Even though I think Michael’s mostly kidding, I fleetingly study his full lips and think I’m going to do it. But I hesitate one second too long, leaving the realm of spontaneity and entering into awkward territory. I decide it’s for the best. Why complicate my life by kissing a friend, especially a friend from work?
I look back toward the skyline and shrug noncommittally. “Would you settle for getting loaded in Brooklyn?” “Sure,” Michael says. “Twist my arm.”
We cross the bridge into Brooklyn, not breaking stride once until we arrive at Superfine, a restaurant on Front Street that Michael says has great food and a good, casual atmosphere. The tables are all full so we sit in the bar in a blast of blissful air-conditioning. I curl my legs around my stool as Michael asks the bartender, an older woman wearing pigtails (which I think is a frightful combination), what they have on tap. She rattles off our choices. Nothing grabs our fancy so we order two Heinekens in bottles. Michael says we’ll be starting a tab. I gulp my first beer quickly, more for thirst than taste. Then, while Michael sticks with beer, I ramp it up with a dirty martini. Michael raises his eyebrows and smiles.
We order one burrito, and split it because it’s huge. We also share an order of fries. Despite the food, I still catch a strong buzz quickly. Time begins to fall away, along with any thoughts of Ben. Michael and I talk about the books we’re working on and people at work. Then I tell him the latest scoop on Jess’s relationship with Trey, knowing that she wouldn’t mind. Jess is very open with details of her life.
I remove a vodka-soaked olive from my toothpick and pop it into my mouth, telling myself to slow my pace. I need to stay in the buzzed, lighthearted zone and out of the morose, drunk one. Of course, that’s a tall order when you’re dealing with martinis. And the more I drink, the more my thoughts drift back to Ben.
At one point, I can’t help blurting out, “I didn’t think I’d miss him this much.”
Michael runs his hand along the sides of his glass and then wipes the condensation on his shorts as he says, “So what exactly went down there anyway?”
I answer quickly, “We wanted different things.”
He rolls his eyes. “Jesus, Claudia. That’s worse than the ‘we grew apart’ song and dance.”
“Fine,” I say. “Ben wanted a baby.”
“And you?”
I pause and then say, “I didn’t don’t want a baby.”
“What do you want?”
Nobody has ever posed the question quite like this before, and I have to think for a minute before I can answer. “I want a really good, committed relationship. I want close friends and good times. Like right now I want freedom to do my job well without feeling guilty or beholden to anyone. I want freedom generally.”
“Oh,” Michael says, and then takes a long swallow of beer. “I see.”
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” I say, recognizing that you’re more likely to invite or tolerate criticism when someone isn’t so free with it.
“I don’t know,” he says. “It’s just that being married cuts down on your freedom. Having a husband, or a relationship at all, puts constraints on you. You handled that fine. I don’t think I could deal with those sorts of constraints. It’s why I had to call it quits with Maya,” he says, referring to his ex-girlfriend. It was Michael’s most serious relationship to date, one that he ended when she demanded a ring, or at the very least, a key to his apartment. He continues, “I was so afraid that I wouldn’t be good at it that I didn’t even want to try It seems to me that you left Ben more because of fear than anything else.”
“Fear of what?” I say.
He shrugs and then says, “Fear of failure. Fear of change. Fear of the unknown.”
I look at him, feeling dizzy.
“And yet, here you are anyway” he says, his voice trailing off.
He doesn’t have to say the rest. I know the rest. Here I am anyway, facing all of the above. Fear of failure, fear of change, fear of the unknown. And right here, in a bar under a bridge in Brooklyn, I feel a very small pang of regret.
Michael says he has to get back home, that he has a hot date tonight. Actually, he doesn’t say it’s hot, but I assume that part. Michael only dates hot women. So we take the subway back to Manhattan and part ways on the Lower East Side.
“Are you going to be all right?” Michael asks.
“Yeah,” I say, kissing his cheek. “Thanks for today.”
“It was my pleasure,” he says, tipping an imaginary hat.
As we say good-bye, I wonder if, come Monday morning, I will confess to Michael the very stupid thing I’m about to do.
* * *
nine