I blushed and shook my head as he sent a final text: I promise I won’t try to find out if you meet me upstairs. Room 732.
Less than ten minutes later we were in his room, finally alone, grinning at each other. I felt sure that he’d kiss me immediately, but he showed a restraint that I found irresistible, increasingly more so with every glass of champagne we poured. We grew tipsier by the hour as we talked about everything—the state of television, our network, my show, gossip about actors, and even more drama among the executives. He told me about his thirteen-year-old son Aidan and his ongoing divorce proceedings. Despite the fact that he jokingly referred to his ex as “the plaintiff,” he didn’t make her out to be the villain, which I found to be a refreshing change from the few other divorcés I had dated. We talked about places we had traveled, our favorite hotels and cities, and where we hoped to someday go, both literally and in our careers. We were different in some ways—I preferred the Caribbean or traditional urban trips to places like Rome and London, while he loved exotic adventure, once pedaling through the Golden Triangle in Thailand, another time trekking up the Pacaya volcano in Guatemala. He had also taken more risks in business, which of course had paid off, while I generally avoided conflict and preferred to stick with something if it was working, even a little. Yet at the core, we had a common sensibility—a belief in striving for excellence and never settling, a love of New York and all that came with it, a sense of conservatism with a core philosophy that we should all live and let live, whatever our political or religious beliefs. He was handsome, confident, intelligent, and thoughtful—the closest I’d ever come to perfection.
Then, as the California sky showed its first streaks of muted pink, he reached over and took my hand, pulled me onto his lap and kissed me in a way I hadn’t been kissed for years. We said good night a few minutes later, then laughed, and said good morning.
Within a few weeks, we were an established couple, even having the conversation about no longer wanting to see others. One evening, we were photographed dining together, our picture appearing in a blurb on Page Six with the caption: “Powerful Love Connection: TV Exec Peter Standish with Producer Marian Caldwell.” As the calls rolled in from friends and acquaintances who had seen the press, I pretended to be some combination of annoyed and amused, but I secretly loved it, saving the clipping for our future children. Things would have seemed too good to be true, if I hadn’t always believed I could—and would—find someone like him.
But maybe they were too good to be true, I think now, squinting up at him as we turn the corner, hand in hand. Maybe we had stalled. Maybe this was as good as it was ever going to get. Maybe I was one of those girls, after all. Girls who wait or settle—or do some combination of both. Disappointment and muted anger well inside me. Anger at him, but more anger at myself for not facing the fact that when a person avoids a topic, it’s generally for a reason.
“I think I’m going home,” I say after a long stretch of silence, hoping that my statement doesn’t come across as self-pitying or manipulative, the two cards that never work in relationships—especially with someone like Peter.
“C’mon. Really?” Peter asks, a trace of surrender in his voice where I’d hoped to hear urgency. He was always so controlled, so measured, and although I usually loved this quality, it irritated me now. He abruptly stops, turns, and gazes down at me, taking both of my hands in his.
“Yeah. I’m really tired,” I lie, pulling my hands free.
“Marian. Don’t do this,” he meagerly protests.
“I’m not doing anything, Peter,” I say. “I was just trying to have a conversation with you…”
“Fine,” he says, exhaling, all but rolling his eyes. “Let’s have a conversation.”
I swallow my dwindling pride and, feeling very small, say, “Okay. Well…can you see yourself getting married again? Or having another child?”
He sighs, starts to speak, stops, and tries again. “Nothing is missing in my life if that’s what you’re asking. I have Aidan. I have you. I have my work. Life is good. Really good. But I do love you, Marian. I adore you. You know that.”
I wait for more, thinking how easy it would be for him to appease me with a nonspecific promise: I don’t know what I see exactly, but I see you in my life. Or: I want to make you happy. Or even: I wouldn’t rule anything out. Something. Anything.