Eventually, she reached Marnie, who flung an arm around her shoulders. “Tequila time?”
Nellie winced. She’d been so busy talking at dinner that she’d only eaten one slice of pizza, and she’d had just a salad for lunch. She felt a little nauseous, and her feet ached from dancing in heels. “Water first.” Her cheeks were burning and she fanned herself with one hand. The bartender nodded, his veil bobbing, and began to fill a tall glass from a spigot.
“Did Richard find you?” Marnie asked.
“What?”
“He’s here. I told him you were dancing.”
Nellie whipped around, scanning the surrounding faces before she finally spotted him across the room.
“Be right back,” she said to Marnie, who was leaning over the bar, clinking a shot glass with the bartender.
“Richard!” Nellie called out. She hurried toward him, slipping on the sticky floor just as she reached him.
“Whoa.” He grabbed her arm to steady her. “Someone’s had a lot to drink.”
“What are you doing here?”
A purple light washed across his face as the band launched into a new song. Nellie couldn’t read Richard’s expression.
“I’m leaving.” He let go of her arm. “Are you coming with me?” He’d seen. She knew by the way he held himself; his body was still, but she could sense energy churning within him.
“Yes. Let me just say good-bye. . . .” She’d last noticed Sam and Josie on the dance floor, but now she couldn’t spot them anywhere.
She glanced back toward Richard and saw he was already headed for the exit. She ran to catch up with him.
He didn’t speak once they were outside—not even after he’d hailed a cab and given the address of his apartment.
“That guy—I used to work with him.”
Richard stared straight ahead so that she was looking at his profile, just as she had on the drive only a few hours earlier. But then his hand had been resting on her thigh; now he sat with his arms folded rigidly across his chest.
“Do you greet all your former colleagues with such enthusiasm?” Richard’s tone was so formal it chilled her.
Nausea rose in her gut as the cabdriver lurched through traffic. She put a hand over her stomach, then pushed the button to roll down her window a few inches. The wind whipped at her hair, slapping it across her cheek.
“Richard, I pushed him away. . . . I didn’t . . .”
He turned and faced her. “You didn’t what?” he asked, enunciating every word again.
“Think,” she whispered. She’d been wrong: He wasn’t furious. He was hurt. “I am so sorry. I walked away from him and I was about to call you.”
That part was a lie, but Richard would never know.
Finally, his face softened. “I could forgive you for just about anything.” She began to reach for his hand. His next words stopped her: “But do not ever cheat on me.”
Even when he’d been on contentious business calls, she’d never heard him sound so absolute.
“I promise,” she whispered. Tears sprang to her eyes. Richard had picked out an exquisite home for her. He’d sent her an email earlier that day asking if she thought their guests would like passed hors d’oeuvres or a buffet at the cocktail reception between the wedding ceremony and the dinner. Or both? he’d written. He’d worried when she hadn’t answered his text—he knew she wouldn’t feel secure entering her dark apartment alone late at night. So he’d come to find her and make sure she was safe.
And in response she’d kissed Nick, who’d dated half the women at Gibson’s and who probably couldn’t remember her last name.
Why had she risked so much?
She wanted to marry Richard; this wasn’t cold feet.
But Nick had been unfinished business. In spite of his practiced charm, Nellie knew Nick had a tender side. She’d heard him at Gibson’s talking on the phone to his grandmother. He hadn’t known Nellie was rolling silverware into napkins just around the corner. He’d promised to bring his nana chocolate-chip cannoli and watch Wheel of Fortune with her the next night.
Nick was also the first man she’d slept with since leaving college. She’d stopped thinking about him even before she met Richard. But when Nick had leaned toward her on the dance floor, she’d relished that glorious moment of knowing how much he wanted her. Of feeling the power shift into her hands.
She wished it was as simple as blaming it on the shots. The truth wasn’t pretty.
For a brief, rebellious moment, she’d embraced spontaneity over steadiness. She’d wanted one last taste of the city before she settled into the suburbs.
“I’m so glad you came and got me,” she said, and at last she felt Richard’s arm wrap around her.
She drew in a deep breath.
She’d always regret certain decisions in her life, but choosing Richard would never be one of them.
“Thank you,” she said, leaning her head against his chest. She heard his steady heartbeat, the one that lulled her to sleep when nothing else could.
She’d had the sense for a while now that a deep pain was in his past, one he held so closely he hadn’t yet shared it with her. Perhaps it had to do with his ex, or maybe his heart had been broken even earlier.
“I won’t ever do anything to hurt you.” She knew that even on their wedding day, she’d never make a more sacred vow.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
I turn my head to see the silhouette of Aunt Charlotte, backlit by the hallway globe, as she stands in my doorway. I don’t know how long she has been there, or if she noticed I’ve been staring blankly at the ceiling.
“Feeling better?” She walks into the room and pulls open the blinds. Sunlight floods in, and I wince and cover my eyes.
I told her I had the flu. But Aunt Charlotte understands the intertwining of emotional and physical health—how the former can ensnare the latter, suffocating it like a thick vine. After all, she had taken care not only of me, but of my mother during her episodes.
“A little.” But I make no move to get up.
“Should I be worried?” Her tone navigates the edge between playfulness and sharpness. It is familiar; I remember it from when she’d help my mother out of bed and into the shower. “Just for a little while,” she’d cajole, her arm around my mom’s waist. “I need to change the sheets.”
She would’ve been a wonderful parent, Aunt Charlotte. But she never had children; I suspect all those years of nurturing my mother and me had something to do with why.
“No, I’m going to work.”
“I’ll be in my studio all day. I’ve got a commission for a private portrait. This woman wants a nude of herself to give to her husband to hang over her fireplace.”
“Seriously?” I try to inject energy into my tone as I sit up. Like a throbbing toothache, thoughts of Richard’s fiancée dominate every other aspect of my life.
“I know. I don’t even like the communal dressing area at the Y.”
I muster a smile as she starts to leave the room. But then she bangs her hip against the edge of the dresser by the doorway and releases a little cry.
I leap out of bed, and now it’s me with my arm around Aunt Charlotte’s waist, guiding her toward a chair.
Aunt Charlotte brushes off my arm and my concern. “I’m fine. Old people are clumsy.”
And suddenly, the realization pierces me: She is getting old.
I get her ice for her hip over her protests, then I make us some scrambled eggs, mixing in cheddar cheese and scallions. I wash the dishes and wipe down the counters. And I hug Aunt Charlotte tightly before I leave for work. The thought strikes me again: I have no one in the world but her.
I’m dreading seeing Lucille, but to my surprise, she greets me with concern: “I shouldn’t have encouraged you to come in yesterday.”