A few months later, I got the hell out of Syracuse, moved to New York City, and threw myself into my first year of law school, doing my best to avoid the theater, plays, or any other cultural offerings. Maybe Lewis was right, I thought, when I learned that he and Poppy were living in the Village and had joined the same theater company. Maybe I was a spineless sellout. Then again, maybe I was doing something noble and selfless, putting my parents first. I convinced myself that this was the case, and became determined to be their stable, successful child, the salve on their still-open wounds.
Of course, I think they hoped I would one day have a family, too, preferably in Atlanta. But if that didn’t pan out for me, Josie would have that covered. At the time she was dating a generically handsome boy named Will, who hailed from a “good family” (my mother’s phrase) in Macon, had impeccable manners, and wore seersucker and white bucks on special occasions. The two quickly became serious, giddy in love, the kind of couple who laid claim to baby names before they’re even engaged. She was doing her part to make my parents happy, and we forged a tacit agreement, an unspoken pact: I would accomplish and achieve from afar, and she would marry, become a mother, and provide the beautiful, local grandchildren. Maybe it would make Dad stop drinking. Maybe it would bring our parents back together. At the very least, we would both help them move on in our so-called new normal, a term I despised.
At my law school graduation, my parents presented me with my brother’s briefcase, the same one they had given him on his twenty-fifth birthday. It was a moment that was more bitter than sweet, and I remember feeling intensely jealous of my sister’s end of the bargain. I had a law degree and a briefcase. She had real happiness. Her life as a teacher seemed easy, punctuated by one happy hour and road trip after another. Most important, she had someone to love.
Lest I become bitter, I reassured myself that her choices might actually free me in the long run. Maybe someday, I kept telling myself as I passed the bar and went to practice litigation at a top Manhattan firm and billed seventy or eighty hours every week. Maybe someday after Josie married Will and popped out a baby, I would follow my heart, too. Maybe someday I would be happy.
—
BUT THEN, BEFORE I could cast off my legal bowlines, Josie fucked everything up in grand Josie style. She called me in the middle of the night (though I was still at work, finishing a brief), bawling, telling me she had screwed up and that Will had dumped her. I asked her what happened, trying to sort out the facts so that I could offer her appropriate counsel.
“It’s a long story,” she said, her line whenever something was her fault or she didn’t want to get into it. “Just trust me. It’s over.”
“Well, then. You’ll get over him—and find someone else,” I said. “You’re not even thirty. You have plenty of time.”
“Do you promise?” she asked so quickly that I couldn’t help questioning whether she truly loved Will or she just wanted to get married. Maybe any cute boy in seersucker would do.
I obviously couldn’t assure her fate, any more than I had Daniel’s, but I still told her yes, it’s all going to be okay. After all, I thought, the universe owed us both a little mercy.
A week later, I flew back to Atlanta at Josie’s pleading, filled with the usual angst of going home. Being back always unearthed grief that I was able to mostly bury in the bustle of my everyday life in New York, where there was no association to my brother. I took a deep breath and braced myself as I rode the escalator up to Delta baggage. To my surprise, there stood Nolan. He still emailed me every six months or so, just to check in and say hello, but incredibly, this was the first time I had laid eyes on him since that night we stood in Daniel’s bedroom together.
“Hey,” he mouthed, waving at me. I had heard from Josie, who occasionally saw him out at the bars, that he was better-looking than ever, but I still wasn’t prepared for how gorgeous he was, standing there in jeans, a T-shirt, and an Ole Miss baseball cap.
“What are you doing here?” I could feel myself beaming. “My dad was supposed to pick me up.”
“Yeah, I know. I played golf with him today. I told him I’d get you.” He mussed my hair as if I were twelve—although he hadn’t actually mussed my hair at any age. “You look great, Mere. Wow.”
“So do you….I’ve missed you,” I said.
“I’ve missed you, too,” he said, grinning and carrying my bag to his car.
As he drove me home, we quickly caught up. He told me he was still working in his family business, his father grooming him to eventually take over. I told him about my law firm, and some of its juicier politics. We talked about our parents, how sad it was that mine had divorced, but that his really needed to do the same. We gossiped about people we knew in common. Many had left Atlanta for college, but most had returned to settle down and start families.
“Why aren’t you married yet?” I asked playfully. “Commitment-phobe?”
“Nah. Just haven’t found the right girl,” he said. “What about you? Are you seeing anyone?”
“Not at the moment,” I said. “I work too much.”