by Emily Giffin
I’m not sure if he means London or his room tonight, but I shake my head and reach out and touch his face. “Please don’t apologize. You don’t have to be sorry.”
“But I am sorry.”
“I wanted to come. You warned me that it could be bad….It was my decision. And there is nowhere in the world I would rather be than right here with you. In this room,” I say.
He hears me. I can see in his eyes that he feels the weight and truth of my words. “Thank you, Cecily,” he says.
Neither of us moves for the longest time, until he reaches out and cups the back of my head with one hand, drawing me nearer and giving me the softest kiss, our first in London. My heart explodes as I kiss him back, no longer thinking, only feeling. We kiss and kiss, then undress and get under the covers and cling to each other, holding and touching and kissing even more until eventually it’s finally happening. Grant is inside me—all the way inside me—and for a few brief moments in time, we forget everything but each other.
* * *
—
I awaken hours later, disoriented. Then I see Grant in the shadows across the room, wearing only boxers, and everything comes rushing back to me. Our first time making love. The way I fell asleep in his arms. In a daze, I watch him step into a pair of jeans, zip them, then buckle the belt that is already in the loops.
“What time is it?” I say, my voice raspy. I look out the window and see that it’s morning.
Grant turns, looking startled. “Five-something,” he says, putting on a flannel shirt, buttoning it haphazardly. “Go back to sleep.”
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“To the hospital,” he says, walking over to the bed, still buttoning. “I’ll be back when I can. Feel free to order room service. The menu’s somewhere around here….”
“I’m not hungry,” I say just as my stomach growls. “Can I come with you?…I mean, I’ll wait in the hall or whatever….”
“Are you sure you don’t mind?” he says—so I can tell he wants me to come.
“Of course not,” I say, already up and dressing.
* * *
—
Minutes later we are in the back of a black cab, weaving through the wet streets of London. When we pull up to the hospital, Grant gets out of the car and pays the driver through the open window, as they do here in London. I slide out the other door, then follow him inside, where we check in with a receptionist, take an elevator to the third floor, and walk down two long corridors to his brother’s room. The door is open a crack, the room dark inside.
“I’ll wait here,” I announce, pointing to an empty chair in the hallway just a few feet away.
Grant nods, then walks into the room. I sit down, lean my head against the wall, and eventually close my eyes, still feeling Grant inside me. I doze off—I’m not sure for how long—until I hear his voice over me.
“Hey,” he says, reaching down to touch my shoulder. “Would you like to meet Byron?”
I look up at him, surprised, and a little panicked. “Are you sure?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says.
I swallow, then stand and follow him to the door. He walks in and I trail behind, bracing myself for the worst—a frail skeleton of a man lying in the dark, attached to machines and tubes. Instead I walk into a room aglow with a humming fluorescent light, and see a thin version of Grant. They don’t look exactly alike, but the resemblance is strong, and he is wearing the same rueful expression I’ve seen many times before.
“Cecily, this is my brother. Byron,” Grant says, looking uneasy, as he places one hand on his brother’s shoulder. “And Byron—this is my friend Cecily.”
I can’t help taking note of the word friend, but push it away as I say hello.
Byron nods, but does not reply. I remind myself that maybe he can’t do so very easily, as I nervously blurt out how much they look alike.
“Yeah,” Grant says, his hand still on his brother’s shoulder. “That’s what they tell us.”
“Pretty sure people can tell us apart now, though,” Byron says, his speech slow.
I can’t tell if he’s attempting humor, so I hedge my bets with a half smile as Grant pulls a guest chair over to the side of the bed, motioning for me to sit. I do, as he takes his own seat at the foot of his brother’s bed. Now in an intimate triangle, we stare awkwardly at one another until Grant says, “So. This is Cecily’s first trip to London. She and her friend Scottie have been sightseeing.”
He looks at me as I take the cue, rattling off some of the things we’ve done so far.
“But this…has to be the highlight,” Byron deadpans.
Once again, I can’t completely read his tone, but know that sarcasm is in the mix. So I say, “Well, it is, actually….Grant has told me so much about you….I really wanted to meet you.”
Byron stares me down, then says, “Did he tell you I tried to off myself?”
“Come on, man,” Grant says, putting his hand on his brother’s shin, then rubbing it a few times.
“Well?…Did he?” Byron repeats, staring at me.
I glance at Grant, as if to ask for permission, as he shrugs. So I look at Byron again and give him the faintest nod. I’m now sweating—a tough feat in a room this cold.
“And?” Byron asks. “What do you think?”
I stare at him, then stammer, “I’m—just glad you’re okay.”
“Ha,” he says, his voice brittle.
I shoot Grant a look of panic as he saves me. “At least you’re here. At least you’re alive. And although you may not be able to do certain things—”
“Like the things you two probably did last night?”
Grant shakes his head and whispers, “Jesus.”
“What?” Byron says, blinking. “I’m happy for you, man. For you both.”
“It’s not like that,” Grant says. “We’re just friends.”
I look at him, surprised, as Byron snaps back, “Yeah, right. Then why is she here?”
“I told you. She’s visiting London. With her friend.”
“No. I mean here. In this room,” he says, glancing at me, then back to his brother.
Grant starts to answer, but I stop him, and say it was my fault, that I wanted to come, that I wanted to meet him.
“Because you think you might end up with him?” Byron says. “Is that it?”
“Byron,” Grant says under his breath. “Stop it.”
“Stop what?” he shouts back. “You do whatever the hell you want to do, with whoever you want to do it with, with no apparent consequence, but I can’t have the one thing I want?”
“Not if it means giving up,” Grant says, as I stand and back my way out of the room.
“I’m going now,” I say when I get to the door, but nobody is listening, the two brothers yelling back and forth.
When I get to the hall, I burst into tears, then break into a run, berating myself for coming to the hospital. For coming to London at all. It was stupid and selfish and wrong. Just as I reach the elevator, Grant comes around the corner, grabbing me by the wrist, telling me to stop.
“I have to go,” I say. “I shouldn’t have come. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Grant says, out of breath. “He just gets this way sometimes. It’s not personal. Can you just wait for me? A little longer?”
I shake my head and say no, he needs to stay, and I need to go.
“Okay. But can I see you later?” he asks. “Maybe?”
“Just call me,” I say—because it’s easier than saying no.
As the elevator doors finally open, Grant tells me he loves me. But all I hear is him telling his brother: We’re just friends.
When I get back to our hotel, I’m relieved to find Scottie sprawled across the bed and snoring. The clothes he wore last night are in a pil
e in the bathroom, reeking of cigarette smoke, a telltale sign that he went out. I’m glad he did. For his sake and also because this means he may be too hungover to grill me—at least not before I can process my feelings.
I’m overwhelmed by what Grant and I finally did last night, and feeling deeper in love than ever, but I’m also traumatized and worried. We’re just friends. His words play in a loop in my head, and all the while I see that look he had on his face. What was it? Regret? Guilt? Why would he lie to his brother about us? Or was this closer to the truth? Are we, in Matthew’s words, just a summer fling?
As I get in bed, Scottie’s eyes flutter open. “Hey,” he says, making his hungover, cotton-mouth face.
“Hi,” I say. “Big night?”
“Uh-huh,” he says, then winces. “Is it just me—or is this bed spinning?”
“Might just be you.”
“Make it stop,” he moans.
“Did you drink any water when you came home?”
“Yeah. I think so,” he says, glancing over at the nightstand. “I don’t remember….”
I hand him the full glass by the bed, and say, “Drink more.”
He does, as I ask whether whatever he got up to last night was worth the pain.
“Hell, yeah,” Scottie says, smirking through a grimace.
“Oh? How cute is he?” I ask.
“So cute. Let’s just say—I thought he was Enrique Iglesias…right down to his button nose and black knit cap.” He smiles, then asks about my night.
“Long story,” I say with a sigh.
“Wait. Did you finally do it?”
I put my face in my hands and nod, then brace myself for his onslaught of invasive questions. Sure enough, they come in a flood. Was he good? Better than Matthew? The best you’ve ever had?
I evade with a yawn, then come right out and tell him it’s none of his business.
Scottie raises his eyebrows. “Oh my God. So awesome,” he says. “You totally did it.”
I yawn again and suggest we both go back to sleep for a bit.
“Okay,” Scottie says. “And when we wake up, you can tell me the rest.”
“The rest?”
“Yeah,” he says, his eyes now closed, his forehead completely wrinkled in pain. “Something else happened. Besides the good sex.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because,” he says, opening one eye to look at me. “I know your face. I know you. But you’re off the hook for now. My head hurts too much to talk anymore.”
* * *
—
Scottie and I don’t really talk until later that day, after we’ve both napped, then walked around Kensington and Notting Hill, underachieving on the tourist front. Around two, we return to the Muffin Man for tea and scones, and I finally confide the rest—from Byron’s attempted suicide to the metaphysical debate about ending one’s life prematurely to the disastrous meeting at the hospital to what Grant said about us. Just friends.
Scottie listens intently, as he always does. He first expresses deep sympathy for what the two brothers are going through. He then discusses euthanasia, coming down on the side of Byron, saying that he should be able to make decisions about his life—including whether to end it with dignity, on his own terms. He then opines on the obvious—that it probably wasn’t the best idea for me to meet him, especially right now, but that I should look on the bright side: the introduction happened for a reason.
“What reason is that?” I say.
“I mean—Grant wouldn’t introduce a random girl to his dying brother.”
“Then why would he say we’re just friends?”
“I don’t know,” Scottie says. “Maybe he was trying to protect Byron? He doesn’t want to wave around that he’s falling in love—so he downplayed it?”
I nod, as Scottie continues. “Think about it. They’re twins, living two extremes. The best a person can feel—and the worst. And it’s kind of a crapshoot which brother got which fate, right? Like falling in love is always sort of a fluke—same as getting that bad gene.”
“Wow,” I say, thinking this is Scottie at his insightful and empathetic best. “I didn’t think of that. And Grant did have a guilty look on his face.”
“Hopefully that’s all it is,” Scottie says. “But remember—that’s a best-case scenario. Worst case—he’s telling his brother the truth, and you’re not all that important to him.”
“Harsh,” I say under my breath.
He shrugs and continues, “Either way, you need to play it cool. Starting now.”
I look at him, thinking about how I vowed not to play games with Grant. And I won’t. But I do need to give Grant plenty of space during such a painful, complicated time. And maybe I also need to protect myself if this relationship isn’t what I think it is. I express all of this to Scottie, who agrees, then smiles and says, “Soo…does this mean you want to hang out with me and Enrique later?”
I laugh and say, “Really? You’re seeing him later?”
“Yeah,” he says, smirking. “I mean, you never know. We could have both hooked up with our soul mates last night.”
* * *
—
The rest of the day is a blur. Scottie and I hit the Tate and Shakespeare’s Globe Theatre before meeting up with Enrique for dinner. His real name is Noah—and he is the absolute British version of Scottie, funny and charming and unfiltered. But even as I pretend to have a good time, all I can really do is think about Grant, praying that I have the chance to talk to him before Scottie and I leave London.
As it turns out, he comes to my hotel very early the next morning, calling my room and asking if I can come down to say goodbye. My heart pounding, I say yes, I’ll be right there.
A moment later, I am sitting across from him in the lobby. Before he can say anything, I ask how his brother is doing.
“A little better,” he says. “We have a plan.”
“And what’s that?” I say. “If you don’t mind sharing?”
He tells me they’re leaving London and going to Jerusalem, then Venice. “Those are the two places he wants to see before he dies.”
I shiver, trying to imagine my siblings in this situation. “God,” I whisper. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” he says. “Just…believe in me.”
“I do, Grant,” I say, trying so hard to be brave, not to cry. “But let’s put us on hold right now.”
“What does that mean?” he says, looking worried, but also relieved.
“It just means…that I see how hard this is on you,” I say, choosing my words carefully. I don’t want to call it a breakup, but also want him to be off the hook in terms of any relationship duties. I clear my throat and keep going. “I know you need to put your brother first right now. Not just as your first priority, but as your only priority. For as long as you have left together….You can’t be worried about emailing me from Internet cafés and calling me from hotel rooms.”
He stares at me, but doesn’t protest, confirming that I’m doing the right thing for him. I just hope it’s also the right thing for our long-term relationship.
“Thank you for understanding, Cecily,” he says. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”
I hear from Grant only two times over the next six weeks—which is brutal, but honestly two more times than I’d prepared myself for when Scottie and I boarded our plane at Heathrow.
The first time is in mid-August, and comes in the form of a postcard from Venice. On the front is a photo of the Rialto Bridge at sunset, a backlit gondola being navigated under the iconic stone arch. On the back is Grant’s message in boxy print: Dear Cecily, I hope we come here together one day. I miss and love you. Always, G.
I keep the card next to my bed and read it every night, his words sustaining
me until the next time I hear from him, which happens to be on Labor Day. He calls me right as I’m about to head out the door for a barbecue with Jasmine’s family.
“Hi. It’s me,” he says.
“Hi!” I say, my heart racing. “Where are you?”
“We’re back in London now,” he says, the connection filled with static. “But I’ll be home in a week…next Monday…I think we land around six.”
I hear his we, and am overcome with relief. “How’s Byron doing?”
“He’s hanging in there, I guess….How are you?” His voice is flat and so distant.
“I’m fine. The same. Nothing new to report…What about your travels? Has it been…” I struggle for a word that doesn’t sound completely inappropriate. “Satisfying?”
“For the most part,” he says. “But really hard, too. Listen, Cecily. I have a lot to tell you…so much to talk about….But I’d like to do it when I’m back, and we are face-to-face. If that’s okay with you?”
“Yes. Of course,” I say.
His words sound so ominous, but I reassure myself that it’s just the distance and all that he’s going through. After all, while I’ve been writing stories about trivial New York City happenings and getting the occasional buzz at a bar, he’s been dealing with matters of life and death. But as we hang up, I brace myself for the other possibility—that maybe he’s had a change of heart about us.
Over the next week, I agonize over which it will be. Scottie, who has stayed in touch with Noah, views the phone call through his own infatuated rose-colored glasses, and thinks I’m silly to worry. But Jasmine understands my apprehension, perhaps because she lost her closest cousin to cancer a few years back and has shared with me the strain it put on her relationship at the time. In a nutshell, her boyfriend didn’t seem to understand her grief—or the fact that she wasn’t in the mood for sex—so she promptly dumped him.
