by Emily Giffin
“He told you?” I say, raising my eyebrows.
He knows exactly what I’m getting at, judging by the way he checks to make sure nobody is listening and continues, his voice lower. “Yeah. He told me….”
“I didn’t know he was…” I glance over at Amy and mouth the last word: married.
“Yes. I know. He wanted to tell you….” Ethan says, speaking carefully and very quietly. “He was going to….”
I feel a rush of relief to have Byron’s statements corroborated, but then a larger wave of guilt that I’m sitting here at a dinner table with my fiancé having this conversation. Overwhelmed, I stare down at my plate, my food largely untouched, blinking back sudden tears. Managing to keep them at bay, I look up at Ethan and say, “I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.”
“Yes, it does,” Ethan says, nodding. “You know it does.”
“What are you two talking about now?” Darcy suddenly demands, looking at Ethan, then me, then back to Ethan.
Ethan rolls his eyes, and says, “Hey, Darcy? Mind your own business, for once.”
“Just tell me,” she says.
He sighs, then says, “We were just talking about love and loyalty. Stuff you wouldn’t understand.”
“Says the guy without a girlfriend,” Darcy snaps back, making a face at him.
I smile, pretending to be amused by their banter. Pretending that I’m not hearing the words love and loyalty on a loop in my head.
* * *
—
Somehow, I manage to get through the dinner, holding it together until Matthew and I are alone again, in the back of a cab, headed to his place.
“Are you okay?” he says. “You’re so quiet.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I just think I might be coming down with something…a little cold or something….Maybe I should go home. Alone.”
“Are you sure?” he says. “You don’t want me to come with you?”
I shake my head and say, “I think I just need a good night’s sleep.”
“Okay, honey,” Matthew says, then leans up to tell our cabbie that we are adding a stop to the trip.
* * *
—
Once back in my apartment, I fall completely off the wagon, suffering a massive Grant relapse. I reread my entire email exchange with Byron. Then I go back and read everything Grant and I wrote to each other over the summer, including his postcard from Venice, which I should have thrown away, but instead just put in a different drawer. I even listen to old voicemails on my answering machine and cellphone—something I haven’t been able to do since 9/11. I tell myself it will be cathartic—the final, final step in my cleanse—but instead it’s just devastatingly sad.
I open another drawer, finding a stash of mementos from London, including Ethan’s business card, the one he gave me in the pub. Under his name, there are two numbers—one for the UK, and the other a 917 cell. Before I can think better of it, I dial the second number. He answers on about the fourth ring, sounding sleepy, his voice quiet.
“Hi. It’s Cecily,” I say. “I’m sorry if I woke you up?”
“No. You didn’t,” he says, sounding unconvincing. “I was just watching a little TV.”
“Are you at Amy’s?”
“No,” he says. “I’m crashing at Rachel’s…here on her couch. What’s up?”
“I don’t know…I just…that was really awkward tonight….We really couldn’t talk.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you think anyone could tell we already knew each other?”
“No. I really don’t. When we got home, Rachel asked what we were talking about, but I didn’t tell her.”
“Why not?”
“All the obvious reasons…and because I promised Grant I wouldn’t.”
I take a deep breath and say, “Do you feel at all conflicted? Hanging out with Amy…when she doesn’t know…?”
“Not really,” Ethan says. “Amy and I were never that close….I only reached out to her to ask about a service for Grant—and to tell her I was going to be in town. I was sort of surprised when she invited me to dinner….I almost didn’t go.”
“Oh,” I say, thinking that I’m glad he did—and that it’s so nice to talk to him now, privately.
A long pause follows and then he says, “So can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Your fiancé doesn’t know any of this, does he?”
“No.”
“Why haven’t you told him? What are you afraid of?”
“How do you know I’m afraid of anything?” I say.
“It’s always fear that holds us back.”
My mind is a little blown as I realize he’s right—at least in my case he’s right. “I don’t know,” I say. “A lot of things…I’m afraid of upsetting Matthew. I’m afraid of losing him. I’m afraid of my parents knowing that I was having an affair with a married man….I’m afraid of hurting Amy—a widow. And…” I take a deep breath and give him my last reason. “In a weird way, I’m afraid of tainting Grant’s memory…for no reason…when he’s not even here to defend himself.”
“Yeah,” Ethan says, his voice sad. “I get all of that.”
“Do you know that I’m pregnant?” I blurt out. I’m not sure why I’m telling him all of this, other than that he seems kind and trustworthy, and I feel desperate to talk.
“Yeah. Amy mentioned that before dinner. But I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to know….Anyway…congratulations.”
“Thanks,” I say. “But that’s complicated, too….”
“How?”
I don’t respond.
“Oh, shit,” Ethan says. “Is the baby…Grant’s?”
“I don’t think so. But I’m not positive.”
“Shit,” Ethan says under his breath.
“Exactly. So yeah, I’m scared. I’m terrified,” I say, my voice shaking, as I close my eyes. “I’m sorry….I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this….I barely know you.”
“It’s okay,” he says. “You needed to talk. I get it. And for what it’s worth—I think it’s all going to turn out okay. Matthew seems like a good guy…and Amy…well, she’ll be fine.”
“I don’t plan on telling her any of this,” I say, my way of making the same request of him.
“Oh, I know….I just mean, in general….Amy looks out for Amy….Did you see her getting handsy with that Chad guy?”
“Yeah,” I say, having noticed some pretty heavy flirting at the end of the night, too.
“And she never mentioned Grant. Not once all evening. I mean, seriously?”
This wasn’t lost on me, either, but I don’t want to judge her for it. “I think she just doesn’t want to be a downer. Or maybe she’s still sort of in shock that she’s lost him?” I say, grasping at straws.
“Yeah,” Ethan says. “Maybe. But, let’s face it, you can’t lose something that was never really yours.”
That night I have another vivid dream about Grant. Overcome with sadness, I sit up in bed. I tell myself to get it together—and not be one of those girls who self-sabotages. I have everything I want and need with Matthew. For goodness’ sake, I’m about to be a mother.
But it doesn’t work, and in the next moment, I’m devising a crazy plan to drive up to see Byron. I don’t know that we have that much left to say to each other—but I still feel this urgency to see him, if only because he is the closest thing to seeing Grant. I just want to talk to him, face-to-face, before he’s gone, too. I want to look him in the eye and tell him how I felt about his brother. I want to tell him that I forgive his brother for lying to me. And even though I know it’s so wrong, I also want to ask for something of Grant’s—something small, like a book or a photo—just in case the baby turns out to be his after all.
* * *
—
A few hours later, it’s morning, and I’m leaving the rental car place near my apartment in a little blue Kia. There is a map of upstate New York on the seat beside me, but I don’t think I’ll need it. I have always had a good sense of direction, and paid close attention when we left the cabin to drive back to New York on Memorial Day.
As I navigate city traffic, then cross the George Washington Bridge, it occurs to me that I’m doing things in the wrong order. That if I’m going to tell anyone that the baby might be Grant’s, it should be Matthew. He should be first. It also occurs to me that I should have emailed Byron to ask for his permission to visit. But it’s too late now. So I just drive, keeping my mind as blank as possible, determined to get through this mission.
The next few hours pass surprisingly quickly, the traffic getting more sparse and the trees more dense, until I am back on the long, narrow dirt road leading to Grant and Byron’s cabin. My heart floods with memories as I pull into the clearing and see the house, along with an old green Pontiac that must belong to Byron’s nurse. It takes me several emotional minutes to work up the courage to get out of the car, and as soon as I do, I’m hit with another wave of intense memories. In some ways, it feels like yesterday that Grant led me to the front door. In other ways, it feels like years have passed.
My knees feel weak and my chest hurts as I walk down the path leading to the porch steps, climb them, and look for a doorbell. Finding none, I use the heavy brass knocker, rapping twice on the door. A moment passes, then another. I knock three more times, as hard as I can. Once again, nobody comes.
My heart thumping in my ears, I reach out to try the knob. It’s locked, but I remember the key under the mat. I tentatively check, almost hoping it’s not there. But it is. I put it into the keyhole and twist, hearing the heavy unlatching sound. I turn the knob, then push open the door a few inches.
“Hello?” I say, my voice sounding so small. Silence in return. I clear my throat and call out with a little more temerity. Still nothing.
I push the door open the rest of the way and take a step into the cabin, bombarded with a familiar musty, woodsy scent. Glancing around, I spot a bowl and spoon on the kitchen table, along with a coffee mug, a stack of newspapers, and a closed laptop. It crosses my mind that I am basically Goldilocks in this scene, brazenly breaking and entering.
“Hello? Is anyone here?” I call out in the direction of the bedroom, thinking that surely Byron and his nurse are back there.
I force myself to keep going, walking toward the bedroom, worried about what I might find. What if the nurse isn’t here, and Byron is alone? What if it’s really bad? The door is open, so I brace myself and glance inside, discovering an unmade bed and a large leather duffel bag that I recognize from Grant and Byron’s hotel room in London.
I walk over to the window and part the curtains enough to look out, discovering that the backyard is desolate and unkempt, long weeds sprouting everywhere. I shiver and turn back around, reentering the living room and staring at the ladder leading up to the loft. Is it worth checking out? It seems highly unlikely that he’s up there, given his condition, but I guess it’s possible—and after driving all this way, I need to be thorough. So I walk over to the ladder and slowly climb it, stopping only when I get to eye level with the loft floor.
Overwhelmed with more memories, I panic. I shouldn’t be here—and I definitely shouldn’t be snooping around. I start to back my way down the ladder just as I see a figure moving under the covers in the bed. A second later, Byron is staring right into my eyes. I jump, and can tell he’s just as startled—and that he’s been sleeping. His hair is shaggy, longer than it was in London, and his face is unshaven. There are dark circles under his eyes.
“I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” I say.
He keeps staring at me, but says nothing, looking more stricken by the second.
“I just wanted to see you….I drove up here to talk to you,” I stammer. “About Grant.”
Suddenly, his expression changes. His eyes fill with tears as he says my name.
It’s only a whisper, but in that instant, I know.
“Oh my God,” I hear myself whisper back. “Grant.”
Before Grant can respond, I am backing down the ladder, terrified, wondering if I’ve just seen a ghost. I’ve never believed in those things, but I can’t think clearly. I can’t think at all.
He calls my name, and out of the corner of my eye, I see movement. He is out of bed, coming toward me.
“Wait,” he says. “Don’t go.”
I freeze, my vision blurring with tears, my heart pounding.
“Don’t go,” he says again. “Let me explain.”
I look up just as he’s reaching for my hand. I give it to him—not because I want to, but because I feel like I might fall if I don’t. He gently pulls me up toward him, and a second later, I’m sitting on the floor beside him, shaking, my head in my hands. He tries to put his arms around me, but I recoil.
“I thought you were dead!” I say with a sob.
“I know. I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry.”
I let myself look at him again, and see that his eyes are frantic—and also tearing up.
“How could you do this to me? To us?” I say, my voice breaking. “We thought you were dead. There were posters. Amy hung posters all over the city. We went to the hospitals….For God’s sake, there was an obituary. I helped your wife with your obituary!”
“I can explain,” Grant says, palms up and out, as if trying to disarm me. “Please. Just…let me explain.”
I shake my head, now sobbing, my shock morphing into anger. “What explanation can there possibly be? You let people who love you grieve! Why? To get out of making a decision?”
He shakes his head and says, “It wasn’t like that. That’s not why I came here.”
“Then why?” I say, my face wet with tears.
Grant swallows, then takes several deep breaths through his nose, his chest rising and falling. “Will you listen? Will you try to listen?”
I manage a small nod as he clears his throat and starts speaking. “Byron and I came home from Europe on the tenth of September, as you know,” he says, his voice low. “The plan was to come here, since we’d moved out of his place in Hoboken at the start of the summer. But it was too late when we landed—too late for a long drive—so I checked him in to the Ramada Inn at JFK. I told him I’d come back to get him in the morning, and we’d drive up here.” He pauses, staring into my eyes. “Are you listening?”
“Yes,” I say, crossing my arms tight across my chest, thinking there’s no possible way that this story is going to exculpate him from all the lies. Especially at the rate he’s going.
“So then I took a cab home….”
“You mean home to your wife, who you never told me about?”
Grant drops his head into his hands. A few seconds pass before he looks back up at me. “Will you please listen to the rest?”
I stare at him, then shrug, waiting.
“So I went home to drop some stuff off…and I briefly talked to Amy.”
“Right. Your wife,” I say.
“Yes. My wife,” he says. “My wife who I planned on divorcing.”
“Likely story,” I say under my breath. For some reason, I believe this less now than I did when I thought he was dead.
“It’s the truth,” he says. As if the truth means anything to him.
When I don’t reply, he continues. “So I left Brooklyn and came directly to you. That’s all I wanted, Cecily. To see you. And I was going to tell you everything—”
“Define everything,” I say.
“That I was married. That I’d lied to you. That I wanted to make things right so we could be together for real.”
“Be together for real?” I say, thinking of what we di
d the last time I saw him. “I thought we were together for real that night.”
“You know what I mean,” Grant says. “I wanted us to be together as a couple, without any secrets or lies….That’s what I wanted…and I was going to tell you all of this. But you were sick and it was so late…I figured it could wait another day or two—once I got my brother settled and lined up with a nurse. So I left your house around four in the morning, and I went straight to work.”
“At four in the morning?”
Grant nods and says, “Yes. I just needed to pick up a few things. But while I was there, I confirmed that…I was going to be in some trouble…imminent trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
He sighs, runs his hand through his hair, and says, “I can’t tell you that….But I did something illegal….”
“Oh my God,” I say, wondering when the shock waves will stop. “What did you do?”
“I can’t tell you that,” he says again. “All I can tell you is I had to go. I had to leave. I had to help my brother. I had things to do first. He needed me….So I took another cab back to the airport hotel, picked up my brother, and came here. Where he wanted to die.”
His voice cracks, and he takes several deep breaths before continuing. “So while we’re in the cab up to the cabin, we hear what’s happening…on the radio….We hear that a plane hit the Trade Center…and then another plane….We hear that the towers are burning and falling…but we just keep going….We just keep going….” He stares into space for a few seconds, his eyes glazed, before looking back at me. “And then—we’re dropped off here. And I realize…I realize that I’m off the grid…I have an out—”
“An out?” I say. “An out on what, exactly?”
“Everything…the trouble I was in…” His voice trails off as we lock eyes.
“Everything. Yes. Including us,” I say.
Grant shakes his head and says, “No, Cecily. Not us. Never us. I didn’t want out of our relationship. That’s not what I was thinking.”
