The One In My Heart

I should be proud of him—it was a very mature, very responsible decision on his part. But all I could think of was that mirage-beautiful, TV commercial–worthy future of ours. “So…no engagement announcement tomorrow?”


He reciprocated my gesture from earlier and kissed me in the center of my palm. “I can handle a scandal without hiding behind you—as appealing as that idea is.”

Belatedly I remembered the ring in my hand. I glanced down. “Then what’s this?”

“A present.”

“What kind of a present?”

“A no-reason present.” He leaned in and kissed me on my lips. “Don’t look so concerned—nothing has changed.”

Except I thought everything had.


BENNETT’S NAKED PICTURES MADE THE eleven-o’clock news that night—on two different channels, no less. The footage consisted of quick cuts of his face and his body accompanied by breathless copyreading. Who is this young man? And what made him so special to Moira McAllister, the great photographer?

“Oh, I can tell you exactly what made him so special,” said one female anchor, as her colleague chuckled.

It was far worse the next day. Not only had Bennett’s name been dug up, but his address and his place of work too. The facade of 740 Park Avenue was splashed everywhere, along with a professional head shot of his, probably taken from the hospital’s website.

“But this young man is no ordinary surgeon,” said a midday news anchor. “In fact, we can safely label him one of the most eligible bachelors in Manhattan. There is that family pedigree, of course, but there is also the fact that he has been a very, very savvy Silicon Valley investor and made a huge fortune during his time on the West Coast.”

“Money, art, sex, and a May–December romance. Phew,” said his co-anchor, “no wonder people can’t stop talking about it.”

I monitored the coverage in every medium—it was important to know what Bennett was up against. But I did so as if from a tremendous distance—as if I were dealing with strange sequences of alien signals picked up by SETI dishes.

He’d broken our engagement. Why? What did it mean? Was my new hypothesis a mountain of appalling fallacies? I swung between a mute horror at being completely off base and a scalding embarrassment that he had rejected my grand overture after all.

I knew perfectly well that there had never been any engagement, other than the air-quote variety. I also knew perfectly well that he’d made the right call in not proceeding any further with a move that screamed diversionary tactics. All the same, in the end, this was what it boiled down to: I’d wanted to take our relationship to that proverbial next level and he’d said no.

Yet another ding from the Google alert I’d set up. I clicked through and winced at the masthead of a big gossip site. They’d found the YouTube video of the tango from Sam and Charlotte’s wedding—and they’d tracked down Damaris Vandermeer and asked her a few questions on camera.

After Damaris went over the details of her association with Bennett—fortunately not exaggerating their level of acquaintance, as far as I could tell—she had this to add: “But I don’t care how hot he is. He’s a jerk. He went out a few times with a friend of mine and then just up and disappeared. I’ll bet she’s having the last laugh now. Her dad would have a heart attack if her boyfriend’s butt was all over the Internet—so that was a lucky escape for her.”

I closed my laptop and dropped my head into my hands. What a mess.

The media storm would move on: News cycles were ever shorter, and attention spans ever more reduced. The coverage would be intense and blizzardlike, blanketing every venue—but it would peter out just as quickly, all the outlets pouncing en masse toward the next scandal du jour.

The real consequences would take place on a more private, more personal level. How long would it take Mr. Somerset to get over this circus? Would he ever get over it?

Texts piled in from the Material Girls. Fortunately my friends had my back. None of them high-fived me for bagging myself such a nice ass or pointed me to any video coverage. They only asked me to let them know if there was anything they could do.

I texted back, assuring them that everything was okay and nobody was freaking out. And then, because I was freaking out, I texted Bennett.

You okay?

He replied immediately. Holding up.

Are there people outside your building?

I believe so.

The party was starting in an hour. How will you get out?

I’m at the Mandarin. Nobody’s waiting here.

Smart choice. If you want to sit out the party, I’ll understand.

So would I. But I never miss a chance to see you.

I stared at those last few words. In fact, I took a screen shot. And e-mailed it to myself. I’d probably have printed out a few hard copies too, if the idea weren’t so over-the-top.

But why don’t you want to be engaged to me?

I mentally slapped myself and walked downstairs to make sure everything was ready.