We had sex again, but this time was different. The first time was fun and awkward and somewhat apologetic—as first-time sex often is, when more is on the line. But this time it was like we were really taking it to heart. The whole idea of it. Two people becoming one.
Later Matty joined us for dinner—this hole-in-the-wall Indian place on Bedford that had the best daal and tamarind chutney. We’d go there often in the years after. Sometimes me and Matty, sometimes me and Tobias, sometimes Matty and Tobias. That night, we held hands under the table. We talked about going to India and giggled because we both knew what the other was thinking—what we wanted to say—let’s go together. But despite our intimate afternoon it was still too new. I didn’t want to break the spell with even a promise of what was to come. It was too delicate—all air, clouds, the mirrored haze of a giant bubble. It had yet to solidify.
“How was the movie?” Matty asked.
“Illuminating,” Tobias said, running his thumb over my wrist.
“Great,” I said.
Tobias raised his eyebrows at me. Matty tore off a piece of naan. “I don’t think it’s her best work,” he said. Matty was serious about things that didn’t require his attention sometimes—restaurant reviews, movies that had been put to bed decades ago.
“No?” Tobias leaned forward on the table. It shook from the weight transference.
“Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” Matty said, “that’s the classic.”
“You know just because something is well known doesn’t mean it’s great or even good,” Tobias said.
“Of course not,” Matty countered. “But most of the time it’s popular for a reason. Popularity means people like it, and isn’t there a strong correlation between pleasure and quality?”
“Is that true?” I asked. “I think it might just be name recognition. I mean, do the majority of people like Breakfast at Tiffany’s, or do the majority of people just know about Breakfast at Tiffany’s? She’s in every college girl’s dorm room. Well, her and Eiffel Tower figurines.”
“It’s the same thing,” Matty said. “The majority of people know about it because it’s her best film.”
“That’s like saying the Nazis were good because people knew about them,” I said.
“I didn’t say good,” Matty said. “I said great. As in well known, making their mark on history, et cetera.”
Tobias moved his hand to cup the back of my neck. “Let it go,” he said. “Matty doesn’t know how not to win.”
“It’s not winning,” Matty said. “It’s just a question of obvious truth.”
Tobias laughed, and so did I. Matty had that effect on us—he could bring us together simply by being himself. Whether it was an alignment of opinion on Matty (what he was wearing, how he’d talk to a girl), or his beliefs—it didn’t matter. When the three of us were together, Tobias and I were always on the same side.
“Where did you meet her?” Matty asked, cocking his head in my direction.
“Stuck underground,” Tobias said at the same time I said: “At the beach.”
Tobias looked amused. “At the beach?”
I hadn’t yet told him about our first meeting. I liked that I had this secret about us. It was like a card I had tucked away. One I could hold and play when I really needed it. I didn’t know why I just tossed it down then.
But something about Tobias was always forcing me to be honest, be open, fess up. Honesty first. Honesty always. That was his motto.
When Jessica and I were twenty-three, we went and saw His Holiness the Dalai Lama speak in Times Square. Jessica arranged it. She had seen a flyer in the halls of NYU and entered some lottery by which we got not just to go, but also to have actual seats. We were still probably two thousand people away from him, but the energy he put out was palpable. Jessica cried. I couldn’t really speak.
Here is what I remember him saying: Kindness before honesty.
We are taught that honesty is the most important quality. Tell the truth. Do not lie. Etc. But there are so many instances when honesty isn’t kind. When the kinder thing to do is to keep what you have to say to yourself.
Tobias didn’t understand that. He told me everything. Eventually, so did I. But as the honesty grew, so did the cruelty. Sometimes I thought we were being honest just to see how deep we could cut.
“Ashes and Snow,” I said. “We talked by the photo of the boy with eagle wings.”
Under the table, Tobias dropped my hand. “I don’t understand.”
“I knew you when I saw you underground,” I said. “I mean, I recognized you.” I ran a hand through my hair. I could feel my cheeks heating up. “I sound crazy.”
Matty looked back and forth between us like he was watching a sporting event in its last fifteen seconds.
Tobias sat back in his chair. He ran a hand over his forehead. “Ashes and Snow? That was, what, four years ago?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I was in college. I went with a class. It’s not a big deal.”
“Yes,” he said. “It is.”
I almost asked him if he was mad, but I didn’t.
“I don’t remember,” he said finally.
I cared, more than I let on. He should have remembered. I could never have forgotten.
“I wasn’t sure,” I said. It was a lie, but it felt like a good compromise.
“But then you were.”
“I guess. It’s a funny coincidence, that’s all.”
“Coincidence,” Matty repeated. “Ridiculous notion.”
We both stared at him.
“All events in the universe are occurring at random,” he said. “There is no such thing as order. Chaos is king.”
“Then why do you insist on hospital corners?” Tobias asked.
I breathed out a sigh of relief.
“Because,” Matty said. “I can’t think in the mess.”
“Walking contradiction,” Tobias said. To me: “Did you like it?”
“The exhibit?”
He smiled. “Yes.”
“I loved it.”
Tobias nodded. “I don’t think I liked it.”
“You’re kidding.” I mixed some green pea rice and curry on my plate. “You said all these things about that photograph.”
“I did?”
“Space and nature, and … I don’t know. You liked it back then. You said you’d been a few times.”
Matty chewed thoughtfully. “He used to have pretty shitty taste in art. Still sometimes does.”
Under the table Tobias kicked Matty. “Dude, come on.”
“I’m serious,” Matty said. “You had a Thomas Kinkade poster framed.” Matty pointed his fork. “I could not make that crap up if I tried.”
“It was the nineties when I came of age,” Tobias said. “I liked Disney.”
“Fucking depressing,” Matty muttered through a bite.
“Who is Thomas Kinkade?” I asked.
“You know those bucolic paintings of cottages? That eventually had Disney characters wandering through?”
“Kinda.” I didn’t. But I liked hearing him talk about it. It felt like this incredibly vulnerable opening in him—like a patch of his body where the skin hadn’t fully fused.
“My mom used to have them hanging in her bedroom. I don’t know. They reminded me of my childhood.” He looked at Matty. “You done?”
“Not even close,” Matty said. “But she can figure some things out for herself.”
“Some girls might find my sensitive nature charming,” Tobias said, extending an arm over the back of my chair.
“Not her,” Matty said. “She’s smart, I can tell.”
Tobias grinned at me. “Well, that we can agree on.”
9:10 P.M.
THE RESTAURANT IS BUSY. WAITERS WEAVE in and out of tables. The tinkling sound of champagne glasses reaches us from another table. People are celebrating.