At Greer’s request, Nate had ceased to be in touch with Elisa. This turned out to be for the best. Elisa derived satisfaction from the fact that Greer found her so threatening that she forbade Nate from seeing or speaking to her. From Jason, Nate learned that Elisa remarked on this whenever the opportunity arose. Nate didn’t doubt that the triumph of that was more than adequate compensation for giving up what even Elisa must have known was a pretty dysfunctional friendship. (Besides, she had been a lot happier since taking the new job; she’d started dating a reporter there.) Nate, for his part, was mostly relieved to be free of the burden of Elisa, without having had to make the decision to drop her himself. And Greer, naturally, enjoyed this proof of her power to effect speedy sacrifice.
Nate told his friends that his book had been long-listed for a fairly prestigious award. He tried to downplay it, but he was in fact extremely pleased. To celebrate, they made him drink a glass of a dessert wine that Hans insisted was considered good luck in Germany.
They walked from the restaurant to the party. Nate didn’t intend to stay long. He had a lot of packing to do.
He’d been at the party for only a little while when he saw Hannah on the far side of Cara’s living room. He made her out just in time to see her see him. She flinched and immediately turned away. When Nate looked back, she was gone.
He went into the kitchen to get a drink. Hannah was by the refrigerator. He had hoped to find her. “Hi,” he said.
“Hi.”
Her voice was cool, her expression unreadable. He said it was good to see her. She smiled blandly and looked as if she wished he wasn’t there.
Nate held a beer in one hand. In his pocket, the fingers of the other coiled and uncoiled against his thigh. He realized he wanted to tell Hannah he was sorry. Or something. But he was afraid it would come out wrong. Patronizing. He decided to do it anyway. Greer told him he overthought these sorts of things, and she was often right.
He took a breath and plunged ahead. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry. About a lot of things. Really. I was an ass.”
Hannah’s expression became a little less guarded. She said yeah, he kind of was. But she said it a little wryly, more amused than angry. After a moment, she started to apologize, too. “I shouldn’t have written what I—” She blushed.
He realized what she was referring to. Perhaps he colored as well. “Don’t worry about it,” he said.
She looked away from him. But there was something arch in the way she sucked in her lips. Nate shrugged and rolled his eyes conspiratorially. She met his glance. Nate felt, more than saw, some kind of recognition of camaraderie. For an instant, the embarrassments—the disappointments—of the past were a grim joke that they alone shared.
He noticed that her hair was subtly different, still straight and falling past her shoulders but a little more fashionably cut. She was wearing more makeup than he remembered as typical for her. She had on a shortish skirt. She looked good.
Not long ago, Aurit had told him that Hannah was seeing a documentary filmmaker. Naturally, this had bothered him a little. Documentary filmmakers were the most pretentious people in the world. He’d always thought so. The thought of some jackass filmmaker enjoying Hannah’s intelligence, her humor, her maturity irritated him. He felt that only he, Nate, was smart enough to fully appreciate the value of her special merits. Which was insane.
He wondered now if she was still seeing the filmmaker. It would probably be weird to ask.
“I heard about your book,” he said instead. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks.”
“I know it’ll be terrific.”
“That’s nice of you to say.”
Then silence—amiable enough, but soon a bit anxiety-provoking.
“So …” Nate began. There was something he wanted to say, but he didn’t know what it was. For lack of anything else, he asked if she’d seen Peter. She shook her head. “He’s here for the weekend,” Nate said. “He’ll be happy to see you.”
He thought she blushed again. He wondered if that had been the wrong thing to say. But why? Perhaps it had just reminded her of things. Then he too remembered the night she’d met Peter. The restaurant, the conversation, her apartment after. He’d held her and he’d felt—he’d felt something so strong and so sad. Had he told her he loved her that night? He had loved her that night.
Suddenly, he was lightheaded. He gripped his plastic cup too tightly, and it began to crumple in his hand. Beer overflowed onto his shoe.
“Careful,” Hannah said, smiling. Then, unexpectedly—he thought they were just getting started—she said she should get going. “My, uh, friend is in the other room. We’ve actually got to take off. Tell Peter I said hello. I wish I’d seen him.”
Nate left soon after. On the subway home, memories poured forth: long nights spent talking in the chairs by her window, in his bed, a lot of laughter, the easy but deep rapport, sex that at its best was full of such feeling, such intensity. He felt a sense of loss, the force of which surprised him as much as the fact of it. He’d thought about Hannah so infrequently since they’d broken up.
At home, he was met with a dry papery smell. The moving boxes, stacked in shadowy piles along the walls.
He began to pace. Of course Hannah never seemed more appealing than she did now, when she was out of reach, when he was about to move in with Greer. And yet he felt sure it was more than that, what he was feeling. The affection he felt for Hannah was real and spontaneous and familiar. It was what he had felt when they were together—at their best moments.
But he had been unhappy with her. That was why they’d broken up.
He retrieved a half-filled box from the ground and placed it on his desk, intending to pack up his file cabinet. He didn’t. After a moment, he walked to the window. When he opened it, a blast of cold air rushed in. He let it wash over him, making the hairs on his arms stand up.
Even now, it was hard for him to say why he’d been unhappy with Hannah.
After a moment, he closed the window. He sat down at his computer. When he turned off the light and got into bed, it was nearly three. He still had trouble falling asleep.
At least, he thought as he turned over yet again, he’d be busy tomorrow. Maybe Greer would come help him pack. Clearly he wasn’t very efficient on his own. Yes, that would be nice. Greer would fill the apartment with light cheer as she laughed at his pitiful progress and at the little messes that were constantly unearthed as he dug into the backs of his closets and moved items of furniture that had been rooted in place for years.
With this thought, Nate began to feel better. And then he knew. This thing he was feeling now—this sense of loss, of longing—would fade, pass from him like any other mood. As it should. What he and Greer had was pretty fucking good. Moreover, he liked his life, his friends. He was pleased with his progress on the new book; perhaps that was, for him, more important than anything else. He was, whether or not he deserved to be, happy.
In a few days, it would be as if this night never happened, the only evidence of it an unsent e-mail automatically saved to his drafts folder. (“Dear Hannah …”) He’d no more remember the pain—or the pleasure—of this moment than he would remember, once he moved into the new apartment, the exact scent of the air from his bedroom window at dawn, after he’d been up all night working.
Acknowledgments
I was lucky to have incredibly supportive early readers. I am indebted to Melissa Flashman and Ryan Ruby, who read the book chapter by chapter as it was being written. Ryan, your line edits were terrific, and I’m grateful for the many conversations we had about Nate. Mel, your early enthusiasm helped me believe in the book. I’ll always be incredibly grateful to you for that.
I’d also like to thank Stacey Vanek Smith, for her support not only of this novel but of previous attempts. Stacey, I will always think fondly on our long phone calls about Isabel and Abby and Tom, before Nate was a glimmer in anyone’s eye. Carlin Flora also read more drafts than a
ny person should have had to. Carlin, I have benefitted in both fiction and life from your sensitivity and insight into character and relationships.
Michelle Orange, Meline Toumani and Gary Sernovitz were also generous enough to read and respond very thoughtfully. Megan Hustad also provided excellent feedback.
I’d also like to thank Anthony Madrid, whose response to my first draft helped to shape the second. Also thank you for years and years of the most wonderful friendship and conversation imaginable. You taught me so much. I wouldn’t recognize the person I’d be if I hadn’t met you in Tucson all those years ago.
Thanks also to Dan Ray, Lou Rouse, Matt Bonds, and Myles Perkins for letting me listen in on years of guy talk.
I am very grateful to my literary agent, Elyse Cheney, who pushed me to make the novel as strong as it could be and who read it far too many times to count. In addition, Sarah Rainone is a sensitive, insightful, and creative editor, and I am indebted to her wonderful editorial skills. Thanks also to Alex Jacobs, who worked tirelessly on behalf of this novel, and read and responded to drafts at various crucial moments, and to Tania Strauss, who offered a refreshing new perspective.
I’d been told that editors don’t really edit these days, but that couldn’t be more false when it comes to Barbara Jones, my wonderfully sensitive and astute editor at Henry Holt. Thank you also to Joanna Levine, Kenn Russell, James Meader, Vicki Hare, David Shoemaker, and everyone else at Holt, with additional heartfelt thanks to the person who had to input my obsessive markings on the text. Also, I’m so grateful to Tom Avery, whose enthusiasm has meant so much, and to everyone at William Heinemann and especially Suzanne Dean. Speaking of Britain, thanks also to Natasha Fairweather.
I also want to thank my brothers, Zev and Steve Waldman. Zev, your line edits were terrific. Steve, I couldn’t have had a more consistent and kind champion than you’ve been for so many years. My cousin Wilhelmina Waldman has also been a huge support over the years.
And of course a huge thank-you to my parents, who never once suggested that I get a “real” job and who have always been incredibly kind and supportive. Your love and patience have seen me through too many crises to count.
Finally, thanks to my amazing husband, Evan Hughes, from whom I have learned so much, about writing and everything else. Evan always treated my fiction writing as the most important thing I could be doing. He is a brilliant editor and a wonderful observer of people and has endured endless conversations about Nate and company. Evan, to say I couldn’t have written this book without you is true—and beside the point. I can’t begin to imagine my life without you.
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Copyright © Adelle Waldman 2013
Adelle Waldman has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
First published in the US in 2013 by Henry Holt and Company, LLC.
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by
William Heinemann
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ISBN 9780434022328
The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P. Page 25
