The Lies That Bind Page 6

  It is the closest either of us has come to admitting that we’re falling in love, and I reach across the table for his hand. “I’m glad I didn’t call him,” I say.

  “Me too.”

  A dizzying few seconds pass. “What’s happening here?” I whisper, my heart in my ears.

  “You know what’s happening,” he says, squeezing my hand.

  I slowly nod. I tell myself to memorize the moment, stay in the moment. But as highs so often spark worry—at least for me—I find myself asking when he leaves for London.

  “Week after next,” he says, his expression changing into a grimace. “Our flight’s on the thirteenth.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  “It’s okay,” he says. “We should talk about it.”

  I nod, picking up my fork. “How long will you be gone?”

  “I’m not sure,” he says. “Our return tickets are for September. But we may come home sooner or later…depending.”

  My heart sinks, but I tell myself not to be selfish—we are talking about his twin brother and only living family member. So I simply say, “I’m going to miss you.”

  “I’m going to miss you, too,” he says. “A lot. But we can email and talk and maybe you can even visit.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. Why not? If you can get away…”

  “You don’t think your brother would mind?”

  “No, he’d like you….I really want you to meet him.”

  I smile and say I want my family to meet him, too.

  “Have you told them anything?” he says. “About us?”

  I shake my head and say, “No. Because I just got out of something, you know? I don’t want them to think this is just a rebound….”

  He nods, as my mind wanders to his past. “What about your exes?” I say.

  He shrugs and says, “What about them?”

  “I don’t know….What’s your type?”

  “I don’t have a type,” he says.

  I roll my eyes and say, “Everyone has a type. They might deviate from it here and there, but they still have one….It’s, like, biology—or chemistry. Whatever.”

  “Okay,” he says, giving me a serious look. “Well then, my type is about five-three with dark hair and big brown eyes and dimples….Actually, strike that. One dimple. Never two.”

  “Stop it,” I say, laughing as I cover up my lone dimple.

  “I’m serious,” he says.

  “Anyway. What was your most significant ex like?” I say, bracing myself for the predictable pangs of jealousy while hearing Scottie telling me I shouldn’t go there.

  “Nothing like you,” he says. “The opposite of you.”

  My mind races, picturing a tall, leggy blonde with big boobs. I leave off the last part, though, and simply say, “So, a tall blonde?”

  “Well, yeah, actually,” he says. “But I wasn’t just talking about looks….You have a totally different vibe.”

  “How so?” I ask, as I suddenly realize that I’m not jealous. Not at all. I just want to know everything about him.

  He sighs and says, “Oh, I don’t know….If you were magazines—Amy would be Town & Country…and you’d be The Atlantic.”

  I know it’s supposed to be a compliment, but I laugh and say, “Only one of them is filled with beautiful people.”

  “Shallow, surface beauty,” he says with a shrug.

  “Sounds like Amy would be great with my ex,” I say, picturing Matthew in the Hamptons. Feeling a little guilty, I add, “He’s a great guy…but yeah…very Town & Country.”

  Grant nods, then says, “Can I ask you a ‘what if’?”

  I tell him sure, and he says, “What if you had been dating him when we met?”

  Even though I just had this conversation with Jasmine, the question still flusters me. “Well…I wouldn’t have been at that bar alone if we’d been dating,” I say, trying to get out of the substance of the question.

  “Just pretend you were. Would you have shut me down right away?”

  “Maybe not right away…That feels a little presumptuous. I really couldn’t tell if you were even interested….”

  He rolls his eyes and says, “Stop with that.”

  “I swear I couldn’t. At first.”

  “Okay. But once you could tell?” he presses. “Then what would you have done?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I guess I would have worked him into the conversation.”

  Grant nods, then says, “But you would’ve at least talked to me?”

  “Yeah. Of course.” I smile, remembering. “But I wouldn’t have taken you home. Obviously.”

  “That’s actually not obvious,” he says. “It happens. All the time. To good people.”

  “I know,” I say, wondering if it ever happened to him. “But I, personally, would never do that. I mean, it may have crossed my mind with you…but I would have pushed the thought away.”

  He nods, then says, “Do you believe in fate?”

  I take a sip of wine before saying, “I think I do…but I also believe in free will.”

  “Isn’t that a contradiction?” Grant asks.

  “Maybe,” I say. “I just mean—that we choose. But I think God knows what we’re going to choose. He knows what will ultimately happen.”

  “So you believe in God?” he asks.

  “Yes. Definitely. Do you?”

  “I’m not sure,” he says with an expression I can’t quite read. “Ask me again in a few months.”

  * * *

  —

  It’s sometime in the middle of the night. Our loft is dark, the curtain closed around our bed. Grant reaches back for me, pulling me closer, kissing me, touching me, the intensity building as we inch closer to the inevitable. I whisper that I want him. He groans and kisses my neck and says he wants me, too. So much. Then he asks if it’s safe, or if he needs to get something. I tell him that it’s safe, I’m on the pill, now desperate to feel him inside me. We are right there, on the threshold, when he stops abruptly and says, “Baby…we should wait.”

  “Why?” I say, my heart sinking, my body aching, although I love that he’s just called me baby. I try to focus on that.

  “Because,” he says with a shudder. “I’m leaving…and I think I love you…I know I love you.”

  “Oh, Grant,” I whisper back, my eyes filling with tears. “I love you, too.”

  My mind races, thinking in some ways, it makes no sense. Why would we wait if we love each other? But in other, bigger ways, it feels like the right decision. He holds me so tight, and I have the feeling he might be crying a little, too.

  “This weekend has been perfect,” he says.

  “Yeah,” I whisper. “It has.”

  “And I want to do this so bad. But I don’t want to leave you after we…I’d rather get through some things…and come home….And then we can really be together.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “So you’ll wait for me?” he says.

  “Yes,” I say. “For as long as it takes.”

  Over the next two weeks, Grant and I spend as much time as we can together. Between work and all that he has to do to get ready for London, it doesn’t add up to much. But we spend our nights together at my apartment, sticking to our torturous plan to wait to have sex.

  Meanwhile, I vacillate between the euphoria of being in love and the dread over his looming departure, counting down the days and then the hours. I would be lying if I said Matthew never crossed my mind, at least in the form of an occasional stab of shame and confusion that I could go from one guy to the next so abruptly and completely. But I tell myself that life and love sometimes don’t make sense, and it isn’t something I need to dwell on.

  That is, until one mor
ning when an email from Matthew pops up on my computer screen at work.

  I freeze, staring at his name and the subject line saying simply hello. Several seconds pass before I click on it, holding my breath, hearing his voice as I read:

  Cecily, I just wanted to say hi and check on you. I hope you’re doing well. Any chance you’d like to meet for lunch or coffee? I understand if you don’t think it’s a good idea, but I miss my best friend. Matthew.

  Wondering how a message can be both bland and explosive, I am filled with competing emotions of irritation and satisfaction, resentment and nostalgia. Nervously, and before I can really think things through, I forward the email to Scottie and ask him to call me. Seconds later, my phone rings.

  “I told you!” he yells into my ear. “I told you he’d be back if you listened to me!”

  “Yeah. You sure did,” I say, staring at my screen, wishing that my relationship coach hadn’t been right in this instance.

  “He totally wants you back,” Scottie says.

  “Not necessarily,” I say, thinking that I don’t share his conclusion—and I definitely don’t share his sense of triumph. “He just says he misses his best friend.”

  “It’s the same thing, and you know it,” Scottie replies, before asking what I’m going to write back.

  “You think I should write him back?” I ask, thinking that it contradicts Scottie’s usual guidance that silence and feigned indifference are the source of all power. Then again, maybe he realizes that it’s no longer about power to me. That I am moving on with my life.

  “Absolutely,” he says. “It’s one thing not to contact him first. It’s another thing to ignore him once he caves. You’ll just look petty. Or bitter. Like you’re not over him.”

  “But I am over him,” I say, though I still have an occasional fleeting pang. “So I don’t really care what it looks like.”

  “You care a little bit,” he says.

  I smile to myself—because it is so like Scottie to try to tell me how I feel. “Maybe. But can I at least wait a few days?”

  “Hmm,” he says. “I don’t see the upside to waiting in this instance….I actually think it’s better if you just fire off a quick reply right now. You don’t want to look like you’re playing games.”

  I sigh, filled with dread. “Okay. Fair enough. So what do you think I should say? Do I tell him I’m seeing someone?”

  “No. Not out of the gate,” Scottie says. “Not in this email. Again, you don’t want to come across as vindictive….Besides, he probably wouldn’t believe you. It’s only been, like, a month. He’ll think you’re just lying to make him jealous.”

  I nod, knowing what comes next. I indulge him and say, “I’m ready,” while cradling the phone under my ear and positioning my fingers on my keyboard. I won’t necessarily say what he wants me to say, but I’ll at least take down his words for consideration.

  Scottie clears his throat, then starts talking, while I type verbatim, for now: Hi Matthew…comma…It’s nice to hear from you…period…Even though I think we made the right decision…comma…I would be happy to meet up with you for coffee…period…Does tomorrow afternoon work…question mark…Let me know…comma…Cecily.

  “Tomorrow?” I say, staring at the words on my screen. “Grant leaves tomorrow.”

  “So?” he says. “All the more reason.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Because you’re taking the high ground while keeping your options open. It’s a solid A-plus strategy.”

  “Scottie!” I say, dropping my head to my hands.

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to keep my options open. I don’t need a strategy. I know what I want.”

  “I got that…but why burn bridges? You know…just in case.”

  “Just in case what?” I say, forcing him to actually say aloud what he’s clearly driving at.

  “Just in case things don’t work out with the mysterious Grant,” he finishes.

  “They will,” I say.

  “Then meet Matthew, look him in the eye, and tell him that,” Scottie says. “Tell him you’re happy with your decision and that it’s over for good.”

  “Okay. Fine. Fine.” I relent—not because I buy his rationale, but because it suddenly does feel like the mature, kind thing to do.

  I press send, anxious to get it all over with.

  * * *

  —

  Later that night, after I go home and shower, I walk to Miracle Grill on First Avenue for my final dinner with Grant before he leaves for London. I have every intention of telling him about the email exchange with Matthew, but I change my mind once we’re all tucked into our cozy, dimly lit, back-corner table.

  I just want to focus on us, enjoy every last moment together. We vow not to be sad, and end up having a surprisingly light night, talking and laughing and drinking and strolling all over the East Village until we end up on our stools at the bar on Seventh and Avenue B where it all began. It’s hard to believe that was only a month ago.

  After last call, I assume we will head back to my place, but he suggests we stay out all night and watch the sun rise. Savor every moment together. It’s the most romantic suggestion, so I say yes, and we keep wandering, ending up at the Brooklyn Bridge. I’ve walked across it before, but this time feels so different. For one, it’s the dead of night, and we aren’t surrounded by tourists, only the bright, twinkling lights of two boroughs. For another, I’m with Grant and everything feels different with Grant. Somehow more vivid and significant. I try to think of a metaphor, but the closest I can get is that Matthew and I were spectators of a sport—watching and cheering together—while Grant and I are actually playing in the game, together. At some point, I let my mind go blank, just feeling his hand in mine as we cross over the rushing river into Brooklyn.

  Our walk back to Manhattan is even more spectacular, as the sun is just beginning to rise. Like film being exposed, night turns to day. The World Trade Center and its orbit of skyscrapers are bathed in a soft silvery light, before turning a pale peachy pink, then finally exploding in Technicolor. It’s so beautiful and breathtaking that I want to cry. But I don’t.

  Back in Manhattan, the city is waking up, bodegas opening, cabs materializing out of nowhere. We hail one on Centre Street, at the northeast corner of City Hall Park. Grant gives the driver my address, as we slump together in the backseat, exhaustion hitting us all at once. His arm around me, my head on his shoulder, we zip uptown, too fast, the end quickly nearing.

  By the time we pull up to my apartment, any lingering buzz is completely gone, reality sobering me all the way up. Getting teary, I force myself to tell him goodbye. He stops me, putting his finger gently against my lips, telling me that this isn’t goodbye, and we will talk again very soon.

  When I get to work, hungover more from sleep deprivation than from booze, I see Matthew’s reply in my inbox, telling me he’d love to meet today. How does two o’clock in Bryant Park sound? It sounds perfectly dreadful, but I force myself to agree, deciding that I need to get it over with. Besides, there is something symbolic about getting our final closure on the day Grant is leaving for London.

  On my walk to the park, I feel numb—at least with respect to Matthew. But then I see him, sitting there on a bench, and it’s like an unexpected punch to the gut. It’s not that I have overwhelming feelings for him, but it’s not like laying eyes on a platonic friend, either, and so many memories return to me.

  I approach the bench from the side, just as he looks up, glancing around. Somehow he doesn’t see me, returning his gaze to his BlackBerry. He’s wearing glasses—which means his contacts are bothering him, likely because he worked late. I also notice that he has on the light green Hermès tie with a sailboat print that he bought for his cousin’s wedding in Newport a few months after we started to date. I didn’t go with him—even thoug
h he was invited with a “plus one”—because he thought it felt “too soon.”

  As I get closer, I notice that he’s just gotten his hair cut, emphasizing his boyish good looks. He is undeniably cute—cuter than I’ve allowed myself to remember—and suddenly it’s sensory overload. I start to turn around and dart back the other way, thinking that I’ll just send him an email saying I’m sorry, I couldn’t leave work. But right as I’m about to flee, he looks up again and spots me, giving me a little wave. I wave back, take the final few steps over to the bench, and say hello.

  He stands and says hi. Neither of us smiles. His eyes are sad—very sad—and my first instinct is to say something to cheer him up or give him a hug. Do anything to make that look on his face go away. But I don’t. Because making Matthew happy isn’t my job anymore.

  He squints up at the sky, grimacing a little, before looking at me again. “Wow. This is weird.”

  I murmur my agreement as he leans forward to give me a hug. I stiffen but hug him back quickly, catching a familiar whiff of his aftershave that brings back more memories.

  “Should we sit or walk?” Matthew says, giving me the choice. Always respectful.

  “Let’s walk,” I say. Even though I’m wearing sandals that aren’t very comfortable, it feels easier than sitting side by side.

  “Okay,” he says as we begin to stroll. After a few seconds, he says, “So. It’s really good to see you.”

  “It’s good to see you, too,” I say, unsure of whether this is the truth.

  “I can’t believe it’s only been a month. It feels like much longer.”

  “I know,” I say.

  “How have you been?”

  “I’ve been well,” I say, thinking of Grant again, although he’s never really left my mind. “All things considered.”

  Matthew nods and says, “So do you think we made the right decision?”

  “Yes. I definitely do,” I say, so quickly and emphatically that I worry it’s a little rude.