“C’mon, don’t say that,” Trey said. “You’re not.”
She’d screwed it up. She’d tried so hard to look elegant and be charming, and she’d succeeded for a grand total of twenty minutes. Why the hell hadn’t she at least suggested ordering white wine?
“I’m sorry,” she said again. She had no idea what to say, so she just sat there, trying not to cry.
She’d handled it all wrong, she realized a moment later. She should’ve joked instead of becoming self-conscious; they could have turned this into a funny story. But every time she looked at him, the ruined shirt was all she could see. It must have felt wet and uncomfortable, but Trey didn’t act the slightest bit bothered, which only made her feel worse.
“Do you know why I came to New York?” he asked.
She shook her head. She didn’t dare say anything or she might burst into tears. Trey poured her a fresh glass of wine as he spoke. Brave man.
“I have no idea,” he said. “I just knew I wanted to go somewhere. I grew up outside of DC, and I like cities. I thought about L.A., but New York was closer. I didn’t have a plan. I crashed on a friend’s couch for a few weeks. He was trying to make it as an actor, and I went to a few auditions with him, but I was terrible at memorizing lines. One of the parts I tried out for was being a journalist, who was interviewing a prisoner. I discovered I liked asking questions.”
He shrugged and layered a piece of cheese onto a cracker. “I went to a real prison, interviewed a few guys, and sold an essay to the Times about how playing make-believe taught me about something real.”
“Good thing you didn’t play the part of the prisoner,” Renee said. “What if you had liked that role?”
Trey laughed—a real laugh—and she felt infinitesimally better. Maybe she could salvage the night, after all.
And she might have been able to, if only—this was the thought that made her want to fold into herself and disappear—she hadn’t had a second glass of wine, then a third, and then part of another. She’d tried to anticipate every detail of the night, but she hadn’t thought to limit her drinks, and her nerves made her consume them far too quickly. She’d always been a lightweight; two drinks left her buzzed and giddy. Three ushered her across the line into actual drunkenness.
By the time they left Morrells, she was clutching Trey’s arm. It was just nine o’clock; still early for New York. Trey’s coat covered his ruined shirt, and, suddenly, Renee felt like anything was possible, just as she had on that long-ago day in Central Park. But now it was Trey who made things magical. Plus he was hotter than Santa, she thought, and giggled.
“This was nice,” she said. She smiled at everyone they passed on the street; she felt expansive and warm and charming. She only hoped the red wine hadn’t stained her teeth; she’d been using whitening toothpaste all week.
“Let’s walk this way, okay?” Trey said.
She nodded; she would’ve followed him anywhere. He led her down one block and across a few more; then suddenly they were standing outside an entrance to Central Park. Since it was nighttime, they didn’t walk too far—just fifty yards into the park. Trey looked around while she stared up at him.
“You’ve got a better first-time-in-Central-Park story,” he said. “You know what mine is? I came here to go running and I tripped on a rock and sprained my ankle. Oh, and when I was limping home I stepped in dog crap.”
Renee smiled, but she wasn’t really listening. She was letting her eyes rove over his broad shoulders and the planes of his face. She loved his blunt nose and thick eyebrows and full lips. She thought about the way he’d listened as she excavated her long-ago memory, the way he’d joked when she ruined his shirt. And now he’d brought her here, to this magical place.
He was perfection.
Nothing could have kept her words from slipping straight out of her heart: “I’ve been in love with you forever.”
Her own voice shocked her; it shook with feeling. Trey took a step backward. He looked so shocked it might’ve been funny, in another context.
Oh, my God, Renee thought, the happy buzz from the wine instantly evaporating. She’d done the one thing she’d vowed she wouldn’t. Dousing him with wine was nothing compared to this. She wished she could open her mouth and shove the words back inside. She had to say something, anything, to fix this!
“I just—I didn’t mean anything. Just, you know, I’ve had a crush on you. I’m a little drunk. All that wine.”
He came closer again, but something had changed in his face. “It’s okay. I have a little crush on you, too.”
If he’d meant it as a declaration of something—not love, but like, or even just lust—it would’ve been the perfect moment for a kiss. But his confession was a consolation prize. He didn’t reach for her.
Say something, Renee ordered herself, feeling her pulse speed up. She needed to distract him from her words, which seemed to hang between them like a banner, but her mind was fuzzy from the wine and her panic, and she couldn’t grasp on to a coherent thought.
“It’s getting cold. Should we keep walking?” Trey finally asked. He tried to sound casual, but the tenor of the evening had flip-flopped. She could see it in his hunched shoulders and stilted attempts at conversation. Now he knew that she’d been playing a role, and that she wasn’t who she pretended to be. She’d scared him off.
I’ve been in love with you forever. Who said things like that on a casual date?
They arrived at her apartment building far too soon, while she was still frantically trying to think of a way to repair the damage. “Don’t you want to come in?” she asked. She couldn’t help it; a tear rolled down her cheek. If she hadn’t ruined it before, she had now. She was sloppy, drunk, and emotional—any man’s fantasy.
“Renee.” He took her face between his hands. Her face was so cold, and his hands felt warm. A callus on his palm was rough against her cheek, and somehow that little detail made her cry harder. “I think you’re great. But I don’t want . . . I can’t be in a serious relationship right now.”
“It doesn’t have to be serious,” she blurted. She wasn’t lying; she’d take whatever she could get. Casual dates every week or two. Midnight booty calls. Anything. She just wanted a tiny piece of him, because maybe it would lead to more . . . The only thing she couldn’t bear was to lose him completely. She was pathetic.
“You deserve more,” he said. “I didn’t know you felt . . . I thought . . . Anyway, I’m not the right guy. I don’t think I can give that to anyone right now.”
“It isn’t me, it’s you, right?” she said. She tried to smile, but it felt more like a grimace. She’d handled this all wrong. If she’d kept it light and flirty and fun, things could’ve evolved naturally. But she didn’t have intermediate speeds. Everything about her was overkill; she ate too much, drank too much, talked too much. Why couldn’t she be different, just tonight? Especially tonight, when it mattered so very much.
“Look, I’m just kind of drunk. I’m not usually like this. I won’t do it again.” She would’ve said anything to keep him from walking away.
“You’re great,” Trey said. “God, Renee, I’m an ass. I didn’t know—”
“That I was so crazy about you?” Who cared what she said now—it was too late. Her tears were coming faster, and her nose was running, too. Trey probably couldn’t wait to get away from her.
Some deep-seated survival instinct surfaced in Renee—an hour too late, but at least it helped her to end the night on a slightly less pathetic note. “I’ll see you around,” she said.
She walked through the main doors of her building and up the stairs. She unlocked the door with trembling fingers, entered the kitchen, and stood by the window overlooking the street. Trey was still on the sidewalk, his hands in his pockets.
At least she had that memory, that one tiny thing.
Sixteen
ABBY AND BOB WERE careful. They never texted each other, wary about an evidence trail. Knowing that Annabelle picked up wo
rds quickly, they made sure to keep their conversations innocent. They never touched each other, either, unless she was asleep, and even then they forced themselves to break apart after a few moments. The temptation was too great; knowing they were in the same house meant it would be easy to sneak in a kiss before Bob left in the mornings, exchange messages during the day about how much they missed each other, fall into Abby’s bed tangled together during Annabelle’s nap, with the monitor close by so they could hear her if she woke up . . . They couldn’t risk it.
But one Wednesday night two weeks after their kiss, Joanna made it home by six. Bob had already cooked dinner, and Annabelle was bathed and in her yellow terry pajamas, the cute ones with a picture of a duck on her behind. Abby left at six-thirty, as usual, for her evening class. Twenty minutes later, Bob’s Saab pulled up next to her Honda in a parking lot that led to a wooded trail of Rock Creek Park.
“Did she believe you?” Abby asked as Bob opened her passenger’s-side door and climbed inside. Bob had been planning to tell Joanna he’d gotten an emergency call from a client whose computer had crashed.
But he didn’t answer her; whether it was because he didn’t want to talk about Joanna or because he just couldn’t wait, Abby didn’t know. He reached for her and pulled her close. His lips were soft and warm, and she felt herself melting against him. The windows of the car grew foggy as Bob fumbled beneath her shirt.
“God, I want to feel you next to me,” he whispered against her mouth, sliding his hands down her belly. She could feel him trembling—or was it she who was shaking? He was so familiar to her, and yet so alien. She knew he liked his coffee with cream and lots of sugar, how young he looked when he napped on the couch, and the silly voices he made when he read children’s books. But the taste of him, the feel of his biceps beneath her hands, was intoxicatingly new.
“Me, too,” she said. Her voice sounded so husky it didn’t seem to be her own.
He drew back, inhaled a shuddering breath, and ran a hand through his hair. “Abby, I don’t know what’s happening. . . . I never expected to feel this way.”
“Hey,” she said gently. He was staring out the windshield, but she reached over and touched his chin, turning his face toward hers. The rough, sandpapery feel of his skin tickled her fingertips. “I don’t think either of us expected it.”
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said urgently. “I can’t focus on work. I eat lunch, and then two hours later I’ve forgotten what I’ve eaten—if I’ve even had lunch. A co-worker asked me to come by her office yesterday and I said I’d be there right after I put my coat in my office, and then I totally forgot. I was sitting at my desk, staring into space, when she finally came looking for me.”
“I think about you all the time, too,” Abby said. She didn’t tell Bob she’d wandered into his closet yesterday to inhale his smell. She’d studied the photos of him around the house, treasuring the few from his childhood. She’d even stared at the ones from his wedding day, wondering if he’d been truly happy then.
“I broke up with my boyfriend yesterday,” Abby said, watching Bob’s face to gauge his reaction. Pete had been bewildered and angry, but Abby couldn’t keep going out with him when she felt this way about Bob. She wanted to ask Bob about Joanna; she was desperate to know if he still loved her. But she didn’t want to say her name. Partly because she felt guilt—she was kissing another woman’s husband! How could she do that?—and partly because she couldn’t bear to have Joanna intrude on this moment. It was for her and Bob alone.
“I should get back,” he said.
“Bob, you’ve only been gone half an hour. It’s too soon. She’ll get suspicious.”
“You’re right,” he said. He looked at her with anguished eyes. “I’ve never—I’ve never done anything like this before.”
“I know,” she said. “Me, either.”
“I’m scared out of my mind,” he said. “I have no idea what’s going to happen next.”
Abby was reaching for his hand when someone sharply rapped the window beside her. Her heart exploded in her chest, and she quickly straightened her shirt. Had Joanna followed them?
But then she saw a bulky shape through the window, and a blue uniform and a hat came into focus. It was a park police officer.
“Everything okay here?” he asked as she unrolled the window.
“Yes, Officer. Everything’s fine. We’re just talking,” Abby answered, because Bob seemed incapable of speech. He was staring straight ahead, frozen. If she’d been the officer she would have searched the car—Bob was acting so suspiciously—but he merely nodded, a quick, satisfied motion, and went back to his own vehicle.
“You okay?” she said, rolling the window back up.
He nodded. “We can’t ever do this again, Abby.”
But even as he said the words, she knew they would.
Seventeen
CATE COULDN’T BELIEVE HOW badly she’d messed up. Her brain had been consumed by so many competing complications—the Reece Moss non-interview, her growing attraction to Trey, Sam’s ridiculous excuses for not turning in the polygamy piece on time—that she’d completely forgotten she’d invited her mom to come up on the same day that Abby would be over.
She was so looking forward to the time alone with Renee and Abby, to opening a bottle or two of Chardonnay and settling in for a cozy night. She imagined telling them about Sam and his mind games, and Nigel’s lecherous visit to her desk. They’d conjure ways for Cate to get back at him—her hand innocently bumping against a fresh cup of coffee next to his hip, an ink-filled pen rolling underneath his pants as he leaned back against her desk . . .
Then Cate pictured her mother intruding on the scene. She’d offer to make everyone hot cocoa, and she’d inject comments in all the right places and ask questions—she wouldn’t be inappropriate—but the weekend’s dynamic would be irrevocably altered. Cate, Renee, and Abby were just beginning to stretch toward one another, linked together by the gossamer-thin threads of a spiderweb, and her mother would unknowingly walk right through their fragile bonds.
So Cate had picked up the phone, dialed the familiar number, and asked, “Do you mind if we change plans?”
Now she slung her laptop case and overnight bag onto her shoulder as the Amtrak conductor called out, “Philadelphia 30th Street Station, next stop!” Cate exited the train and quickly spotted her mom standing there, searching the swarm of travelers. Of course her mother had come to pick her up, even though Cate had offered to hop in a taxi.
“A cab?” her mother had said, as incredulous as if Cate had suggested climbing aboard an ornery mule for the ride home. “No daughter of mine is taking a cab home!”
Cate waved, but her mom didn’t see her; she just stood there, briefly disappearing and then reappearing as the crowd surged around her, like a swimmer bobbing in a rough ocean current. Her mom had done something different with her hair—she’d lopped off a few inches to a shoulder-length cut—and she was wearing a pair of dark blue slacks with a white cable-knit sweater. The sweater was bulky and unflattering, and she seemed to have more creases around her eyes than just a few months ago. She looked like exactly the sort of woman she was—one who shopped the sale racks and enjoyed baking cookies from scratch, who still hung Christmas stockings by the fireplace for her grown children even when they didn’t make it home for the holiday. Cate suddenly felt ashamed for always being so impatient with her mother.
“Mom!” she called out.
“Sweetheart!” Her mother’s face lit up. Cate hurried toward her and gave her a long hug, smelling the Pond’s cold cream that her mother faithfully used even though Cate sent her boxes of the expensive skin care products the beauty editor routinely left on the magazine’s free shelf.
“You look wonderful, honey,” her mother said, stepping back and assessing Cate. “But have you gotten thinner?”
“Just a few pounds.”
“I’ll put them back on you before you leave tomorrow. I made choco
late-chip-marshmallow bars.”
Of course she had; she knew Cate adored them. Her mom would cook her favorite lemon roast chicken for dinner, too, and she’d probably cleaned and dusted her old room and put a pitcher of water and a drinking glass on her nightstand. Cate blinked away unexpected tears as she squeezed her mom’s arm. “Thanks for baking those,” she said. “I can’t think of anything I’d like more.”
Fifteen minutes after leaving the train station, they pulled up in front of Cate’s childhood home. It was a center-hall brick colonial—the very last one on a dead-end street—with a rose garden in the back, next to the ancient wooden play structure that looked as if it might tumble if given a good push. The neighborhood was turning over, with young families taking over the homes of downsizing empty nesters, and tricycles and basketball hoops littered the driveways they’d passed.
Cate automatically kicked off her shoes and left them by the front door, then dropped her bags on the staircase landing. She ran her hand over the banister, thinking back to the times when she and Christopher had slid down the gleaming wood, landing on the pile of sofa cushions they’d laid on the floor. She saw herself as a little girl, her long hair streaming out behind her, squealing as she ran through the backyard sprinkler. She’d had a pink bike with a banana seat and sparkly silver ribbons dangling from the handlebars, a room stocked with games like Twister and Operation, and regular Saturday afternoon trips to the local movie theater with her whole family. Because she’d had a happy childhood, she’d never thought much about her parents’ marriage—until the day her father called to tell her he was leaving.
She sat down on the bottom step, her chin in her hands, thinking back to that moment. She was living in New York by then, and was walking home from work. She’d answered her cell phone with a smile, happy to see a familiar number because the city was still a lonely place for her. Her dad had asked if it was a good time to talk.
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