The First Husband

by Laura Dave

  I nodded. “Well . . .” I said. “When your brother called me, to tell me what was going on with you, that you were in here, I had just quit my job. . . .”

  Griffin gave me a confused look. “So how’s that the beginning, exactly?” he asked.

  I smiled. “I was leaving London anyway,” I said. “I was leaving before all of this.”

  “Why was that?” he asked.

  “It was a dream job,” I said, giving him a small shrug. “But it turns out that you were right. It was someone else’s dream.”

  Griffin nodded. But he stayed quiet, watching me, and waiting for the rest of it—waiting to hear where I was planning to go.

  “But, the thing is, when your brother called, I was actually calling Nick to tell him that,” I said. I took a deep breath, and shored myself up to say the rest of it. “When your brother called, that’s what I was doing. I figured out what I wanted, and I was calling Nick to tell him.”

  “Tell him?” Griffin said.

  “Maybe I should go back to the beginning. . . .”

  Griffin squeezed my hand, laughing a little. “Now,” he said. “Now she wants to go back to the beginning.”

  “I had to go to London, Griffin. Because I didn’t know it before then,” I said. “I didn’t know the whole story yet.”

  “Which is what?” he said.

  “Why I picked you.”

  I paused, meeting his eyes, so he could feel it. That I meant it, exactly what was coming.

  “It wasn’t on a whim. My whole life I’ve been searching for things that felt good enough. Looking out there, as far out there as I could get, for what might make me happy. I even managed to make a career out it. But then I found you. And you were only interested in me feeling good enough for me.” I paused, trying to fight the tears in my eyes. “And you made me a restaurant so I would.”

  Griffin gave me a smile, and then he tried unsuccessfully to pull me toward him, through the chair. “I think you should come here,” he said.

  I nodded, and got into bed beside him, lying down on my side, the two of us facing each other, like that.

  He kissed me on the forehead, then on both cheeks. “So . . .” Griffin said. “What about Nick, then?”

  I tried to figure out how to say it, what I had figured out about Nick—what had taken me five years, a brutal breakup, and a belated marriage proposal to figure out: we loved each other. (I can be a slow learner, I know.) We loved each other in the difficult, unusable way where you took turns doing it, instead of ever managing to do it at the same time. You can’t always do it at the same time, but you have to be able to sometimes. Because, ultimately, wasn’t being good at it, together, the most important part?

  And more than that, there was this. On the other side of Nick, I had shifted. Griffin had shifted me. That was what love could do, after all. And I didn’t want to shift back to where I accepted less than what was at stake for me, right here, with Griffin. A place where I had to show up. Where I was learning how to let someone show up for me.

  Griffin tilted his head toward me. “I’m just asking,” he said, “if you realized all this in London, why did you call him?”

  “Oh,” I said, and nodded, vigorously, getting his question. “Because I realized something else too.”

  “What’s that?” Griffin said.

  “I want my dog back,” I said.

  I felt it against my chest, Griffin starting to smile, moving in to kiss me like that, smile still going. We kissed for a minute. And then he started to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” I said, but then I was laughing too—just at the sound of hearing his laugh—both of us laughing hard, I was a little afraid it might hurt him.

  “I was hoping to get her before I got on the plane to come to you,” I said. “But that didn’t exactly work out.”

  “It’s not that,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s really not what I was laughing about.”

  “What, then?”

  “Jesse and I were looking out the window earlier,” he said. “When you were talking to my mother and Gia.”

  My eyes got wide, understanding. “You saw the hug?” I said.

  “I saw the hug, I even got it on film,” he said.

  I closed my eyes. “I’m mortified,” I said.

  “Don’t be,” he said. “I think in that moment you may have single-handedly brought me back to health.”

  “That’s not nice,” I said, blushing. But I relaxed into him anyway. For the first time, since we’d been so far away from each other, I felt myself truly relaxing.

  “But Griffin? ” I said, softer now, closer now. “I’ve been thinking about something else,” I said.

  “One more thing?” he said.

  I nodded. “One more thing.”

  He looked right at me, pulling the hair off of my face. “Hit me,” he said.

  I leaned into his hand, which was still holding my hair. “I know it’s silly, but I want a wedding. I want to buy a big, poufy white dress that costs too much, and to wear my tango shoes, and have a first dance in the backyard. I want to take a really awkward photograph with our mothers, and to get a really bad hangover the next day,” I said. “I want to say this counts.”

  He got quiet for a minute, looking at me. Then he nodded. “I’m up for that.”

  “Good,” I said. “I mean, it doesn’t have to be tomorrow. But just, one day.”

  “Yeah,” he said, “I’d say tomorrow is probably out.”

  I laughed, Griffin leaning into me, his mouth right by my ear.

  “But so you know,” he said, “if you say it softly right now, it will.”

  It took me a minute. It took me a minute to understand what he was saying. And it took me one last minute before I did it. “It counts,” I said.

  Then, as if on cue, the nurse came in, and told us we could go home.

  39

  Maybe the most important thing I learned from writing “Checking Out” was that there was no such thing as the perfect destination. To a certain degree, I understood that going in, but it became more clear to me every time that a reader asked the magic question: If you could only take one more trip, where would you go?

  On any given day, I could choose Sicily, just to revisit the loveliest waterfall I’d ever seen; or Caracas, Venezuela, for the tiny staircase leading down to the greatest tango room I’ll probably ever have the privilege of dancing in; or Brattleboro, Vermont, and that tiny bar that I’d happily spend half my life in, and not only because it has the best macaroni and cheese I ever tasted. Or that foresty inn in Big Sur, California, where my soul feels a little bit like it can take a breath without asking anyone’s permission.

  In the end—even if no one wants it be so complex (or so simple)—every place offers its own special treasures. But no place offers all of them. Which no one wants to hear. Because it puts it ultimately in our hands, doesn’t it? What we choose to live with, and what we choose to live without.

  Twenty-four hours before my thirty-third birthday—a few weeks after I was back in Williamsburg for good—I was sitting on the living room couch, trying to get some work done.

  I was trying to get some work done as opposed to what I was actually doing, which was watching the Tee Ball game that wasn’t exactly happening right outside of the bay window. The twins were in the backyard, running around the tee, playing some sort of impromptu game of tag, while a very excited Mila jumped up and down with the ball in her mouth.

  I laughed, making myself look back at my computer screen. That was the deal, after all. I couldn’t go outside until I was finished working on the introduction to my book. My book. It made me feel good to say it. (Good and a little bit terrified, though I was trying not to focus on that part.) It was a book of photography. It was centered around the photographs I’d taken of the beautiful homes. And centered around how one travel writer’s journey ended when she found hers. Or, maybe, how it began again. However you wanted to look at it.

  “Knock . .
. knock.”

  I turned to find Griffin standing in the living room doorway, a ridiculously big bowl of buttered popcorn in his hands.

  “Just wanted to see how it’s going?” he asked.

  “Well, if I can get you to bring that popcorn over here, I’m far more likely to tell you,” I said.

  He handed over the popcorn, taking a perch on the side of the couch. “So?” he said.

  “Well, so far . . .” I looked down at my computer screen, then back up at him. “I’ve written fifteen of the introduction.”

  His eyes got wide. “Pages?”

  “Words.”

  Griffin got quiet, considering this. “Are they good ones?”

  “They aren’t bad,” I said.

  “You sound like you deserve a break,” he said.

  “Oh, thank goodness!”

  I closed the laptop, and reached for him, pulling him toward me for a long kiss. He held me there, against him, which allowed me to move me into the nook, right into the curve in his chest. The truth was, I was still doing it, listening to his heartbeat like that, far too often. I imagined there would come a time when I wouldn’t. Or it wouldn’t scare me in the same way. But, for now, it did.

  Griffin kissed the top of my head. “So I was thinking,” he said, “since tonight’s my night off, we could watch a movie, if you want.”

  “Sounds good,” I said.

  “Yeah? ”

  I took a large handful of popcorn. “Definitely,” I said. “What did you have in mind?”

  As an answer, Griffin clicked on the DVD player, a movie already in there sneakily ready to go, the opening sequence coming to life on the screen: the crisp white credits, that fabulous orchestra, the Vatican coming across the screen. Roman Holiday.

  I pointed at the television, the popcorn spilling from my open fist, onto the floor. “No!!!” I said.

  “Yes.”

  I didn’t even bother dusting off my hands before putting them over my eyes. Fast as I could.

  “Have you lost your freaking mind? What are you doing to me? ” I said, my voice rising to a surprisingly high volume. “I can’t see anything! Whoever is listening, whoever decides these things, I didn’t see anything worth mentioning. I didn’t see anything, barely at all, that should bring on the bad.”

  I was yelling toward the ceiling at this point—it’s sadly true—but Griffin was laughing too hard to hear just how loud. (He did hit PAUSE first, bless his heart.) He was laughing and gently removing my hands from over my eyes, kissing each of them, holding them in his lap.

  “You trust me, right?” he said.

  I looked at him, his sweet face. His knock-you-out smile—this close to being too smooth for its own good.

  “Very much,” I said.

  “Then trust me that it’ll be fine. I promise you.”

  “You don’t get it. You can’t promise that.” I pointed at the screen again. “You turn that on, and I may as well just sit here and wait for the bad to happen.”

  He shrugged. “Well, I guess I have a different idea.”

  “What? You think you can turn it all around? Make Roman Holiday bring some good luck after all this time?”

  “More like, I think the bad is probably coming anyway, so you may as well enjoy the movie.”

  “That’s depressing!”

  “That’s life,” he said. “It’s a great movie. It’d be good to enjoy it.”

  It would. It would be good to enjoy it. For all the reasons it was my favorite movie—and one more reason that, maybe, was only occurring to me now. For a moment there, Audrey found it. Amidst the crazy experiment of taking a day to live life on her own terms. She did find it. The place she felt like she belonged.

  “Here we go . . .” Griffin said.

  Then he clicked PAUSE again, and turned the volume up higher, the movie coming to life on the screen.

  “And I’ll be here for you,” he said. “If and when the bad does come. For whatever it’s worth.”

  It was worth a lot. How could I tell him how much? I would spend my life trying.

  And, still, I picked up my computer and hauled ass out of that room, as fast as my legs would carry me.

  40

  Later that night I found myself once again in front of my computer—my house quiet, dark, happy—Mila sleeping by my feet, her weight keeping them warm. I was writing an e-mail to Jordan.

  The subject line read: MY FINAL “CHECKING OUT” COLUMN. And this is what the e-mail said:

  CHECKING OUT

  by Annie Adams

  WHY I’M LIVING WITH CHEF BOYARDEE IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE

  Open Your Eyes:

  And look at his.

  Leave Your Comfort Zone:

  To quote Peter’s good friend John Steinbeck: “I’ve lived in good climate, and it bores the hell out of me. I like weather rather than climate.” Here’s hoping, one of these days, I agree with Steinbeck.

  Find the Special Sauce:

  I recommend the lobster and eggs, preferably in the middle of the night, sitting on a cold kitchen counter. There’s nothing better than waiting for that next bite, which (even if it shouldn’t be possible) is always better than the last.

  Take the Wrong Exit:

  Some might say western Massachusetts is a wrong exit. Especially after the “perfect” exit: one leading to a place to call my own on the best block in London, to a high-flying career, to a second basil martini, to a new life that could be anything. But here’s the thing that I’ve learned about this open-ended daring, the thrill associated with endless escape: it gets less thrilling. Especially once you’ve found the courage to choose something you don’t really want to escape from.

  Discover the One Thing You Can’t Find Anywhere Else:

  I told Griffin about Roman Holiday. He’s the first person I’ve told since you. And he tried to make me sit down and watch it with him. So I would understand we were in it together. All of it. The good, the bad, the ridiculous. And like that, I feel safe in all three. . . . So don’t worry. We are taking it slow, and he is married. But it turns out he’s married to me, so I’m thinking we may have a good shot.

  I started to shut the computer down for the night—to go upstairs and get into bed with Griffin, to leave whatever else was coming until tomorrow—but Jordan wrote me back, almost immediately.

  To The Editor:

  I will admit that I enjoyed this column. Especially the last part. I shouldn’t have to carry all the information regarding Annie’s crazy alone. Glad I won’t have to anymore.

  Please tell her not to get too excited, but we’re thinking about coming for a visit. Okay, we’re definitely coming. She can be as excited as she likes.

  We can’t wait. Apparently, the middle of nowhere is the most beautiful place in the world when the leaves start to turn.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank my family and friends, who were tremendously supportive while I worked on this book.

  Thank you to the fantastic team at Viking Penguin, who has made a home for me for three books now. I am grateful to everyone there, especially my wonderfully insightful editor Molly Barton. For their wisdom and expertise, a special thank you to Clare Ferraro, Nancy Sheppard, Shannon Twomey, Andrew Duncan, Maureen Donnelly, and Stephen Morrison.

  Thank you to my dynamite and very wise agents—Gail Hochman and Sylvie Rabineau—for their invaluable guidance.

  Thank you to my early readers for helping in many ways: Allison Winn Scotch, Jonathan Tropper, Dustin Thomason, Heather Thomason, Ben Tishler, Dahvi Waller, Camrin Agin, Michael Fisher, Jessica Bohrer, Amy Cooper, Sam Baum, Jonas Agin, Bonnie Carrabba, Liz Squadron, Brett Forman, Melissa Rice, Alisa Mall, Carolyn Earthy, Becca Richards, Paula and Peter Noah, Gary Belsky, Brendan and Amanda O’Brien, Andrew and Crystal Li Cohen, Debora Cahn, Michael Heller, Shauna Seliy, and Dana Forman, who read this book too many times to count.

  Many thanks to the wonderful book clubs and bookstores that have made me feel so welcom
e with their enthusiasm and warmth.

  For their love and support, thank you to my brother Jeff, and to the entire Dave and Singer families.

  A special thank you to my mom and my dad—Rochelle and Andrew Dave—who raised me to love books and writing. I am so grateful to be their daughter.

  Finally, my gratitude and love to Josh Singer, my favorite writer, who not only cared for every page of this book as much as I did, but who sang to me from The Gleam whenever I requested. And who is my favorite part of every day.

  Also by Laura Dave

  The Divorce Party

  London Is the Best City in America