wound up making out on his sofa while Billie Holiday played softly in the background. Until eventually I figured out that he had absolutely no interest in a relationship with me; all he wanted was attention in the intervals when there was nobody better in the picture. I'm not going to play that game with Noah.

Sighing, I shove myself to my feet and go back inside. Everyone in the living room wears an identical expression of nervous concern.

“I'm sorry to run out on dinner like that, you guys. I hope you all went ahead and ate?”

Danny's dad flips off the noise of the football game, immediately making me wish he'd left it on. “Of course we waited. Sweetheart, I apologize for my tactlessness—I forgot that that particular gem was a favorite of your stepdad's.”

I tell him no apology is needed. Instead of reconvening at the dining table—the holiday mood being effectively shattered—we decide to eat in the living room, plates balanced on our laps. They try to distract me with stories and laughter, and I'm happy to let
them. It is perfectly pleasant, but despite their generous hospitality I feel more like an outsider than I ever have before at their home. When I go to Janet's for Christmas in a few weeks, it will feel the same, I know. I wonder if I will ever have a family to belong to again.

It used to be that the holiday season, with its relentless avalanche of commercials featuring kindly grandparents and tender mom-and-daughter moments, drove me to wrap myself in a brittle cocoon of rage until the first week of January. But when Danny, Jay, and I opened Albion three Decembers ago, I discovered a far more effective means of fighting back against the beast: throwing a kickass party. And we've been doing it every year since.

We've spent the last week frantically whipping together the details, and, as the last few hours slip past before the guests begin to arrive, my skin starts humming with excitement. I am unaccustomedly fancy in teetery stilettos and a clingy black shirtdress (“Quit tugging at it, dumbass, it's supposed to be that tight” was Nicole's helpful contribution). Eamon is going to be at the party; I have to look good, as a point of pride.

Guests start pouring in as soon as the clock hits 8:00, and for a while I forget to look out for him as I get caught up in the swirl of greetings and conversation. A few of Danny's other Longhorn buddies arrive, including a blond giant named Brody, who gives me a frankly appraising smile that I fleetingly wish I were in a mental state to respond to. When Eamon still hasn't arrived by 9:30, I grab Danny as he zooms past to check if he's heard from
him, but he just flashes no-idea hands, not even pausing in his stride. Then, a few minutes later, I finally spot him, half a head above everyone else, elegant in a tailored suit, picking his way through the crowd. Carefully leading a beautiful African American girl by the hand.

From her imposing height and defined upper back, I know her right away for another swimmer. As I gape at her, I realize I remember her from TV, that she was a member of the Olympic team. And, of course, his ex-girlfriend.
The
ex-girlfriend, the one he left Austin for. The one he picked over me…Hannah. Why is she even in town? Was I right that he wanted them to get back together? My jaw tightens with resentment.

Danny materializes next to me and touches my arm, frowning with concern. “Love, you okay?”

There's no point attempting to fool him. “Who is that?” I snap.

“That's his ex, Hannah,” he confirms. “They broke up a couple years ago, but…” His voice trails off uncertainly.

“But he doesn't always think through when to sleep with somebody, and when he should keep it in his pants,” I recite grimly.

I watch them stop to greet Jay and Dominic, chatting animatedly. They don't look like two people who are broken up. Granted, they're not groping each other, but there's an unmistakable air of comfortable affection between them. And she is a
knockout:
her lean figure is poured into a turquoise sheath dress that shows off her toned limbs and wenge-brown skin. She carries herself with the kind of effortless grace that I could never fake, even if I knew how, the kind of grace that characterizes Eamon's every movement. Together they look like royalty.

Well, what is that old cliché? The best defense is a good offense? I square my shoulders and head toward them, pasting a welcoming smile on my face. I manage to give Eamon a cool, perfunctory
cheek kiss, though my fingers tighten reflexively on his arm as my lips touch his skin. I fight down a wave of heat as I inhale the scent of his freshly washed hair, and extend a friendly hand to Hannah.

“Hi, I'm Eamon's architect, Sarina,” I say, trying not to gape at her. She is even more striking up close, with pronounced cheekbones and luminous eyes the color of sherry. Unlike some tall women, she doesn't try to minimize her height; she's rocking glossy black pumps that put her unapologetically over six feet.

“Of course! So nice to meet you, Sarina. I'm Hannah,” she says. Her smile, like her handshake, is warm and self-assured. “Eamon tells me you designed this restaurant as well? You did a wonderful job; it's beautiful.”

“Thank you! So, are you visiting from out of town?”

“I am, yeah. I live in Berkeley, but I figured I was due for a visit. Ame's been trying to get me to come for months.”

Oh, he has, has he?
I don't trust myself to look at him, so I just hitch my smile a little higher. “Has he taken you to see the house yet?”

“No, now that you mention it, he hasn't!” She swats him playfully. “What's the matter with you? Why haven't you taken me to see the house?”

He holds up a warding hand. “There isn't much to see,” he explains. “It's just a construction site.”

Though I know he's right—construction sites are never interesting to anyone except the architects responsible for them—his dismissiveness still stings. After all, he owes every last nail gun and sawhorse of that construction to me.

“Oh, I don't know, I bet Hannah would at least like to see the site. She can admire the hole in the ground where the pool is going to go.” I turn to her, smiling. “Thanks to this project, I now know the exact dimensions of a short-course pool.”

She gives a cute little hop. “Yeah, I can't wait to see it! Let's go
tomorrow, Ame.” I can't tell if she's just curious, or if she's eager to see the home where she will eventually be living. She's so beautiful that I feel like a dandelion next to the blazing glory of a tiger lily. Faced with the caliber of woman he will give his heart to, I feel foolish all over again for ever having thought he could be serious about me.

Eamon smiles at her with long-standing, affectionate indulgence. I know that smile; Noah used to give me that smile every time I got hungry two hours after a meal. It only took three weeks of dating me before he started stocking his glove compartment with Clif bars to ward off my hunger attacks. I miss having somebody to look out for me in those wonderful, knowing little ways.

Around one in the morning, I'm in the bathroom, mouth agape in the awkward rictus of lipstick application, when Hannah walks in. A flash of memory hits me from nowhere—didn't Eamon have an I Never story about sex in a public bathroom? Odds have to be good that that was with Hannah. My imagination quickly sketches a few details: their intertwined hands, pressed against the wall; his mouth against her arched throat. Jealousy slams into me like a rough wave at the beach, almost knocking me off my feet.

“Sarina, this is such a fun party,” she says from inside the stall, innocently unaware of the storm of white-hot envy that's seething inside me. “I'm having a blast.”

“I'm so pleased,” I say from behind gritted teeth, struggling to regain my equilibrium as I put my lipstick away with shaking hands. But as she keeps talking, babbling about the food and the cocktails, I can't help being amused that the elegant Hannah Gordon is not above chatting midstream with a near stranger. She's undoubtedly spent way too much time in locker rooms to have
any modesty left—I bet she's also the girl standing in the communal dressing room at Loehmann's in nothing but a thong, dispensing kindly advice on fit between her own costume changes.

“I don't really want to leave, but Ame's been a cranky little brat all night, and I can't deal with him anymore,” she says, exiting the stall and coming to wash her hands at the counter next to me. “Though I guess I could just send him home in a cab,” she adds, hiking a conspiratorial eyebrow at me in the mirror. “Maybe then I'd actually get Brody Gilsik to come near me.”

My surprise must be splashed all over my face, because she stops toweling her hands and stares at me. “Oh, you didn't think…oh! Noooo, no, no, no. There's nothing going on with us. We were together for a long time, but we're just friends now.” She narrows her eyes and cocks her head to the side, rather like a tall and beautiful bird. “Oh no. That boy is such an ass.”

“What?”

“He didn't tell you that I was going to be visiting this weekend? Or that he was bringing me to the party?”

I cross my arms over my waist. “Not a word.”

She flicks open her handbag and digs around for her own lipstick. “Oh, for god's sake. I hope you don't mind that he told me, but I got the recap on your whole situation with your boyfriend. Ame won't admit it, but it's obviously driving him insane. So, he brought me to this party to give you some of your own medicine.”

“You really think so?”

“No doubt about it. I think he wanted to see how you'd react. He wanted to see if he could make you jealous. And instead of being a bitch to me all night like he would if it were him, you've been ignoring him. Which of course is killing him. And he deserves it, the little shit,” she adds, exasperation and affection mingled in her voice. I feel another twist of jealousy, that she's known him long enough and well enough to blow him off with an epithet I usually reserve for my misbehaving cat.

I digest this in silence as she smoothly swipes a deep plum stain onto her mouth. “Is it driving him insane because he likes me, or because he can't stand not to win?” I hate throwing myself on her mercy like this—the girl he picked, who knows him so much better than I do—but I can't seem to help it. Apparently I need her help figuring out what's going on here.

“He
really
hates to lose,” she concedes, snapping the lipstick shut, “but if he weren't into you he wouldn't care. I slept with another one of our teammates right after we broke up, and he didn't bat one pretty eyelash. That's how I knew it was really over.” Her tone is matter-of-fact, not bitter, and I'm grateful to her for her self-deprecating honesty.

“Well, it worked,” I admit, repaying her in kind. “I've been jealous as hell of you all night.”

She shakes her head ruefully. “He's a total pain in the ass sometimes, but he's all heart. You just have to call him on his bullshit.”

I want to ask why they broke up, if he still means so much to her, but the door bangs open, admitting two drunk, giggling girls wobbling on platform heels, and the blast of music shatters the confessional mood.

“Well, shall we?” I say, gesturing to the door.

She dips a curtsy, then swings the heavy door open as if it were made of cardboard. She might not be able to land a high roundhouse kick, but the girl could damn sure hold her own in a fistfight.

City code forces the party to shut down an hour later, but Danny, undeterred, announces an after-party at our house for the truly dedicated. Which, of course, means only the usual suspects: Nicole, Chris, Jay, and Dominic.

“Ame, Hannah, what's your status?” demands Danny, waving a bottle of Albion's house red in each hand.

They exchange an awkward look. “I'm pretty pooped, so
Brody's going to give me a ride back to you guys' place,” says Hannah. I take in the gorgeous specimen standing behind her—somehow I have the distinct feeling that she's not going back to Eamon's tonight. Damn, the girl works fast.

“Mm-hmm,” says Danny.

“So, I guess I'll head over to Casa James for a while,” says Eamon. I feel a little bubble of mingled pleasure and anxiety. Did Hannah say something to him?

“Mm-hmm,” says Danny again. “Well, whoever's coming, let's roll out. The party bus is leaving.”

However, once we get home, it turns out that the other four have lost their mojo on the ride over; they stay for one last toast to Albion before heading back to their respective homes. After they leave, Eamon, Danny, and I keep drinking, finishing the first bottle of wine and ambitiously opening another. I pace myself, having learned from painful experience the effect of too much red wine on my system, but Danny, aglow with holiday bonhomie, is sucking down the alcohol like water. Eventually he totters to his feet, one hand clamped onto the table and the other pressed uncertainly to his stomach.

“Uh-oh,” he moans. “You guys are kind of”—he makes a vague circular motion in the air with his index finger—“swirly.”

“That's one thing I've never been called before,” mutters Eamon as he rises and circles the table toward Danny. “Come on, man, better let me help you.”

“Fuck off,” grunts Danny, but he doesn't resist as Eamon tugs his arm over his shoulders and maneuvers him toward the stairs. I don't envy him the task; Danny is almost as big as Eamon is, and if he stops moving under his own volition it could get a little hairy on the stairs. I decide to follow behind in case of emergency.

Eamon glances at me over Danny's shoulder and shakes his head. “I've got him, Ree. Besides, if we go down, I don't exactly think you're stopping us.”

He has a point. I return to my seat and wait, cringing at one point when I hear a shattering bang from upstairs. Before I can get up to see what's wrong, Eamon's voice calls down to me.

“It's okay, Ree. Collateral damage.”

He's grinning when he reappears. “Well, he's down for the count.”

“What the hell was that noise?”

“He tripped over a lamp cord I didn't see. He's fine. The lamp, not so much.”

“Poor Danny,” I say, shaking my head affectionately. “I have never met someone so big who's such a failure at holding his booze. Was he always this bad?”

Eamon pulls a disgusted face. “Appalling. Every time we had a party, we used to set up an over-under on what time Danny would pass out, and how many drinks it would take to get him there. I usually won,” he adds, all teeth.

“Of course you did.”

“But, hey, no reason to pack it in, right? The night is young.” He tops off our wineglasses and settles back on the banquette, stretching his long legs out across the seat.

“No reason at all,” I say.

He clinks his glass gently against mine. “Sláinte, Miss Mahler,” he drawls in what can only be his grandfather's broad Irish accent.

My heart flips like a doomed fish.