On Second Thought

by Kristan Higgins

  My ex-boyfriend looked pissy at that. "Tell me why I should stay with your magazine," he said, sitting back with his girlie grapefruit drink. He smiled, fully prepared to enjoy our sucking up.

  I fake-smiled right back. "Well, Eric, as you no doubt recall, Hudson Lifestyle gave you a column when no one else would. You might remember that you did indeed pitch many magazines and blog sites to carry The Cancer Chronicles, and no one so much as returned an email."

  His smile slipped for a second, then returned. "Times have changed. Fox News said I was the voice of the modern male."

  "Actually, it was a reader comment on the Fox News website--in Sioux City, Iowa, that is--who said you were the voice of the modern male," I corrected. "Other commenters had more colorful names for you, which I'd be happy to list. Or maybe I'll start my own blog about men who exaggerate when they're sick."

  A nudge from my boss.

  "Anyway, Eric," I muttered, "we hope you'll do the honor of staying with us."

  Eric cocked his head. "But why would I?"

  "Gosh. I don't know," I said. "Maybe you owe me. I was the one who wiped your fevered brow, remember?" He'd had one fever. One. "I cleaned up your puke after the bad sushi... I mean, after your chemo. I wrote on your scrotum so the doctor would be sure to take out the correct testicle."

  Jonathan choked.

  "You were very good to me, Sunshine," Eric said, and I wanted to break my martini glass and stab a shard into his neck. He never called me Sunshine in real life. Never. "But I don't operate in a world of debt anymore. I have to do what's right for me. I know you don't want to take advice from me, Ainsley, but I think you have to try harder to--" he paused for dramatic effect "--live life large."

  "Good God," muttered Jonathan.

  "And you should release those toxic feelings, babe. They'll eat you alive."

  The rage that had been building in me rose like a fireball. I slammed both hands on the table, rattling the glasses. "You know what, Eric? You're unrecognizable to me. To me, who's loved you for eleven years. I'd give anything to see that terrified, weepy, shaking guy who cried for three days straight after his diagnosis instead of the ridiculous, self-centered, smug asshole I see before me."

  "I'm sorry you're feeling so victimized," he said. "I choose not to move through life that way. Getting cancer was the worst thing that ever happened to me, and yet it taught me so much. There's only the now, only answering the inner voice."

  "Let's go," Jonathan said. "Thank you for your time, Eric."

  I stood up, shaking with rage. "Getting cancer wasn't the worst thing that ever happened to you, Eric. Getting over cancer was. Admit it. You loved having cancer. It gave you permission to worship yourself, and you haven't stopped yet. You're breaking your parents' hearts, and you broke mine. I don't even know how you look at yourself in the mirror."

  Eric took his phone out, clicked a button and spoke into it. "Getting over cancer was the worst thing that ever happened to you. Worshipping yourself. Breaking parents' hearts." He clicked again, then looked up at me. "Thanks for my next blog."

  I lunged.

  Luckily, Jonathan grabbed me around the waist, stopping me before I made contact. "We're leaving," he said, dragging me back a few paces.

  "Then she attacked me," Eric said into his phone.

  "Attempted to attack you," I said. "Lucky for you, someone stepped in, because God knows, I could take you."

  "And threatened me, even though I'm still in the recovery phase."

  "No, you're not!" I yelled, in case there weren't enough people looking at me. "You recovered six months ago, and it's driving you crazy!"

  Jonathan towed me away. "Let's go before we're thrown out, shall we?" he murmured.

  "Did you hear him?"

  "Inside voice, and yes. Come on."

  The air was cool and rich with the smell of New York--that strangely sweet tang of subway, food and exhaust. "Let's walk," Jonathan suggested, and I stomped down the street, my thoughts just an angry, pulsating red smear. Turned on Fifth Avenue and headed uptown, plowing through the crowd.

  Powered by fury, my legs ate up the blocks, arms swinging, bag hitting my hip, my leopard-print shoes biting my heels, cramping my toes.

  I hated him. Who the hell was that? What had happened to the gentle, funny, loyal man who hugged his parents and told me on more than one occasion that he'd be nothing without me? Where was he?

  Who was that other guy, that pretentious ass who dictated my words into a phone so he could blog about me?

  How the hell were we going to get over this?

  I got to the edge of Central Park and jerked to a stop, unsure of where to go now.

  "Here."

  Jonathan. I'd almost forgotten about him. He held out a handkerchief.

  Oh. I was crying.

  "Come," he said, taking my arm. I sucked in a jerking breath and let him lead me.

  He stopped at the first carriage, where a big brown horse stood, bottomless eyes and velvety nose, breathing its warm breath on my hand, which was shaking. Jonathan took out his wallet, handed the guy some bills and muttered something.

  Then he handed me up into the carriage and got in beside me. The driver clucked to the horse, and we started, turning into the park, the horse's massive hooves clack-clacking on the pavement.

  "Ainsley, I'm sorry," Jonathan said. "I should never have asked you to do that."

  I wiped my eyes. I needed to blow my nose, but this was his handkerchief, and it was kind of gross--oh, screw it. I blew my nose. "It's fine."

  "No. It's not. I apologize."

  The rhythm of the carriage was soothing, the pull and jerk of it. I swallowed and looked off to the left.

  New York City is a good place to come to forget your misery. So many people, so many ages and races and stories. Virtually everyone had had, was currently nursing or would have a broken heart. There were a thousand stories worse than mine.

  It was just that I always thought Eric and I were special. That our love wasn't tainted by selfishness or jealousy or pettiness. We were truly Plato's two halves of a whole, as I'd learned in my very first philosophy class.

  I was wrong. For eleven years, I'd been wrong. I blotted my eyes again. "What's your horse's name?" I asked the driver.

  "Truman," he said, turning back with a grin.

  "Does he like his job?"

  "Oh, yes, miss. Look at his ears, how they're pointed forward. He's having a wonderful time."

  "And what's your name?"

  "Benicio."

  "I love that name. Tell your mom she chose well."

  Another smile. "I will, miss. Thank you."

  Truman clip-clopped around a turn. The dogwoods were in bloom, and a light breeze ruffled my hair and dried the last of my rage-tears.

  Jonathan was staring at me. "Why do you do that?" he asked.

  "Do what?"

  "Try to make everyone like you. Your charm offensive. Here you are, crying over your idiot of a boyfriend, but you--"

  "It's called being friendly, Jonathan. Not being rude. Noticing the world around you. Would you rather have me smiting myself with ashes and tearing my clothes? And I didn't try to be friendly. I just am. Right, Benicio?"

  "Si, senorita. Very friendly." He smiled back at me.

  "So take a note, Mr. Kent. This is how humans act." I was tired of him, of me, of Eric, of feeling sad.

  "Would you like to have dinner?" he asked.

  My mouth opened, then closed. "Is that a trick question?"

  "No. It's the least I can do after putting you through that. I feel very bad about your...distress."

  Dinner would mean I'd have to talk to him for an hour or two. But going back home would just have me lying in bed, revisiting every stupid word between Eric and me. "Okay."

  *

  An hour later, after our lovely ride through Central Park and a fond farewell to Benicio and Truman, Jonathan and I were seated in a typical East Side restaurant--quiet, posh, expensive. Jonathan had
ordered a bottle of wine, and Carl, our waiter, poured me a generous glass. "Are you ready to order?" he asked.

  "What's your favorite thing on the menu, Carl?" I asked.

  "Well, everything's wonderful here," he said. "But I did have the lobster and asparagus risotto before my shift, and it was stellar."

  "That's what I'll have, then."

  "Any appetizers?"

  "How about three Wellfleet oysters?"

  He winked at me. "A wonderful choice. For you, sir?"

  "I'll have the veal Oscar," Jonathan said. I winced. I had an issue with veal. "Not the veal," he amended. "The chicken. I assume it's free-range, organic, and led a happy and productive life?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "That and the tomato salad, then."

  "Very good." Carl smiled and walked off.

  "You made a joke," I observed.

  "Did I?"

  "I'm almost positive." I took a roll from the basket. "Oh, God, these are still warm." I was suddenly starving. Whole wheat, soft, hot with honey butter mixed with a pinch of truffle salt. "Oh, bread, I love you," I murmured, taking a bite and closing my eyes. "Jonathan, have a roll so I don't eat them all."

  He obliged, breaking off a small piece of bread and buttering it with care. "So how did you meet Eric?" he asked.

  "Junior year of college. One look and I thought that's the guy I'm gonna marry. He was my first boyfriend." Best not to think of happy times.

  "Ainsley, why don't you reveal his exaggerations, as you suggested earlier?" Jonathan asked, leaning forward. "You could show him as the fraud he is."

  There was that British lord lingo again. I dropped my eyes to the table and sighed. "Yeah, I could," I said. "But when someone hurts you, is it right to hurt them back? I could, sure, but then I'd be stooping to his level. And while that would be very satisfying... I don't know. That's not who I want to be."

  His eyes flickered. "Good answer."

  I suddenly got the strong impression Jonathan knew exactly what I was talking about. "Let's change the subject. How did you meet your wife?"

  He looked up, then back down at his roll. "We were childhood friends."

  "Did you take her to the prom?"

  "No," he said. I waited for more. More stayed put.

  "Let's have a conversation, Jonathan. You did ask me to dinner, remember? You wanted to make up for that debacle, which I correctly predicted. Hate to say I told you so, but I did."

  "True," he said. "I didn't quite imagine you trying to assault him, but I can't say he didn't deserve it, either."

  "So let's pretend we're friends and talk."

  "Sure." He took a sip of wine and said nothing.

  Carl returned with our appetizers, and I slurped down an oyster, which tasted perfectly of the sea and had a nice, buttery after-flavor. "Oh, that was amazing." I sighed happily. Took a sip of wine. "Want one?" I offered my boss.

  He hesitated.

  "Have you ever had one before?"

  "No, actually."

  "Oh, fun! Give it a try! Smell it first. It should smell like the ocean. Then just slurp it in. You'll taste the brine, and then give it a few chews. Don't make it into paste, though. Just let it ride."

  He did as instructed. "What do you think?" I asked.

  "Very good." He smiled.

  That smile was... It was kind of...adorable.

  That's the wine talking, I told myself. I ate the last oyster. "So you and your ex...you were childhood friends and then what?"

  "We got married and had two daughters."

  "That's really crappy storytelling. How about you fill in some blanks?"

  He straightened his cutlery. "Yes. Well, we ran into each other again after college and started dating and got married two years after that."

  Still pretty crappy. "What's her name?"

  "Laine."

  "Were you happy together?"

  "We were. For a time. I thought so, anyway." He sighed and looked at me. "Were you and Eric happy together?"

  "You know what?" I said, leaning forward. Yep. Definitely a little buzzed. "We really were. We were so happy."

  "Until...?"

  "Until Nathan died. And then Eric snapped like a toothpick."

  "What made you happy?" he asked. Once again, I had the impression that he was data-gathering so he could report back to his home planet.

  But that was just his way, maybe. I thought for a moment. "I loved every day. I loved doing things together. I loved talking to him, and just...being part of a couple. Showing him I loved him."

  "How did you do that?"

  "Oh, the usual, I guess. I left him little notes in his briefcase and taped to his toothbrush. Cooked his favorite stuff. Made sure I told him how nice he looked. Bought him little presents. I helped him at work a little, you know, giving him suggestions of how to deal with difficult bosses and stuff." I shrugged. "Nothing special."

  He just looked at me for a beat. "It sounds very special."

  I'd have to be careful with that voice. Just because he'd been blessed with a lovely baritone didn't mean anything. It was the same voice that irritably asked me not to ignore the toner light on the printer and noted how many minutes late I was.

  But man, it was a good voice.

  We looked at each other for a long second. Then Carl appeared and set down our plates in front of us, and my lobster risotto smelled the way I hoped heaven would when I crossed through the Pearly Gates. "Oh, thank you, Carl." I took a bite and groaned. "You were right. So good! Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

  Carl beamed and put Jonathan's chicken in front of him. "Would miss or sir like anything else?"

  "No, we're perfect," I said. "But I love how you call me miss."

  Carl nodded and went off to his other (less charming) customers. I was sure he missed me.

  "There you are, making friends again," Jonathan remarked, refilling my wineglass. "The carriage driver, the people in Divorce With Integrity."

  "You need a new name, by the way. Whoever thought of DWI?" His mouth moved in what may or may not have been a smile. Score. "Yes, I guess I do. I like people."

  "I can see that."

  "Is that a plus or minus in my column?"

  Another near miss with the smile. "I'm still deciding."

  If I hadn't almost beaten my ex to a pulp tonight, if I hadn't had a glass of wine in me on top of a straight-up martini, I might have thought Jonathan Kent sort of...liked me.

  Or pitied me. Shit, there was that, wasn't there? This was his apology dinner, after all.

  "So what happened to you and Laine?" I asked, deciding I hated that name. Too snooty.

  His eyes dropped to his meal. "My father had a massive stroke, and I took over running the magazine. I worked a lot. He needed a lot of help, ah, transitioning. The children were small, and it was difficult for her."

  "That's it?" There seemed to be a good chunk missing from the story.

  "Pretty much."

  "She couldn't cut you a little slack? Your father was sick, you were trying to earn a living and she dumped you. That's pretty cold."

  "I dumped her," he said, cutting his green beans.

  I blinked. He always had a slightly martyred air; I just assumed he was the dumpee.

  "Why?" I asked.

  He didn't answer, just kept cutting those green beans into one-inch pieces, eating steadily.

  Oh.

  "I'm sorry," I said.

  "About what?" Still no eye contact.

  "She cheated on you."

  He stopped chewing for a second, then swallowed. Took a sip of wine. "Yes."

  "Would you like to talk about it?"

  "No, thank you."

  I put down my fork. And then, maybe because of the wine, maybe because he took me for a carriage ride like any good Prince Charming, I reached out and gave his hand a squeeze.

  He looked at our joined hands--human contact, how curious--then up at me. "Would you like to tell me more about Eric?" he asked.

  There it was, t
he little flash of gold in his left iris. "I would," I said taking my hand back, and I felt myself smiling. Why, I wasn't sure. Wine. Stress relief. Suddenly, our conversation in the Algonquin, all of us looking like Blue Man Group rejects, seemed funny. "He's become a grade-A dick, hasn't he? But honestly, Jon, he wasn't always like that. He used to...I don't know...need me."

  I took a bite of risotto and thought. Jonathan waited.

  "And I loved that. Then when he got sick and he was so scared, I just kind of...stepped it up. Took care of his appointments, his medications, went to the doctor's office with him--"

  "Yes, I know," Jonathan said. "You still have minus fourteen days of vacation."

  "Thanks for reminding me, boss." I pushed my excellent risotto away. A place like this would have boffo desserts, and I wanted to save room. "When Eric had cancer, I was completely...necessary."

  "I would imagine you were completely necessary well before then."

  As was so often true, his formal language kept a distance between the words and the sentiment. I thought it was a compliment.

  I thought it was a very, very good compliment.

  Jonathan looked steadily at me, not blinking, the impeccable suit, the muted tie. One hand was on his wineglass, his long fingers graceful on the stem.

  Suddenly, I could feel my heart beating. My skin seemed to tighten at the same time my bones grew hot.

  Jonathan Kent was smiling at me. Just a little. Just enough.

  "Did you read the piece on the pumpkin farm?" I blurted. "That's pretty interesting, right? All those...pumpkins."

  "Yes."

  "Was it okay? The piece?"

  "It was fine. Very good. I liked the bit about the dogs. That was your addition, wasn't it?"

  I nodded.

  "You're not as bad at your job as you pretend to be, Ainsley." He was still looking at me. His voice seemed to creep under my dress and caress my skin.

  Clearly, two glasses of wine on top of a martini was way, way too much for me. He hadn't said a single thing that was even in the same neighborhood as flirty or dirty, and I...I was just overly emotional tonight.

  "Would miss or sir like dessert?" Carl asked.

  "No, thanks," I blurted. "I need to get home."

  Chapter Eighteen

  Kate

  On Friday, I went to my parents' house for a family dinner. Ainsley had to be in the city for work, which may or may not have been coincidental. My mother often held family dinners when Ainsley was out of town. Every summer, when Ainsley and Eric were off on vacation with the Fishers, Mom held a neighborhood picnic, too.

  I wondered if Nathan and Madeleine had ever gone on vacation with his parents. I'd never asked.