That's Not a Thing

by Jacqueline Friedland

  Ten minutes later, I’m walking down the steps toward the entrance of the piano bar, which is half a flight below street level. It’s dark inside, full of rank cigar smoke and red velvet lounges that look they’ve been around since long before the Bee Gees made things like velvet cool. As my eyes adjust to the dim red lighting, I see Wesley waiting at the bar, wearing jeans and a dark leather jacket, chatting with the bartender. I take the stool next to him, placing my small bag on the counter and giving the lanky bartender a polite smile.

  Wesley turns toward me, and I expect his green eyes to light up, the way they always used to. Instead he is subdued, his face unreadable, like the other day at the soup kitchen.

  “Hey, what can I get you to drink?” he asks.

  “Whatever you’re having,” I answer, eyeing his clear, fizzy beverage.

  “That’s a club soda. Alcohol messes with my meds.” He swallows conspicuously once, and then again, and I wonder if it’s because of the awkwardness of the situation or if it’s a symptom of the disease.

  “Oh. In that case”—I look toward the bartender, who’s waiting to fetch something for me—“a vodka soda with two limes, please.” I definitely want a drink to deal with this conversation. I adjust myself on the stool, turning toward him. “So, fill me in.”

  He regards me silently for a moment, as if he’s choosing his words carefully. “I’m dying,” he says. Flip. Irreverent, as he shrugs.

  “Stop it,” I admonish him, resisting the urge to swat at him and fiddling with the strap of my purse instead.

  “Well, I am. The upside is that I already have a buyer lined up for the restaurant, at a definite profit.” He watches me while he talks and I wonder what he’s noticing, what has changed about me.

  “You’re selling it already?”

  “Yup.” His tone is clipped as he takes a sip of his drink and then places the glass back on the bar, clenching and unclenching his fist the way I saw him doing in the kitchen the other day. “But I’m going to keep running it while I can, even under the new ownership.” He sees me looking at his hand and holds it up, showing me his palm. “That’s how I knew something was wrong.” He takes his other thumb and pushes it deep into the first hand, massaging. “I’d been getting muscle cramps here for a long time. I’m not even sure how long ago they started. I always thought it was from the chopping, like an athletic injury but for chefs. But then it started happening in my other hand, too, my left, which I never use for chopping. So then I figured it for some sort of arthritis, which I finally went to check out. There are medicines that could have slowed everything down, if I hadn’t been such a shitbag idiot. I waited too long.”

  “But I thought there’s no cure.”

  “There’s not, but by the time I finally got diagnosed there was already a lot of damage, which maybe I could have staved off. I might have gotten a few more good years.” He pauses and looks up at the ceiling in obvious frustration. “My fucking life.” He shakes his head.

  When I’m quiet, he keeps talking. “I was back at the doctor today. He’s estimating at least another couple of months before I have to stop working.”

  “Is it just your hands?” I ask, afraid of the answer.

  He shakes his head no and reaches to sip his drink, like he doesn’t want to tell me the other things going wrong with his body.

  After another beat, he seems to perk up. “So,” he says, his tone lighter—purposeful, even—“tell me about your fiancé.” There’s another unusual swallow, and I can see now that it’s definitely a symptom.

  “Because that wouldn’t be awkward at all,” I counter with a half-smile.

  “No, seriously. I want to know where you’re going to end up, you know? Nothing’s playing out like I thought. I won’t get to find out later, so . . .” He shrugs again, like he has accepted everything more than I have.

  I resist the urge to cry and figure I can provide some basic information. “His name is Aaron. He’s a neonatologist. He went to Dartmouth. I don’t know. He’s a good guy. A really, really good guy.”

  “Does he know you’re out with me?”

  I look down at the bar as I answer, “Well, no, but he was already sleeping. He works nights a lot and took advantage of his chance to go to bed early tonight.” The part of me that never stopped belonging to Wesley wonders why Aaron even needs to know, why it’s any of his business what goes on between Wesley and me, but the adult in me knows better. “I’ll tell him tomorrow. There’s no reason this needs to be a secret.”

  “That’s good,” he says, studying my face. “You belong with the kind of guy who saves babies for a living.”

  “Where are you living? How long have you been back?” I ask, suddenly desperate for information about the life he’s had without me.

  “I’ve been back about ten months. The whole restaurant thing happened really fast. I took it over from John Irwin when it was already halfway finished.”

  “The guy you worked with at Depot Café?”

  “Yeah, he got hired by a hot new chain in Seattle. Sold out for the cash, but it created an opportunity for me.”

  “Where do you live?” I ask again.

  “I’ve been staying at my parents’ house. In Irvington.”

  “Oh.” I try to swallow my shock that he still owns the home, which I was sure he’d sold off right after his parents’ death. “And you commute to TriBeCa? Isn’t it kind of rough going back there?” I’m not sure it’s clear that I was asking about the emotional implications, versus the commute, but then I think maybe it’s better if I keep it light anyway, stay focused on the travel time.

  “Yeah.” He reaches for the straw in his glass, fumbles for a moment, and then gets his fingers around it. “I was planning to get an apartment downtown, some swanky renovated loft or something. But I didn’t get around to it, and then . . .” Another shrug.

  I picture him out in his parents’ old house in the woodsy suburbs of Westchester, so isolated and alone. I remember with a sudden flash how cold his bedroom was the last time I was there.

  “Do you have people out there who you see? Anyone?”

  “I’m not dating anyone, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  It wasn’t, actually. I was trying to determine who will take care of him when he can’t take care of himself.

  “I was thinking about your treatment.” I offer a sheepish smile. “Wouldn’t it be better for you to be in the city? You could probably get into work more easily, and you have more people who could help take care of you.” He looks at me defensively, and I add hastily, “If you need it.” I’m glad I didn’t say “when.”

  Suddenly, I have an idea. “You should take my apartment! I’m moving out in a week and a half. The building is letting me break the lease, but I’m sure they haven’t found anyone to take it yet.”

  “Where are you going?” he asks.

  “Gramercy Park,” I mumble, a little embarrassed, since the old me always swore I could only be happy living on the Upper West Side or way downtown.

  Wesley barks out a laugh. “I never thought I’d see the day. Wow. I guess it goes with the whole corporate-law-firm theme. Moving on up.” He gives a little head shake.

  “I’m serious. You should take my apartment.”

  “Thanks, but no,” he says. “I’m good at the old house for now.”

  We stare at each other for a moment in silence.

  “You look good,” he says, his eyes sweeping over me. “I’m glad things are working out for you.”

  “You still haven’t answered me, really. Do you have people to help you when things get bad?”

  “I’m cool. It’s all good.” He reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. I wonder if his movements are slower than they used to be or if he is moving slowly on purpose, prolonging our time together.

  “I’ll walk you back to your building.”

  I look up at him, unsure whether that’s okay. A late-night stroll together feels like it would cross a line that I didn’
t know I had drawn. At the same time, I’ve always been anxious about being on the streets alone late at night, and he knows it.

  “C’mon, it’s fine. Aaron wouldn’t want me sending you home alone. No funny business, I promise.”

  Just like that, he jolts my mind to that night all those years ago when we first met, and he enticed me back to his room. It was so long ago, but in some ways, it was everything. I think he knows it, that he’s triggered the memory intentionally. I relent.

  As we meander up Columbus toward Seventy-ninth Street, I wonder how many more times I will get to see him before the end. As if he’s read my mind, he starts speaking. “I have three more weeks left until I finish with this session of my program at the soup kitchen on Sundays. Will I see you there?”

  “For sure,” I answer, nodding, as I gaze blankly up the avenue.

  “I’m glad we’re back in touch,” he says quietly as we turn onto Seventy-ninth Street.

  I glance over at him and see that his expression has changed—it’s more focused, intense. We reach the door of my building and slow to an awkward stop.

  “Me too,” I respond as I turn to face him, drinking in the way he’s looking at me. It’s like he can’t look anywhere besides my face, like I’m still the most important person in the world to him. I feel the heat rising in my chest, like he and I are having a moment, and it’s wrong. So wrong. I don’t want to be that person—the cheater, the liar. As much as I want to wrap myself around him like a hundred-year-old vine, I won’t. I lean in and give him a lightning-fast peck on the cheek, chaste as can be.

  “I’ve got to go,” I say, part apology, part command. I turn and dart into the building, leaving him to stare after me as I run away from a million possibilities.

  Chapter Fifteen

  March 2017

  I’m riding up the escalator into the main lobby of the Kips Bay movie theater when I notice that my hands are sweating. Since when have I become someone who perspires from nerves? Maybe since I lied to my fiancé about where I spent my last evening, that’s when.

  Aaron is waiting at the top of the escalator, tickets in one hand and an extra-large soda in the other. As I near him, I rub my palms against my thighs, a gesture that could easily signify warming myself from the cold evening air and doesn’t necessarily implicate me as the no-good, low-down, rotten liar that I am.

  Aaron spent another hectic day at the hospital, two emergency surgeries complicating his usual Tuesday office visits. I, too, had a busier day than expected, having received multiple calls to discuss the Dole brief that I’m now involved in up to my earlobes. The chaos of the day means that we have communicated in only a couple of short texts since I saw Wesley last night. With partners like Ellen Short nitpicking about every word, I barely made it out of the office in time for this 9:00 p.m. movie. When I began law school, I never anticipated the hours I would spend agonizing over commas.

  We quickly hustle into the dark theater, where previews are already rolling. As the movie starts and Hugh Jackman’s bearded face fills the screen, Aaron reaches for my fingers and places our joined hands on his lap. A new surge of guilt sweeps through me, alerting me that I most definitely have to tell him about the drink with Wesley last night. The man sitting beside me is going to be my husband, and I don’t want to build our future on a base of dishonesty. I have to come clean, take my lumps. Well, maybe not 100 percent clean, but I can lay out the facts, state what actually happened. I don’t have to get into all the internal dialogue I’ve been through. It wouldn’t benefit anyone for me to open that can of dog food.

  When the movie ends, we walk to the dive bar across the street, arguing amicably about where the movie should fall in our ever-shifting ranking of superhero films. The smell of stale popcorn fills my nose as we enter the bar and make our way to a booth in the back. We each order beers, and we decide to split a plate of wings. That really means I will eat one wing and Aaron will gradually devour all the rest while repeatedly trying to convince me to have another. The yeasty beer will be enough for me as a late-night snack, filling me up like homemade bread.

  “So, I have to confess something, and you’re not going to like it,” I say after the waitress puts our overly full glasses on the table.

  “Okay,” Aaron says as he arranges his cell phone and pager on the table, his tone light as a cloud, as though nothing I say could actually upset him.

  “After you went to bed last night, Wesley called me.” I push the words out in a rush. “I had been asking him a lot of questions about his diagnosis, and he asked me to meet him for a drink to discuss it.”

  Now Aaron’s eyes are on me, his expression taut. “And?”

  “And I met him at the piano bar on Seventy-sixth for one drink.”

  Aaron continues to watch my face, waiting for me to say more. The TV behind him is showing some sort of martial arts match; the kicking and punching onscreen draws a whoop from a guy at a table behind us.

  “I didn’t feel like I could say no.” I don’t add that I didn’t want to say no.

  “And then?” he asks, his tone clipped.

  “And then he walked me back to the front door of my building and I went home.”

  He’s silent while he digests this. “And that’s it?” he asks after a moment, his dark eyes searching my face.

  “And that’s it.” I obviously don’t mention the heated moment when I was pretty sure Wesley was thinking about kissing me. I certainly don’t mention that I maybe wanted it, too. Just for a second.

  “Okay.” He shifts his gaze away from me, glances around the crowded room.

  “Okay?” I ask. “You’re not mad?”

  “I’m not mad,” he says, looking back at me, though his tone suggests otherwise. “You did what you felt you had to do in the situation, and I appreciate that you’re telling me. I guess there’s not much more to say.” He doesn’t ask about Wesley’s health or what he told me about his prognosis. I guess as a doctor, Aaron has a pretty solid understanding of where Wesley is heading. He probably figures that even if Wesley’s return to New York does present a genuine obstacle in our relationship, it’s a hindrance that won’t be present long, and there’s no point in causing a ruckus over this short-term blip.

  “Want to play darts?” He looks over at the dartboard on the back wall near our table. Despite our many visits to this place, we’ve never used the dartboard before.

  “Um, okay.” I search his face, which is closed off, less readable than I am accustomed to. As we stand and move toward the back of the bar, I decide to follow his lead and drop the Wesley conversation.

  He pulls three red darts from the board and holds them out to me. “You first.”

  I take one and do my best imitation of what I can remember from movies, chucking it toward the board with a flourish-y flick of my wrist. It hits the outer edge of the board and then sputters to the floor in disgrace.

  “Try again,” Aaron encourages me. His shoulders are beginning to relax as he stands to the side, watching. His hands are deep in his jean pockets, and I get the sense that he’s talking himself out of being angry with me.

  I throw another and it connects with the board. It’s on the outer rim of the bullseye, but I’m a little proud that I made purchase at all.

  “You’re getting it,” he says, motioning with his head that I should throw the third dart.

  I decide to put a little muscle behind this one. I begin to launch it forward, but I lose my grip milliseconds before I meant to let go, and that changes the dart’s trajectory entirely. It veers off course and nearly hits one of the waitresses on the side of her head. Thankfully, even my strongest throw isn’t that impressive, and it doesn’t quite connect with the young woman before it plummets to the floor.

  I’m relieved that my notoriously poor aim hasn’t caused any damage, except that as the waitress flinches and looks to see what almost hit her, or perhaps who’s thrown it, she collides with another patron and her tray full of beer glasses topples, fallin
g to the floor with a loud crash. Worse yet, the middle-aged man she has bumped into appears to be a total wackadoo, and he starts screaming at her as though she’d been gunning for him intentionally.

  “What the fuck is wrong with you?” the man shouts as he looks down at his shirt and back at her. “Can’t you watch where the fuck you’re going, you stupid-ass bitch?” He pulls on the arm of his button-down shirt, emphasizing the beer that has spilled on him.

  “It was all my fault. I’m so sorry,” I say, running over, bending to pick up some of the glasses. “I should have known I would be terrible at darts. Please,” I say, looking up at the skinny man, who is nearly snarling at the waitress, “it wasn’t her fault.” I put the glasses on a high-top table next to him and grab some napkins from the dispenser on it.

  I hold them out to him, but the balding man regards the brown paper napkins as though I’m offering him rancid meat. He swats my hand away with significantly more force than is necessary, and I stumble a step to the side.

  “What’s your problem, buddy?” the waitress yells at the guy just as I feel Aaron, who had been hanging back, appear behind me.

  “Hey, hey, hey,” Aaron says. “There’s no call for any of this. No one meant for any of this to happen. It’s just a little beer, man. You’ve never gotten some beer on your shirt before?”

  “It’s not just a little beer!” the man shouts back. “This bitch just ruined my shirt! And now she’s all smug, like it’s not her fault, because your little woman is trying to take the blame.” He’s gesticulating wildly toward the waitress, but then he stills, his eyes roving over Aaron, clearly cataloging his intimidating size. I can’t say whether it’s Aaron’s six feet and three inches of height, his 230 pounds of muscle, or even his enormous hands, which, I happen to know, measure more than nine inches, but suddenly this brittle guy seems to be reconsidering his behavior.