The One In My Heart

In stark contrast, his father became noticeably more taciturn and stern-looking. Against his severity, the lighthearted banter around the table took on a perceptibly artificial quality.

A silence fell after Bennett’s remark. Mr. Somerset stared into the young red wine in his glass. To appear busy, I made myself cut and chew another piece of duck. Without any haste, Bennett worked on his pasta. This, actually, was the only sign of his nerves—usually he was a much faster eater and would have already finished the food on his plate.

Mrs. Somerset broke the silence. “Speaking of Cos Cob, your dad and I put in an offer for a house there about a year ago. But we were outbid. Your grandma Edith’s old house—don’t know if you still remember. She sold it when you were eight or nine.”

Bennett looked up. “Oh. Guess I was the high bidder then. Didn’t know you were also interested.”

Mrs. Somerset glanced toward her husband, whose expression became even more foreboding. And going by Bennett’s demeanor, I couldn’t tell whether he was speaking the truth with regard to his ignorance—or spouting further bullshit. Couldn’t tell at all.

I longed to drain my wineglass in a gesture of melodramatic frustration—but did nothing more than take a ladylike sip. “Aha, I did wonder why you had a house in Connecticut. Seemed a bit early, the town-and-country lifestyle, for someone who isn’t done with his fellowship yet.”

“Getting ready to become one of those golf-playing old doctors,” he said.

Our waiter came then to clear the plates. When coffee and desserts arrived, Mrs. Somerset turned to her son and asked, “I’m curious, Bennett. I don’t remember you ever being particularly interested in life sciences. Why did you go to medical school?”

It was a simple question asked earnestly. Bennett, however, hesitated for what seemed an unnecessary amount of time. I became aware that his father was frowning—either Mr. Somerset was concentrating really hard or it was an expression of open displeasure.

Eventually Bennett shrugged. “Just felt like it at the time—and haven’t had any reason to regret that choice.”

Mrs. Somerset delved further into his professional life—the kind of cases he saw, the schedule he kept, his opinion of his attending physician. Mr. Somerset listened attentively, but not happily. Bennett seemed not at all aware of the tension on his father’s part; he was the blithe young man who had everything he wanted, and his parents were only incidental to his happiness in life.

When the check was presented Mr. Somerset took it. As soon it was settled, everyone rose from the table. I said good-bye to Bennett’s parents with no small amount of relief: At least nothing untoward had happened—and we had better get out while that was still the case.


BACK IN OUR SUITE, WE didn’t speak for some time. I perched on an ottoman before the fireplace; Bennett stretched out on the long sofa on which we’d made love the day of our arrival. The problem was, I couldn’t judge whether the dinner had gone off as well as could be expected or whether it had, at some point, gone off the rails.

Beneath this uncertainty thrummed the chaotic refrain of Bennett’s words. Weeks of internal debate. Whether to approach her. It might turn out to be serious.

My kingdom for an accurate bullshit meter.

Bennett rose, came behind me, and set his hands on my shoulders. Not until his fingers dug into my muscles did I realize how tense they were. He applied just the right amount of pressure and kneaded away the tight knots from the base of my neck, the tops of my arms, and the sides of my shoulder blades.

And then he walked away and lay back down on the sofa.

“Thanks,” I said, my voice sounding unsure.

“You’re welcome.”

After a moment of not knowing what to do, I reached toward the paper bag on the coffee table, which contained the leftovers of the stuff he’d bought on Capri, and pulled out a handful of dried figs that still remained—I hadn’t eaten much at dinner and now I was hungry.

I tossed a couple of the figs at my fake boyfriend.

He caught them and set them aside. “You okay, Professor?”

“I’m tight with my mother figure. So, yeah, I’m okay.”

He covered his eyes with the heels of his hands and grunted. I guess I didn’t need to ask him whether he was okay: He wasn’t.

I had to resist an urge to go over and cradle his head in my lap. “When you were buying the house in Cos Cob, didn’t you have any idea that you were bidding against your parents?”

“No, I didn’t. None at all.”

“Your sister didn’t tell you anything?”

“We rarely talked about our parents. And this was January of last year. I didn’t say anything to her about my move until April, after I’d bought the apartment.” He set one hand on the back of the sofa and trailed the other on the rug. “But talk about being accidentally dickish on top of being intentionally dickish.”

“Are you talking about those attempted takeovers?”

He stared up at the ceiling. “I went to medical school as a fuck-you to my dad.”