by Emily Giffin
“You’re worried that I don’t love you?”
“Yeah,” he says. “A little.”
“You know I love you,” I say.
“Well? Can I have a little proof?” he says. “I’m feeling pretty exposed and naked here.”
“You are naked,” I say.
“Emotionally naked,” he says.
I sigh, knowing that he’s partly joking—but also not. And as much as I want to comfort him, I really am worried about something I can’t quite put my finger on. “You said last night that you think we’re perfect together?” I say.
“Yeah.”
“Did you mean that?”
“I never say what I don’t mean.”
“But…perfect?”
“Okay. Maybe not perfect,” he says. “Nothing is ever perfect. But we are better together than we are apart.”
“That’s a much lower bar,” I say, as I suddenly pinpoint my concern—and wonder if this bar is being set high enough for either of us.
* * *
—
Over the next few weeks, Matthew and I continue to spend time together, meeting for lunch, going to dinner, and occasionally spending the night at his place or mine. When we do, we always have sex—and it’s always good. In some ways, it feels like our old rhythm. In other ways, it feels new. At the very least, we have a fresh, healthier dynamic. I’m less needy; he’s more present.
The problem is that I continue to miss what I had with Grant. The mystery and excitement and feeling of a really deep connection. I constantly remind myself that what we had was actually shit—built entirely on lies. Scottie helps in this quest, calling Grant a dog and a sociopath. I tell him that’s a bit much—can’t we just stick to a liar and a cheater? But the point is taken, and the bottom line remains: you can’t lose what you never had.
Still, there is a nagging part of me that doesn’t fully believe that Grant was a bad guy, and that what we shared wasn’t real. I felt what I felt. Something there had to be real. I know it’s a moot point—because he’s gone—but I begin to worry that I’ll never be able to fully move on, whether with Matthew or anyone else, until my questions are answered. Was my connection with Grant simply an illusory one, only about chemistry? Did he have genuine feelings for me? What was his marriage really like? Was he as bad as Scottie says—or was this just a case of a good person doing a bad thing?
And then there’s Amy. Whether it’s because I genuinely like her or because she’s my only connection to Grant, and therefore the only real path to finding answers to my questions, I continue to talk to her. Against every bit of advice from my friends, and my own better judgment.
One afternoon, we meet for a walk in the park, and during our conversation, I share with her that I’ve been spending time with my ex, Matthew.
“Spending time or back together?” she asks.
“I’m not sure,” I say. “We’ve agreed not to label it.”
She nods and says that it’s probably a good idea to take things slowly. She then adds that some of the best marriages she knows came after a breakup, whether short or long.
My stomach drops as I ask, “Did you and Grant ever break up?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Once, right after college.”
“Why?” I say, feeling more queasy by the second. “If it’s not too personal?”
She shakes her head and says it’s not too personal, but she can’t really remember all the specifics. “We were arguing a lot. I had moved back to New York, and he was still in Palo Alto, looking for a job….I was mad that he was looking in cities other than New York.”
“He was?” I say, for some reason clinging to the idea that their marriage hadn’t been a foregone conclusion. “Where else was he looking?”
“I can’t remember that, either….But he wasn’t a huge fan of New York. He liked smaller cities. He liked the woods.” She makes a face. “I mean I get it—for vacation or whatever. But I could never live in the suburbs, let alone the country.”
“So what happened?” I say. “He just caved to the idea?”
“Yeah. Basically. I remember it came down to two jobs: teaching English at a boarding school in New Hampshire…or the Wall Street job my dad got him. No-brainer. But anyway, I’m so glad you’re back with your ex. Matthew, is it?”
“Yes,” I say. “Matthew.”
“Second chances are rare and wonderful.”
I turn this statement over in my mind, both the sentiment itself and what it says about Amy as a person. Her husband—the man she’s been with since college—is dead, yet she can be so genuinely happy for someone else. It’s such a generous quality.
“Yes,” I say. “I guess they are.”
* * *
—
A few days later, Amy and I meet up again, after she invites me to the evening yoga class she teaches at a studio in the West Village a couple times a week “just for fun,” on the side of her job as a personal stylist.
At first, as I watch her long lean limbs twisting up into impossible poses, all I can do is picture her with Grant—and I can’t shake the feeling that it’s so messed up that I’m here. But after a while, that goes away, and I find myself forgetting that she’s the one saying, “just do your best” and “don’t compare yourself to anyone.” By the end of the class, I have fallen into a deep state of Zen and feel a little teary. Good, cathartic teary. I can’t think too hard about why I’m letting this relationship continue to develop, but I know there is a genuine piece to it.
“What did you think of the class?” Amy says to me after everyone else has rolled up their mats and departed, and I’m helping her shut down the studio for the night.
“I loved it,” I say. “You’re such a good instructor.”
She thanks me and says that means a lot, adding, “You should bring Matthew sometime. I’d love to meet him….Or we could grab drinks?”
I nod and say sure, but get an instant knot in my stomach, thinking about the two of them being together, and that it could somehow lead to my lies of omission being revealed. That Matthew might randomly bring up my “summer fling”—maybe in a joking or offhanded way—and Amy might find it curious that I never mentioned the interim relationship to her. I know that’s a far-fetched scenario, but it still feels like a potential land mine and, worse, another layer of deceit.
I start to change the subject back to yoga, but before I can, Amy says, “Maybe we could all get together next week? I could invite a friend so, you know, I’m not the third wheel.”
“That sounds fun,” I say, smiling, figuring I can come up with an excuse later.
“Awesome,” Amy says. Then she gets a funny look on her face and adds, “You know, in a strange way, our friendship has really helped me….”
I feel my smile fading. “Why’s that?” I ask, afraid of her answer.
“I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe because you have absolutely nothing to do with Grant.”
My guilty heart lurches as I nod and do everything in my power to keep my expression blank.
Then, when I think it can’t get any worse, she stares off into the distance and adds, “I think you would have really liked him, though…and he would have loved you.”
* * *
—
“Do you think she knows?” I ask Jasmine later. “Like is she stringing me along and waiting to see if I’ll confess?”
“No, I don’t. And you have nothing to confess,” she says. “You didn’t know about her when you were with him.”
“But I still slept with her husband. And I know about her now. And I’m not telling her the truth.”
“Yes, I know. And I still say you should tell her. Or at the very least, stop hanging out with her….But she definitely doesn’t know. No one has that kind of discipline and restraint. I mean maybe she could have played you for
a minute—that first time you got together—but she wouldn’t be able to keep up this act, inviting you to yoga and all of this.”
I feel myself calming a little as I nod and say, “Yeah. You’re right.”
We sit in silence for a few seconds, then she says, “Do you ever wonder how this would have played out?…If Grant hadn’t died?”
I tell her yes, of course, then rattle through the flowchart of possibilities: Amy finding out and leaving Grant. Amy finding out and forgiving Grant. Amy finding out and Grant leaving Amy. Grant pulling off a double life for months, years.
“Yeah,” Jasmine says. “But I guess that doesn’t matter anymore.”
I nod, desperately wishing that were true.
* * *
—
That Saturday night, Matthew and I have reservations at One if by Land, Two if by Sea. In a carriage house in the Village that once belonged to Aaron Burr, it is widely considered the most romantic restaurant in the city. I would have to agree, not only because of the venue itself—complete with a piano player, two fireplaces, a lush garden, and a staircase intertwined with fresh flowers—but because the only time Matthew and I dined there, about six months into our relationship, he told me he loved me for the first time.
In any event, it’s our first real date since getting back together—or whatever it is that we’ve been doing—and it feels like something of a test, at least for my own heart.
Around five-thirty, Matthew arrives at my apartment to pick me up, bringing with him a bottle of champagne.
“Wow. You look gorgeous,” he says, as if he’s never seen this dress before—a simple navy one that I got years ago.
“Thank you,” I say. “So do you. Is that a new sport coat?”
He nods, then says, “Yeah. Do you like it?”
“I do,” I say, thinking that Matthew has good taste in just about everything.
“Glass of champagne before we go?” he says, holding up the bottle.
“Sure…though maybe we should save it?” I say, noticing that it’s Cristal.
“Save it for what?” Matthew says, opening my cabinet and reaching for two champagne flutes.
“For a special occasion…It’s so expensive,” I say, thinking of how much dinner is going to set him back tonight.
Matthew puts the glasses down on the counter, then turns and stares into my eyes. With the most solemn expression, he says, “You’re worth it. We’re worth it.”
I lean up to kiss him, then say, “Okay. Let’s have a glass.”
He nods, pops open the bottle, and pours, going back and forth between the flutes. When he finishes, he hands me one, looking oddly nervous before saying, “I just want to say, one more time, how sorry I am…”
“For what?” I say.
“For taking us for granted…for being too scared to dive into the deep end.”
I nod and say, “It’s really okay. We’re here now.”
“Yes. We are,” Matthew says. “And I’m never going to mess up like that again….I love you, Cecily.”
My heart feels so warm as I say it back. “I love you, too, Matthew.”
“To second chances,” he says, tapping his glass against mine.
I swallow and nod, thinking that toasts are among the things that I’ll never fully be able to extricate from my memories of Grant. But I push the thought quickly away as Matthew and I lock eyes and both take a sip.
Looking nervous again, he puts his flute down on the counter, his hand shaking a little. “Cecily. I wanted to wait to do this. During dinner…for the right, most perfect moment. Like when I first told you I loved you by that fireplace…but I just can’t wait any longer.”
Then he reaches into his pocket, drops to one knee, and looks up at me. I stare down at him, in total and complete disbelief at what seems to be happening. Then again, maybe he’s just about to give me something else—some sort of promise ring or other piece of jewelry. It doesn’t have to be an engagement ring. But do men kneel if they’re not proposing? I really don’t think so. Realizing I’m holding my breath, I exhale but otherwise remain frozen in place, my eyes wide, my thoughts jumbled and racing.
“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, Cess,” he continues. “You’re the most beautiful, kind, intelligent, amazing woman…and I want you to be my wife. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” He takes a deep breath, then holds up the most sparkling, gorgeous, brilliant-cut diamond on a gold band inset with a row of smaller diamonds. “Will you marry me, Cecily?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I have no words. No ability to speak.
“Say something,” he says, his eyes now watery.
“I…I can’t…” I say.
He is still kneeling, and his face falls. “You can’t say anything? Or you can’t marry me?”
“I can’t…even think….” I say, tearing up, too.
Matthew swallows and says, “Well, do you at least…like it?”
“It’s beautiful,” I say, gazing down at it as I feel him staring at me. Despite the insanely complicated feelings I’m experiencing, that simple fact remains. It’s one of the most stunning rings I’ve ever seen. I tell him as much.
“Will you put it on?” he says, a tremor in his voice. “Please?”
“I want to,” I say. “But I don’t think I should.”
He looks so crushed that I add the word yet.
He raises his eyebrows as he gets to his feet. “So that’s…what? A maybe?”
I take a deep breath and slowly let it out. “Yes,” I say with a tiny nod. “It’s a maybe. I just need a little time to process this….I had no idea….I didn’t see this coming….It’s so fast.”
“I understand,” Matthew says. “I know it feels sudden…and I know I agreed we weren’t going to label things.”
I nod, my hands shaking. “Yeah. And this is…this is definitely a label.”
He smiles. “I know…but I feel sure…so sure.”
I look into his eyes, wondering just how sure he is, and whether it can be enough for both of us.
Meanwhile, Matthew carefully places the ring on the counter and hugs me. I hug him back, still overwhelmed and more happy than sad. We stay that way for a long time before we finally separate and head to dinner, with that sparkling ring still sitting on my kitchen counter.
* * *
—
Over the course of the evening—first at dinner and then back at my place as we get ready for bed—I replay his proposal a hundred times, feeling my maybe creep closer to yes. Meanwhile, Matthew doesn’t mention it once, and although I appreciate his restraint, part of me wants to talk about it.
So I manufacture an excuse, asking him if he’d like to have one more glass of champagne before bed. “It won’t be good in the morning,” I add. “I would hate for it to go to waste.”
Matthew nods and says sure, following me into the kitchen and pulling the bottle from the fridge. As he refills our glasses, I steal a glance at the ring—which Matthew catches.
“Do you really love it?” he asks softly, almost under his breath.
“I do love it,” I whisper, feeling buzzed and fluttery.
Matthew nods, then says, “I can wait as long as you need. But can you tell me one thing?”
I nod.
“What’s your hesitation?…I mean, is it that we just got back together?…Or is it…him?”
I freeze, shocked by the question. He’s never mentioned Grant since that first phone conversation when he asked if I was still seeing “that guy.”
“It’s not him,” I say as forcefully as I can, so wanting this to be the truth that it feels like the truth.
“So you don’t still talk to him?” he says.
A lump in my throat, I shake my head and say no. Never.
“Because
…I wasn’t snooping…but I saw the postcard he sent you in your nightstand.”
I freeze, feeling ashamed that I still have it, even before he asks why I saved it.
I shrug and say, “You know I save things…even things that aren’t important.” Technically the statement is true.
“I read it,” he says, lowering his eyes. “I’m sorry—I shouldn’t have.”
“It’s okay,” I reassure him. “I would have read it, too.”
He lowers his eyes for a beat, then says, “He said he loved you.”
I nod, knowing the postcard by heart, then say, “It was a lie, Matthew. The whole relationship was a lie.”
He looks at me with the saddest eyes, nodding, then says, “I would never lie to you.”
“I know,” I say, as I reach out to hug him harder than I ever have.
When we separate, I say his name softly, then tell him to ask me again.
“Ask you what?” he says, looking confused.
“Ask me the question you asked me before dinner,” I whisper, my heart racing as I have an almost out-of-body experience.
His expression changes, going from confusion to hopefulness as he slowly reaches for the ring, all the while holding my gaze. A beat later, he is lowering himself to one knee, proposing again.
“Cecily,” he says, his voice and hands steadier than the first time. “Will you marry me?”
“Yes,” I say, scared but somehow sure. “Yes, Matthew. I will.”
The next few days are a whirlwind, as we share our news with friends and family. We call my parents first (although my dad already knew, Matthew having flown to Milwaukee to ask for his blessing), then his parents, then our siblings and Scottie, followed by the rest of our friends.
Everyone is thrilled for us, eager for all the usual details—how Matthew did it, whether he was down on one knee, the degree to which I was surprised, what the ring looks like, whether we’ve picked a date. We share the important stuff, but of course leave out the first, predinner proposal. It feels like an insignificant edit in the scheme of things, more about privacy than about revisionist history. But part of me still worries that the fib is a metaphor for our relationship—that Matthew and I are both pretending things are more ideal than they actually are. After all, I ask myself, how wonderful can an engagement be when the question took two tries to stick? When the ring was left on the counter all evening? When the immediate precursor to the second proposal was a conversation about another man? A man I still can’t fully shake from my mind or heart?
