And Gabby, of course, knew all of this. I was admitting it to her at the same rate I was admitting it to myself.
“I think he’s married,” I finally said to her a month or so ago. I was sitting in bed, still in my pajamas, talking to her on my laptop, and fixing my bun.
I watched as Gabby’s pixelated face frowned. “I told you he was married,” she said, her patience wearing thin. “I told you this three weeks ago. I told you that you need to stop this. Because it’s wrong. And because that is some woman’s husband. And because you shouldn’t allow a man to treat you like a mistress. I told you all of this.”
“I know, but I really didn’t think he was married. He would have told me if he was. You know? So I didn’t think he was. And I’m not going to ask him, because that’s so insulting, isn’t it?” That was my rationale. I didn’t want to insult him.
“You need to cut this crap out, Hannah. I’m serious. You are a wonderful person who has a lot to offer the world. But this is wrong. And you know it.”
I listened to her. And then I let all of her advice fly right through my head and out into the wind. As if it was meant for someone else and wasn’t mine to hold on to.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I don’t think you’re right about this. Michael and I met at a bar in Bushwick on a Wednesday night. I never go to Bushwick. And I rarely go out on a Wednesday night. And neither does he! What are the odds of that? That two people would come together like that?”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Why would I be joking? I’m talking about fate here. Honestly. Let’s say he is married . . .”
“He is.”
“We don’t know that. But let’s say that he is.”
“He is.”
“Let’s say that he is. That doesn’t mean that we weren’t fated to meet. For all we know, I’m just playing out the natural course of destiny here. Maybe he’s married and that’s OK because it’s how things were meant to be.”
I could tell Gabby was disappointed in me. I could see it in her eyebrows and the turn of her lips.
“Look, I don’t even know that he’s married,” I said. But I did. I did know it. And because I knew it, I had to run as far away from it as I could. So I said, “You know, Gabby, even if he is married, that doesn’t mean I’m not better for him than this other person. All’s fair in love and war.”
Two weeks later, his wife found out about me and called me screaming.
He’d done this before.
She’d found two others.
And did I know they had two children?
I did not know that.
It’s very easy to rationalize what you’re doing when you don’t know the faces and the names of the people you might hurt. It’s very easy to choose yourself over someone else when it’s an abstract.
And I think that’s why I kept everything abstract.
I had been playing the “Well, But” game. The “We Don’t Know That for Sure” game. The “Even So” game. I had been viewing the truth through my own little lens, one that was narrow and rose-colored.
And then, suddenly, it was as if the lens fell from my face, and I could suddenly see, in staggering black-and-white, what I had been doing.
Does it matter that once I faced the truth I behaved honorably? Does it matter that once I heard his wife’s voice, once I knew the names of his children, I never spoke to him again?
Does it matter that I can see, clear as day, my own culpability and that I feel deep remorse? That a small part of me hates myself for relying on willful ignorance to justify what I suspected was wrong?
Gabby thinks it does. She thinks it redeems me. I’m not so sure.
Once Michael was out of my life, I realized I didn’t have much else going for me in New York. The winter was harsh and cold and only seemed to emphasize further how alone I was in a city of millions. I called my parents and my sister, Sarah, a lot that first week after breaking up with Michael, not to talk about my problems but to hear friendly voices. I often got their voice mails. They always called me back. They always do. But I could never seem to accurately guess when they might be available. And very often, with the time difference, we had only a small sliver of time to catch one another.
Last week, everything just started to pile up. The girl whose apartment I was subletting gave me two weeks’ notice that she needed the apartment back. My boss at work hit on me and implied that better shifts went to women who showed cleavage. I got stuck on the G train for an hour and forty-five minutes when a train broke down at Greenpoint Avenue. Michael kept calling me and leaving voice mails asking to explain himself, telling me that he wanted to leave his wife for me, and I was embarrassed to admit that it made me feel better even as it made me feel absolutely terrible.
So I called Gabby. And I cried. I admitted that things were harder in New York than I had ever let on. I admitted that this wasn’t working, that my life was not shaping up the way I’d wanted it to. I told her I needed to change.
And she said, “Come home.”
It took me a minute before I realized she meant that I should move back to Los Angeles. That’s how long it’s been since I thought of my hometown as home.
“To L.A.?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she said. “Come home.”
“You know, Ethan is there,” I said. “He moved back a few years ago, I think.”
“So you’ll see him,” Gabby said. “It wouldn’t be the worst thing that happened to you. Getting back together with a good guy.”
“It is warmer there,” I said, looking out my tiny window at the dirty snow on the street below me.
“It was seventy-two the other day,” she said.
“But changing cities doesn’t solve the larger problem,” I said, for maybe the first time in my life. “I mean, I need to change.”
“I know,” she said. “Come home. Change here.”
It was the first time in a long time that something made sense.
Now Gabby grabs my hand for a moment and squeezes it, keeping her eye on the road. “I’m proud of you that you’re taking control of your life,” she says. “Just by getting on the plane this morning, you’re getting your life together.”
“You think so?” I ask.
She nods. “I think Los Angeles will be good for you. Don’t you? Returning to your roots. It’s a crime we’ve lived so far apart for so many years. You’re correcting an injustice.”
I laugh. I’m trying to see this move as a victory instead of a defeat.
Finally, we pull onto Gabby’s street, and she parks her car at the curb.
We are in front of a complex on a steep, hilly street. Gabby and Mark bought a townhouse last year. I look at the addresses on the row of houses and search for the number four, to see which one is theirs. I may not have been here before, but I’ve been sending cards, baked goods, and various gifts to Gabby for months. I know her address by heart. Just as I catch the number on the door in the glow of the streetlight, I see Mark come out and walk toward us.
Mark is a tall, conventionally handsome man. Very physically strong, very traditionally male. I’ve always had a penchant for guys with pretty eyes and five o’clock shadows, and I thought Gabby did, too. But she ended up with Mark, the poster boy for clean-cut and stable. He’s the kind of guy who goes to the gym for health reasons. I have never done that.
I open my car door and grab one of my bags. Gabby grabs another. Mark meets us at the car. “Hannah!” he says as he gives me a big hug. “It is so nice to see you.” He takes the rest of the bags out of the car, and we head into the house. I look around their living room. It’s a lot of neutrals and wood finishes. Safe but gorgeous.
“Your room is upstairs,” she says, and the three of us walk up the tight staircase to the second floor. There is a master bedroom and a bedroom across the hall.
Gabby and Mark lead me into the guest room, and we put all the bags down.
It’s a small room but big enough for just me. There�
�s a double bed with a billowy white comforter, a desk, and a dresser.
It’s late, and I am sure both Gabby and Mark are tired, so I do my best to be quick.
“You guys go ahead to bed. I can get myself settled,” I say.
“You sure?” Gabby asks.
I insist.
Mark gives me a hug and heads to their bedroom. Gabby tells him she’ll be there in a moment.
“I’m really happy you’re here,” she says to me. “In all of your city hopping, I always hoped you’d come back. At least for a little while. I like having you close by.”
“Well, you got me,” I tell her, smiling. “Perhaps even closer than you were thinking.”
“Don’t be silly,” she says. “Live in my guest room until we’re both ninety years old, as far as I’m concerned.” She gives me a hug and heads to her room. “If you wake up before we do, feel free to start the coffee.”
After I hear the bedroom door shut, I grab my toiletry bag and head into the bathroom.
The light in here is bright and unforgiving; some might even go so far as to describe it as harsh. There’s a magnifying mirror by the sink. I grab it and pull it toward my face. I can tell I need to get my eyebrows waxed, but overall, there isn’t too much to complain about. As I start to push the mirror back into place, the view grazes the outside of my left eye.
I pull on my skin, somewhat in denial of what I’m seeing. I let it bounce back into shape. I stare and inspect.
I have the beginnings of crow’s-feet.
I have no apartment and no job. I have no steady relationship or even a city to call home. I have no idea what I want to be doing with my life, no idea what my purpose is, and no real sign of a life goal. And yet time has found me. The years I’ve spent dilly-dallying around at different jobs in different cities show on my face.
I have wrinkles.
I let go of the mirror. I brush my teeth. I wash my face. I resolve to buy night cream and start wearing sunscreen. And then I turn down the covers and get into bed.
My life may be a little bit of a disaster. I may not make the best decisions sometimes. But I am not going to lie here and stare at the ceiling, worrying the night away.
Instead, I go to sleep soundly, believing I will do better tomorrow. Things will be better tomorrow. I’ll figure this all out tomorrow.
Tomorrow is, for me, a brand-new day.
I wake up to a bright, sunny room and a ringing phone.
“Ethan!” I whisper into the phone. “It’s nine o’clock on a Saturday morning!”
“Yeah,” he says, his gritty voice made grittier by the phone. “But you’re still on East Coast time. It’s noon for you. You should be up.”
I continue to whisper. “OK, but Gabby and Mark are still sleeping.”
“When do I get to see you?” he says.
I met Ethan in my sophomore year of high school at Homecoming.
I was still living at home with my parents. Gabby was offered a babysitting job that night and decided to take it instead of going to the dance. I ended up going by myself, not because I wanted to go but because my dad teased me that I never went anywhere without her. I went to prove him wrong.
I stood at the wall for most of the night, killing time until I could leave. I was so bored that I thought about calling Gabby and persuading her to join me once her babysitting gig was over. But Jesse Flint was slow-dancing with Jessica Campos all night in the middle of the dance floor. And Gabby loved Jesse Flint, had been pining away for him since high school began. I couldn’t do that to her.
As the night wore on and couples started making out in the dimly lit gym, I looked over at the only other person standing against the wall. He was tall and thin, with rumpled hair and a wrinkled shirt. His tie was loose. He looked right back at me. And then he walked over to where I was standing and introduced himself.
“Ethan Hanover,” he said, putting out his hand.
“Hannah Martin,” I said, putting out my own to grab his.
He was a junior at another school. He told me he was just there as a favor to his neighbor, Katie Franklin, who didn’t have a date. I knew Katie fairly well. I knew she was a lesbian who wasn’t ready to tell her parents. The whole school knew that she and Teresa Hawkins were more than just friends. So I figured I wasn’t hurting anyone by flirting with the boy she brought for cover.
But pretty soon I found myself forgetting anyone else was even at the dance in the first place. When Katie did finally come get him and suggest it was time to go, I felt as if something was being taken from me. I was tempted to reach out and grab him, to claim him for myself.
Ethan had a party at his parents’ house the next weekend and invited me. Gabby and I didn’t normally go to big parties, but I made her come. He perked up the minute I walked in the door. He grabbed my hand and introduced me to his friends. I lost track of Gabby somewhere by the Tostitos.
Soon Ethan and I had ventured upstairs. We were sitting on the top step of the staircase, hip to hip, talking about our favorite bands. He kissed me there, in the dark, the wild party happening just underneath our feet.
“I only threw a party so I could call you and invite you,” he said to me. “Is that stupid?”
I shook my head and kissed him again.
When Gabby came and found me an hour or so later, my lips felt swollen, and I knew I had a hickey.
We lost our virginity to each other a year and a half later. We were in his bedroom when his parents were out of town. He told me he loved me as I lay underneath him, and he kept asking if it was OK.
Some people talk about their first time as a hilarious or pathetic experience. I can’t relate. Mine was with someone I loved, someone who also had no idea what we were doing. The first time I had sex, I made love. I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for Ethan for that very reason.
And then everything fell apart. He got into UC Berkeley. Sarah got into the Royal Ballet School, and my parents packed up and moved to London. I moved in with the Hudsons. And then, one balmy August morning a week before the beginning of my senior year of high school, Ethan got into his parents’ car and left for Northern California.
We made it until the end of October before we broke up. At the time, we assured each other that it was just because the timing was wrong and the distance was hard. We told each other we’d get back together that summer. We told each other it didn’t change anything; we were still soul mates.
But it was no different from the same old song and dance at every college every fall.
I started considering schools in Boston and New York, since living on the East Coast would make it easier to get to London. When Ethan came home for Christmas, I was dating a guy named Chris Rodriguez. When Ethan came home for the summer, he was dating a girl named Alicia Foster.
When I got into Boston University, that was the final nail.
Soon there was more than three thousand miles between us and no plan to shorten the distance.
Ethan and I have occasionally kept in touch, a phone call here or there, a dance or two at mutual friends’ weddings. But there has always been an unspoken tension. There is always this sense that we haven’t followed through on our plan.
He still, all these years later, shines brighter to me than other people. Even after I got over him, I was never able to extinguish the fire completely, as if it’s a pilot light that will remain small and controlled but very much alive.
“You’ve been in this city for twelve hours, according to my calculations,” Ethan says. “And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you be here for twelve more without seeing me.”
I laugh. “Well, we’ll be cutting it close, I think,” I say to him. “Gabby says there is some bar in Hollywood that we should go to tonight. She invited a whole bunch of friends from high school, so I can see everybody again. She’s calling it a housewarming. Which makes no sense. I don’t know.”
Ethan laughs. “Text me the time and place, and I will be there.”
�
��Awesome. Sounds great.”
I start to say good-bye, but his voice chimes in again. “Hey, Hannah,” he says.
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you decided to come home.”
I laugh. “Well, I was running out of cities.”
“I don’t know,” he says. “I like to think you’ve just come to your senses.”
I am pulling things out of my suitcase and flinging them around the guest room. “I swear I will clean this up,” I say to Gabby and Mark. They are dressed and standing by the door. They have been ready to go for at least ten minutes.
“It’s not a fashion show,” Gabby says.
“It’s my first night back in Los Angeles,” I remind her. “I want to look good.”
I had on a black shirt and black jeans, with long earrings and, of course, a high bun. But then I thought, you know, this isn’t New York anymore. This is L.A. It was sixty degrees out this afternoon.
“I just want to find a tank top,” I say. I start filtering through the clothes I have already thrown across the room. I find a teal shell tank and throw it on. I slip on my black heels. I look in the mirror and fix my bun. “I promise I will clean this all up when we get back.”
I can see Mark laughing at me. He knows I sometimes don’t do exactly what I say I’ll do. No doubt, when Gabby asked him if I could stay here, she prepared him by saying, “She will probably throw her stuff all over the place.” Also, I have no doubt he said that was OK. So I don’t feel too bad.
But I don’t think that is why Mark is laughing, actually. He says, “For someone so disorganized, you look very pulled together.”
Gabby smiles at him and then at me. “You do. You look, like, glowy.” She grabs the doorknob and then says, “But looks aren’t the measure of a woman.” She can’t stop herself. This political correctness is just a part of who she is. I love her for that.
Maybe in Another Life Page 2
