The One In My Heart

Dear Evangeline,

I reached out to Bennett for your e-mail address—I hope that is all right with you.

As you can probably imagine, our conversation still echoes in my head. I hear bits and pieces of it as I go through the day, and in more complete sections in the silence of the night.

The more I weigh my character and my choices, the more I realize that you are right. By the time Zelda and I parted ways, I had become a man who could see her only in the context of her illness. And in that regard, I have not changed very much in the intervening years, or I would not have put off visiting her the moment I heard that she was unwell.

Thank you for saying those difficult words that needed to be heard.

Yours,

Larry

I set aside the phone and covered my face with my hands. From the moment I’d realized that “those difficult words” had been propelled not by protectiveness but fear and fear alone, I’d been trying to avoid coming to this realization.

But I couldn’t deny it anymore.

I too had let Zelda’s condition become the defining factor in our relationship. I too thought of it first and foremost. The only difference was that instead of running away, I hovered ever closer to her. Instead of cutting my losses, I doubled down and went all in.

I fell asleep dreaming of myself standing alone in Mrs. Asquith’s garden, my hand on the sundial, the cold seeping in endlessly.





Chapter 12





THE MORNING OF THE ROUNDUP I remembered that when the Material Girls first inaugurated the event, we’d declared it a black-tie affair—because why the hell not.

If you have a tux, wear it tonight, I texted Bennett. It’s black-tie.

Hours later—he usually replied to my texts right away, except when he was in surgery—his response came. OK.

Late in the afternoon a flurry of texts landed on my phone. Daff, in charge of the restaurant at a venerable Upper East Side hotel, rarely had Friday nights off—practically the only time she allowed herself such an indulgence was for the Boyfriend Roundup. But two of her chefs were out sick and she had to work the dinner shift.

Instead of rescheduling the whole thing, we decided to move the roundup from Brooklyn to the lounge of a hotel around the corner from Daff’s, and push back the time to ten thirty in the evening.

I arrived at the hotel in a gown of ivory crepe. Bennett, in a three-piece tux, was already waiting in the lobby. Both the man and the woman behind the registration counter had their eyes fastened to him.

“You’ve been waiting to bust that outfit out, haven’t you?” I said as greeting.

He put away his phone. “This old thing? It’s what I wear to fix stuff around the apartment.”

In lieu of a bow tie, he’d worn his shirt open at the collar, over a silver-grey ascot scarf. I touched the cool silk of the scarf. “Nice.”

He didn’t say anything, but only looked at me. I flushed, wondering whether my face had betrayed me again by appearing pornographically turned on. “Come on. We’re meeting in the bar.”

He took my hand and leaned close. “You look beautiful, as always.”

I did my best to ignore the heat that propagated through me. “Have I told you that you might be the only man present?”

“No.”

“Have I told you that nobody is expecting you?”

He laughed softly. “This is beginning to sound fun.”

The lounge was an old-fashioned space, with golden-hued murals and curved armchairs clustered near small round tables. I spotted Carolyn and Lara at a table against the back wall, chatting animatedly, Lara in a backless lavender number and Carolyn, the most fashion-forward of us all, in a stunning gown in midnight blue, sprinkled with golden stars.

As Bennett and I approached, my friends looked up, only to blink in confusion and then outright incredulity.

“Wait a minute, what’s a man doing here?” asked Carolyn.

“I said I was bringing one,” I answered.

“You always say you’re bringing one,” said Lara indignantly. “Last year you said you were bringing a vineyard owner from upstate, and a world-famous whistle-blower the year before.”

“No, that was me,” said Carolyn. “The year before E was going to bring a superstar furniture restorer.”

“Well, anyway, you can’t sit down,” Lara told Bennett. “This whole thing is just a cover for us soon-to-be hags to bemoan how hard it is to find a man in New York—and to indulge in some hot girl-on-girl action while we’re at it. You’re going to spoil our game plan.”

Bennett smiled and pulled out a seat for me. “You must be Lara. And you, Carolyn. Nice to meet you both.”

Carolyn’s parents were Chinese, and Lara was half-Ethiopian, half-Russian—they weren’t difficult to tell apart.

“I managed to find a man with functioning eyes,” I said. “Aren’t you guys proud of me?”