“I am now. At this moment. With you.”
She is flattered by this answer—she is overjoyed by it. But it is not what she’s asking and she does not permit the evasion. “Before you met me,” she says, her stomach in knots. “Were you happy before you met me?”
Nick sighs, indicating the complexity of the question. “I love my kids. I love my family.” He gives her a sideways glance. “But am I happy?. . . No. Probably not. Things are . . . complicated right now.”
She nods, recognizing that the conversation they are having is one she would have scorned before now. She has heard clichéd versions of it many times before—in movies and from acquaintances and so many places that no one example comes to mind. She can
hear it, though, she can picture the “other woman” asking hopeful questions, pretending to be concerned, all the while plotting her coup. The man playing the victim, actually believing that he is the victim, when he is the only one breaking promises. And always before, she has thought, with respect to the cheater: grow up, be a man, suck it up or get a divorce. But now. Now she is asking questions, looking for shades of gray, explanations, loopholes in her once ironclad conscience.
Nick continues earnestly. “And I just can’t help the way I feel about you . . . I just can’t.”
“And how is that?” she asks, before she can stop herself.
“I’m falling . . .” he starts. Then he swallows and takes a deep breath before continuing, his voice dropping an octave. “I’m falling for you.”
She looks at him hopefully, thinking that it all sounds so innocent, so simple. And maybe it is. Maybe this is how life works, how the story goes for a lot of people—some of whom are good people. Her heart pounds and aches at once, as she stares into his eyes and leans toward him.
What happens next she knows she will always remember, as vividly as any good or bad thing that has ever happened in her life. As much as the day she gave birth to Charlie or the night of his accident or anything in between, whether chronologically or emotionally. Their faces touch, their lips meet in a kiss that begins slowly, tentatively, but quickly becomes urgent. It is a kiss that lasts for hours, continuing as they recline on the couch, then roll to the floor, then move to her bed. It is a kiss that doesn’t end until he is inside her, whispering that it is real, this thing between them, and that he has officially, completely fallen.
31
Tessa
I regret saying anything to Dex and Rachel last night,” I tell Cate over bacon, eggs, and home fries at Cafe Luka, one of our old Upper East Side haunts. I am hoping that the grease will cure my hangover, or at least put a dent in my nausea, although I know it can’t lift my spirits.
“Why?” Cate asks, taking a sip of grapefruit juice. She makes a face to indicate its sourness, but then drains the glass, moving on to her ice water. Since getting her television gig, she has become obsessed with staying hydrated—which is hard to do given the amount of caffeine and alcohol she consumes.
“Because they’ll worry. Because Dex might leak this to my mom. Because they’ll never like Nick again . . . And because . . . I just don’t want Rachel feeling sorry for me,” I say, catching a glimpse of my puffy, bloodshot eyes in the mirrored wall next to the booth. I look away, thinking, I’d cheat on me, too.
“She’s worried about you,” Cate says. “But I don’t think she pities you.”
“I don’t know. I hated the way she looked at me last night. The way she hugged me when they got in the cab. Like she’d rather be homeless than facing what I’m potentially facing . . .”
Cate reaches out and squeezes my hand, as I realize that I never resent her sympathy, and that I’m always willing to candidly confess any vulnerability, shortcoming, or fear, without ever wishing that I could take it back or revise my story later. As such, my self-image squares neatly with her image of me, no disparity between the two—which makes being in her company sheer comfort and luxury, especially when things are falling apart.
“But aren’t you glad you told your brother?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say. “I guess I just wish I had waited until I knew exactly what was going on. I could have called him next week—and had a sober conversation with him . . . I’m sure he’d tell Rachel anyway but at least I wouldn’t have had to see that look on her face.”
Cate rips open a packet of Equal, then changes her mind, pouring white sugar from the table canister directly into her coffee. She stirs, then looks up and says, “Rachel is really nice—but she’s such a little Polly Perfect, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” I say, nodding emphatically. “Do you know, I’ve never heard her swear? Never heard her bad-mouth Dex in anything other than a generic ‘you know how men can be’ way. . . Never really heard her complain about her children . . . Not even when Julia had colic.”