LATER THAT NIGHT as I sit on the couch in my den, rereading Northanger Abbey for the hundredth time, I can’t concentrate. Like most evenings the past two weeks, my mind keeps wandering to Michael. Tonight, I’m marveling over the course of our friendship these past seven years. How after I fixed the printer for him that day, we started chatting more regularly—our talks slowly morphing into in-depth conversations about life, where we would stay in the library long after I was supposed to close up for the night. And then, he was just always there, like a light fixture in the middle of the ceiling. Stable, dependable, someone I could count on over the years. He stuck by my side through all the failed treatments, letting me feel sorry for myself when I needed, but also knowing when to give me a gentle nudge when it was time to pick myself up. And I was there for him as he truly began to grieve his parents and slowly bring himself back to life, buying the golf course and starting over.
Even though we became close, I never thought I had feelings for him like that—not like I had for Eric. That is, until two weeks ago, when he took me out to see the renovated clubhouse on the course. While we were talking about the stain he had chosen for the hardwood floors—a mix of Jacobean and Ebony—he suddenly blurted out: “I love you.” It took me a minute to register what he was saying and then his face came into focus, and I was filled with—I don’t know—love, I think. Although it’s a different love than what I felt for Eric. But then, I wonder if maybe every love is different, unique, like the grains of the wood planks in the floor we were standing on—and all the more beautiful for their distinctions.
I mumbled something about how the stain was very natural looking and left the clubhouse. And Michael, because he’s Michael, hasn’t brought it up since.
My cell phone rings, jarring me from my thoughts. Madison. I slide my thumb across the screen to answer it.
“Are you ready for next week? The big move?”
After years of Madison’s cajoling, I finally gave in to her insistence that I sell the house. “It’s a seller’s market,” she said a few months ago. “Lincoln is so hot, with its small-town feel and close proximity to Manhattan. All those Prospect Park families are leaving their overpriced brownstones by the droves for the yards and schools in towns like this. You would make a killing.”
She was right. It sold within two days of hitting the market, for $32,000 above the asking price. I knew I should be ecstatic—and I wanted to be—but something was holding me back. Probably the fact that I’ve lived in this house for so long. That it was my mother’s. That I have so many memories here.
“Yeah,” I say. “I think so.”
“See you bright and early,” she says.
When we hang up, I look around the room, thinking about my mother. Her presence is less palpable, but I don’t think it’s just because it’s been so long, or because I redecorated. I think it’s because I’ve made peace with her, with our relationship. That letter I found so many years ago gave me as many questions as it gave me answers, but the most important thing it gave me was the knowledge that she did love me, she just didn’t know how to show it. And then I think about Michael and how he can.
A warmth grows in my belly as I picture his lopsided grin, his lanky frame, and I put my book down, able to finally name the feeling I have when I’m with him: contentment.
THE NEXT DAY, Michael enters the front door of my new brick loft overlooking the river downtown, carrying a stack of two cardboard boxes in his arms. “That’s the last of it,” he says. Madison motions for him to set them down by the couch.
“Thank you so much,” I say as he stands up, groaning. “You really didn’t have to help.”
“I wouldn’t have, if I had remembered how many books you have,” he says.
I laugh, my eyes roving over the length of his body, pausing at the sinewy muscles in his arms that he’s now massaging dramatically. And I almost blurt it out right then: I love you, too. But the words are caught in my throat.
I look down at the box I’m unpacking and then back up. “Hey, it’s such a gorgeous day. Why don’t we all take a break and go to that new gelato place by TeaCakes? My treat.”
“I think I might need something stronger than gelato,” Michael says.
“C’mon,” I say, grinning. “We’ll hit the wine shop on the way back.”
I clip Rufus’s leash onto his collar and we all head down the three flights of stairs to the street. It’s a Friday afternoon and the streets are mostly empty, the rush hour of lunch over, workers stationed back in their stores and office buildings.
As we stroll through town, Michael’s regaling Madison with a story from work that week: a member of a foursome suffered a heart attack on the green, but instead of calling the game when the ambulance came, one of the guys asked the driver to move so he could continue playing because he was shooting so well. “I could get a perfect round!” he shouted as his friend was being loaded into the back of the emergency vehicle.
“Oh my god, that’s terrible!” Madison says. I laugh again, even though it’s my second time hearing it. Madison’s laughing too, but then she abruptly stops. Not just laughing, but moving. I stop, too, and look up at her to make sure she’s OK. She’s staring straight ahead of us and her face has blanched, as if she’s seen a ghost. She grabs my arm, and I pray it’s not Donovan out with yet another girl young enough to be his daughter (even though their divorce has become more amicable, he’s still kind of a dick) as I follow her gaze down the street. And then when I spot what’s got her attention, all air, thought, and feeling leaves me at once.
It’s Eric.
Our eyes meet, and though he slows his gait, he doesn’t come to a full stop until he’s an arm’s length away. I could literally reach out and touch him. But I don’t. Rufus gets there first.
“Hey, buddy.” Eric’s face lights up and he bends down, scratching the dog on his head. When they’re done with their reunion, he stands back up and looks at Michael, who sticks out his hand.
“I’m Michael,” he says, and it feels like I’ve crossed into some bizarre world—where there are two suns, Eric and Michael, and they’re colliding.
Eric takes his hand, shakes it. “Eric,” he says. I can feel a wave of recognition come over Michael. We spoke at length about Eric after we became friends. He knows who he is, even if he didn’t know what he looked like.
“Nice to meet you, man,” Michael says.
Eric nods and looks at Madison. She gives a little wave. “I’m Madison,” she says. “And I just remembered I have a little errand I need to run before we get gelato.”
“I’ll come with you,” Michael pipes up, following her lead, intuiting that I need a moment alone with Eric. He gently squeezes my arm. I give him a look that I hope conveys gratitude. Madison reaches for Rufus’s leash. I let it drop into her hands.
I turn my head to watch them go, but I can feel Eric’s eyes remain on me. When they reach the corner, I look back at him and he’s grinning. “Is that the Madison?” he asks.
I tilt my head at him. “What do you mean?”
“The one who gave you that god-awful dress? With the feathers.”
I throw my head back and laugh, thinking how that night feels like a million years and just a few days ago at the exact same time.
“Yeah, that’s her,” I say.
“And Michael?” He raises his eyebrows. Questioning.
“A friend,” I say, but I’m afraid my flushing face is suggesting otherwise.