The First Husband

by Laura Dave

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m just saying he has a point. It’s hard to maintain a good relationship with someone who’s not around. And I’ve always been like that, right? I moved twelve times before I even turned eighteen, and now I travel half the year for work.” I shrugged. “I don’t think in my whole life I’ve been in the same place for more than a week.”

  Her eyes opened wide, as though she understood something for the first time. “Oh, I see! So it’s your fault that your mother is a lost loon, and that Nick is having an early midlife terror attack? Both of those things are on you?”

  Before I could answer, she started looking around the room. Then she turned back to me.

  “Where’s the dog?” she said.

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “You let him take the fucking d-o-g?” she asked.

  “You spelled the wrong word,” I said.

  “You love Mila. In that gross, irritating way where people talk about you behind your back.”

  “So does Nick.”

  She gave me a stunned look, but I turned away. How could I explain it, anyway? Even now, after Nick had caused me pain, the truth was I didn’t want to cause him any. Wasn’t that love, after all?

  Jordan turned toward her daughter, shaking her head. “Sasha, do you believe this? ” she asked. “Your aunt is being loyal to a man even in the face of his questionable moral character. Don’t do that. In fact, that is what not to do. When you grow up and some guy is being bad, you turn on him like the wind. Understood?”

  Sasha kept coloring, smiling at her Wonder Woman creation, Wonder Woman’s costume now entirely bright orange.

  “Acknowledge that you hear me, baby,” she said.

  “I acknowledge, Mommy,” she said. Then she picked up a different crayon, a new shade of orange, and started on Wonder Women’s hair.

  Jordan kissed Sasha on the forehead, pushing her soft curls back away. Then she kissed her again.

  “So here’s what I’m thinking . . .” she said, turning back to me. “And I don’t want to hear any arguments.”

  I sat back down, giving her a smile. “That’s shocking.”

  “You’re going to come with us to Venice, until the dust clears. I have an embezzlement case there that should last twelve weeks or so. We’re getting a great house walking distance to the Rialto. Right by the single best coffee shop in the world. And, as no small bonus, this Venice,” she motioned around herself, “will feel a million miles away.”

  “That sounds amazing,” I said.

  “Great. Then it’s settled.”

  I shook my head. “I have to work,” I said.

  “I’m sorry, don’t they have computers in Italy?” she asked.

  I didn’t have a good answer, but I wanted her to understand how impossible it felt to take her up on her offer. “I can’t walk away from my life right now.”

  “Annie, I think it walked away from you already,” she said.

  I drilled her with a look.

  “Not helpful?” she said. “I’m sorry. I suck at this. I just don’t want this to get as bad as it might get.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? ” I asked, even though I knew. I wasn’t one of those women who moved on quickly: had a new boyfriend a week later, had a new way of looking at the old one. My “process” was a little less forgiving than that. First I had to blame myself for everything that went wrong. And then everything that didn’t.

  “Come to Venice, Annie,” Jordan said. “Nick will get over this. Life will go back to normal. In the meantime, let’s have some fun! Be the opposite of you.”

  Be the opposite of you: those words hit me, right away, penetrating the fog. Be the opposite of me? It was day ten and this was the first thing I remember hearing that sounded like a good idea. It was the first thing that sounded something like a real plan. For getting on with it.

  “It would help me out too,” Jordan continued. “Simon and I can actually spend a little time alone. Have a romantic dinner, occasionally. Go for a long walk.” She paused. “See? This isn’t even about your needs. I’m basically using you for child care.”

  I laughed. “I don’t know, Jordan. . . .”

  “Yes. You do.” She looked right at me. “We both know Nick’s coming back to you. It’s just the five-year itch. That’s a very real thing. I plan to be in Morocco for mine. Speaking of which, I’m going to need some hotel recommendations when the time comes. Something with a spa.”

  I shook my head. “It’s not that simple,” I said.

  “It is. But I’ll grant you that your five-yearer came at the worst possible time. Nick just got his first taste of fame and has temporary amnesia that he is a nerdy guy who . . .” Her eyes went wide, something occurring to her. “Stopped wearing his nerdy-guy glasses.”

  “So?” I said.

  “So, I should’ve known something was going on when he started wearing those contact lenses. How did I miss it?” She shook her head. “It’s like he took his brain off when he took those glasses off. It’s all very Piggy in Lord of the Flies.”

  I looked at her, confused. “Piggy’s glasses were broken, I think.”

  She waved me off. “You’re missing the point,” she said.

  “Which is what?”

  “That Nick loves you. He loves you so much that I can guarantee nothing real is going to happen with Pearl. But men can forget. If too much time goes by, they can forget what they have. How much they want what they have. And you shouldn’t suffer while he remembers. I won’t allow it.” She paused. “Besides, the sooner you aren’t, the sooner he’ll be back. That’s the way it works.”

  That part I couldn’t help but agree with. It seemed to me that the universe was tricky that way—as soon as you didn’t need something as badly, as soon as you hold onto the hope of it less tightly, you get a second shot at it.

  I put my forehead against hers. “I love you,” I said. “In case you didn’t know.”

  “So come to Venice with me. And, just this once, let someone be the one that takes care of you.”

  “Your brother says he has been,” I said. “Too much.”

  She sighed. “I really wish you’d stop referring to him that way.”

  I smiled. “I’ll think about coming,” I said. “I really will.”

  “No you won’t.”

  “Maybe not.” I said. “But no more doomsday talking, okay? I promise you, I’ll be fine. Look at me. I am fine. And to prove it, this time tomorrow I begin again. What’s five years, anyway? Forget tomorrow. Tonight, I head outside and rejoin the world. I already have plans. Big ones. . . .”

  She sat back in her chair. “My God, you’re a terrible liar,” she said. “It’s amazing to watch, actually.”

  “Where did I lose you? The I-already-have-plans bit?”

  She grabbed my pinky, giving it a tight squeeze.

  “Yeah, that part could have used some work,” she said. “Plus, your purple tank top is inside out.”

  3

  After Jordan left that night, I cried myself to sleep.

  This was what I was up against: five Christmases and five New Years, ten birthdays, and every Thanksgiving. Six cross-country trips, three half-country ones, three movie sets, one ten-year college reunion. Two trips to the hospital for food poisoning, one car accident in Mexico, three broken bones, one appendicitis. Five grandparents’ (and step-grandparents’) deaths. Valentine’s Day in Hong Kong, Valentine’s Day in New York City, Valentine’s Day barely speaking to each other in the same house. His sister’s wedding, two of my mother’s divorces, four mutual godchildren, one angel of a chocolate Labrador retriever. A shared language, a shared family, a shared future plan to travel the world together. Two weeks on a terrible houseboat near Lake Michigan, the last night when he gave me a locket anyway, four small words on the back, as if they made perfect sense: For you, for always. Not one day when we didn’t talk, even if it was to argue. Not one night when I didn’t say good nigh
t, even if I didn’t mean it. Not one morning when the first thing I didn’t think was, You.

  Then I woke up in the middle of the night, remembering something else. I remembered a trip we took toward the beginning of our relationship, six months in, when we went to Utah for a long weekend. The first night we were there, we were staying at an old rustic cabin outside Moab, right outside town, and before we went to sleep, I said, “How is this so easy?”

  “We should enjoy it while it lasts,” Nick said. “I’m guessing it won’t always be this easy . . .”

  I must have looked distraught. He tried to rectify it immediately—moving closer to me, comforting me by saying he spoke glibly—that it would be this easy between us always, or close to this easy. Of course it would. But, the problem was, easy wasn’t the word that had caused me distress.

  It was the always.

  A small, inexplicable part of me was scared, right from the start—of counting on someone, of trusting that he’d always be there for me—as much it was exactly what another part of me wanted.

  And I wondered how I had gotten here.

  4

  It wasn’t the next night, but the night after that when I decided I’d keep my promise to Jordan: I’d rejoin the land of the living. A little after five, I turned on the radio, took a piping-hot shower, and put on my makeup. Movement seemed key, so I didn’t stop to think about any of it too much. Hair drying and brushing, dangly earrings on. It felt a little like watching a video of myself when I caught a glance of my face in the mirror: Hello, aren’t you someone I used to know?

  Picking out something to wear turned out to be easier than anticipated, because I hadn’t done laundry since Nick ’s exit and there were precisely two articles of clothing left hanging in our closet: a hot-pink kimono that I had gotten at a flea market in Camden Town, which, among its other problems—like the fact that it was a hot-pink kimono—was two sizes too small. And then there was my yellow dress. Wrapped in dry-cleaner’s plastic: protected, ready. I usually reserved it for weddings or black-tie events, as I lived in fear of ruining it. It was my magic dress, as Jordan called it. The kind of dress that makes you four inches taller and ten pounds lighter, and makes your boobs look bigger. In this lifetime, if we are lucky, we each get one.

  And that night it was all I had.

  I sat down on my bed to put on my red, strappy peep-toes and to figure out where I could go that I’d be dressed somewhat appropriately. My usual bar, down on Abbot Kinney, didn’t feel like a candidate. The fanciest person in there would be wearing a clean T-shirt.

  So I decided I would drive down Ocean Avenue into Santa Monica, head to one of my favorite local escapes: a small, fancy hotel on the beach where I could sit at one of the tables on the patio, one of the five tables that gives you a view of the nicest sunset you’ve ever seen. A view that could send you a hundred miles away from anything resembling real life.

  This was the plan: a removal from real life. For the evening, at least. Until I fell asleep before putting the plan into action. Right there, on the bottom half of the bed, in my magic dress.

  I don’t remember lying down. But, when I woke up, I had one peep-toe sandal half on, my magic dress was wrinkled, and it was 12:21 A.M., which may as well have been 4:00 A.M., Los Angeles time. Most everything was shut down for the night, or well on its way to getting there. Including my beach-fancy hotel restaurant and bar. I got up anyway, grabbed my other sandal, and—before I could talk myself out of it—picked up my car keys and headed out the front door. Maybe part of it was that I wanted to be able to tell Jordan I did something constructive, or maybe it had less to do with Jordan than I understood even then, some force I couldn’t explain already at work.

  All I know is that when I walked into the restaurant and saw those twelve-foot windows leading out to the beach and the ocean and the rest of everything, it didn’t matter that the lights were down, and that the place was empty, the patio furniture long put away, the music—Bruce Springsteen’s “The Fever,” I believed—on low. Or that the sole living person still inside was a guy with curly hair: standing behind the bar, wiping it down.

  The problem was that the guy with the curly hair behind the bar wasn’t the normal bartender—the one who I’d become friendly with over the years, friendly enough that Nick and I had helped him read through lines one night for a sitcom audition he had the next day—and who I guessed was my best shot of getting a drink so late.

  I walked over to him. “You’re not Ray,” I said.

  I must have sounded seriously disappointed because this guy laughed.

  “No,” he said. “I guess I’m not.”

  He gave me a smile, big and round, and I felt grateful that the first words out of his mouth weren’t the obvious ones: We’re closed. Then I noticed his face. He had a nice face—a strong jaw, wide-open eyes, a blond scruff of beard matching his sillylooking curls. A significant dimple, making its way confidently through that scruff. He was also wearing a green jacket that matched his eyes a little too perfectly.

  “Does that mean I’m too late for last call?” I asked.

  “Officially or unofficially?” he asked, taking a final swipe at the countertop.

  “Whichever answer gives me the best shot of getting a bourbon straight up,” I said. “Pinch of salt.”

  This was when he smiled again. It was a knock-you-out smile—this close to being too smooth for its own good. But it redeemed itself because it also seemed another way: nervous, genuine. Accidentally smooth. Which, all of a sudden, felt even more dangerous.

  He slung the dish towel over his shoulder. “That’s my drink of choice too,” he said.

  I shook my head. “That’s no one’s drink of choice too,” I said.

  But then he pulled out a small Riedel glass from behind the bar, a little bourbon still left in it, the salt line visible. “I had an uncle who used to drink it that way when I was growing up. I guess I just got used to it,” he said. “You can have a try, if you like.”

  Instead I stood up on my tiptoes, and leaned over the bar to have a better look.

  “Come on, do you have a hundred different drinks lined up back there, waiting to be pulled out? That’s a hell of a way to get tips.”

  “Would you like to have a seat?” He motioned toward the empty bar stool directly in front of him, gestured for me to take it.

  “Really?” I said, as if it were up for debate. As if I weren’t already taking it eagerly—my dress hiking up too high on my legs, as I positioned myself as close to the bar as possible, trying to get comfortable.

  I guess I was moving a little awkwardly because he was looking at me more than slightly confused. “You all right, there?”

  “I’m good,” I said. I held out my hand, still just trying to seem friendly, get that drink. “I’m Annabelle . . . though pretty much everyone calls me Annie. Adams.”

  He reached out to take my hand, but before he could, I heard footsteps and we both turned to see a familiar face. It was Ray, the usual bartender, in his street clothes, walking toward us. He had a leather jacket slung over his shoulder.

  “Griffin, I’m outta here, my man . . .” Ray said. Then he interrupted himself, noticing me. “Hey, I know you. It’s Samantha, right? Samantha in the pretty dress?”

  I smiled. “Close,” I said.

  “Ray, this is Annie Adams,” the guy behind the bar said. Griffin, apparently.

  Ray looked back and forth between us. “Well, Annie Adams, in the pretty dress, I actually closed out for the night already. Sorry about that. Show starts again at four P.M. tomorrow. . . .”

  I started to stand, but, before I could, Griffin put his hand on top of mine, gently, stopping me exactly where I was.

  “That’s cool, Ray, Annie’s a friend of mine. I dragged her out to have a nightcap with me while I finish up some things. Go on, I’ll lock it out for you.”

  Ray looked back at me. “You’re friends with Griff?” he said.

  I smiled at Griff, as he po
ured me my bourbon, a double shot of it, the greatest amount of salt going in, right on top.

  “Absolutely,” I said.

  “Cool, then.” Ray twirled his leather jacket over his head and turned to leave. “Later!”

  When I looked back at Griffin, he was holding up his bourbon glass, tipping it toward me. “I’m guessing you’re glad I’m not Ray now.”

  “Very,” I said, tipping mine toward him.

  Then I took a long, slow sip of the bourbon. It felt warm and right hitting my throat.

  “That is a pretty dress though,” he said. “He’s right about that.”

  I shrugged. “Don’t let it fool you,” I said. “It’s a magic dress.”

  “I don’t . . .” He shook his head. “I don’t get it.”

  “It’s like a mirage. But all I had was this and a very pink kimono, and the kimono doesn’t fit me anymore.” I paused. “Really, to be honest with you, I’m not sure it ever did.”

  He started to laugh—this was funny? Apparently this was funny.

  Griffin walked around the bar and pointed at the bar stool next to mine.

  “May I?” he asked. “It’ll make it seem more believable that we actually know each other.”

  “In case Ray comes back?” I asked, and smiled.

  He smiled back, his dimple growing. “Exactly,” he said.

  I patted the bar stool. “Be my guest,” I said.

  He sat down and pulled his long legs around, so we were facing each other. And I noticed that the jacket he had unbuttoned—the bright green jacket—was a chef’s jacket. The words EXECUTIVE CHEF embroidered over the pocket, in white.

  “Wait a minute, you’re the chef here?”

  He looked down at his jacket, and pulled on the lettering. “I am?” he joked, responding to how surprised I sounded. “Wow, I guess so, if that’s what the jacket says.”

  “Sorry . 0 .. I just . . . you were standing back there so I thought you worked here as a bartender. As your day job. Or your night job, I guess. I thought maybe you were an actor.”