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Fifteen minutes later, they were seated across a table from each other at the Pizza Pit, splitting a mushroom pizza. He hadn’t wanted to take her to the Faulk Street Tavern, in part because bar food wasn’t Gus’s strength and Nick was hungry, and in part because he didn’t want to risk some other song pouring out of the jukebox and snaring them in its sticky web.
“So I got the go-ahead to buy the entire lot,” she was telling him. “It wasn’t just that I’d stumbled onto some real treasures in that house, but that my boss trusted me. He trusted my judgment. It was practically like getting a promotion, his letting me buy an entire lot like that. We’re going to make a really nice profit on it, even if we wind up tossing or donating half the stuff. The other half is fantastic.”
Nick didn’t understand much about antiques. Yeah, his Honda Civic had more than a hundred-fifty thousand miles on it, and his house was furnished with pieces purchased at the Goodwill store. But nothing he owned, no matter how old, was worth much.
Her excitement about the estate purchase she’d engineered was infectious, though. He recalled the first time he’d seen her, across the room at the Faulk Street Tavern while David Bowie crooned. Even at that distance and in the dim lighting, he’d noticed that she’d looked drawn. Beautiful but pensive, maybe a little worried.
Not now. Now she glowed.
“When I got your message,” she said, “I wanted to see you, to tell you about this.”
“About the house full of stuff?”
“About how empowered I feel. I exceeded expectations, Nick. And I love it.”
Oh, man. He loved it, too. He loved her for being so excited.
Not that he loved her. He just loved how psyched she was, radiant and bubbly. This wasn’t about love.
Turn and face the strange… The lyric bludgeoned his brain with the force of a lead pipe, nearly flattening him. He covered by reaching for another slice of pizza.
He didn’t love her. Of course he didn’t. But damn, if this—this thing was going anywhere—and who the hell knew where it was going, but if it was—he had to come clean. He had to tell her who he was.
How could he, when she was so happy? Congratulations on your big score today. By the way, I was convicted of attempted murder when I was fifteen.
Telling her the truth was the right thing to do. But before he could do that right thing, she started talking again. “I’m so glad you invited me to the game. In all honesty, I wasn’t going to come.”
“I wouldn’t have blamed you,” he said, managing a smile. “A group of middle-school kids too short to execute a slam-dunk? Not exactly a thrill.”
She smiled. “I wasn’t expecting a Celtics game. But…it wasn’t that.” She sipped from her glass of iced tea, then smiled again, a forced, feeble smile. “I phoned Peter after I got your message. My…”
Her hesitation stretched into a full-fledged silence. “Your fiancé?” he guessed.
She nodded. “I wanted to tell him about my coup this afternoon. I mean, he is supposed to be my fiancé. My husband-to-be. I thought, wow, I had this great day at my job. The person I should share this with is the man I’m supposed to marry, right?”
Nick wasn’t enjoying the turn the conversation had taken, but he knew he had to listen. What she was saying was important.
“And he just…” Her smile now seemed brave but futile, her eyes glistening with tears. “He said, ‘Well, that’s very nice, Diana. When are you coming home?’ He just dismissed the whole thing. It was like, ‘Oh, aren’t you a good little girl. Now snap out of it and get back here where you belong.’ Like he was patting me on the head and pasting a gold star next to my name.”
Having never had a gold star pasted next to his name, Nick could only imagine what that was like. Flattering. Patronizing. Dismissive.
“I was so excited, and he didn’t want to share my excitement with me.” She was still smiling, but the moisture in her eyes overflowed, a few stray tears trickling down her cheeks. “And I thought, well, I’ll see Nick tonight. Maybe he’ll get it. Because I just wanted to share with someone. Is that so terrible?”
“No, of course not.” He longed to gather her in his arms and hold her tight, to let her rest her head on his shoulder and cry her heart out. Even if she’d be crying over her son-of-a-bitch fiancé.
But she was laboring hard to conceal her distress. When she dabbed at her cheeks with one of the flimsy paper napkins the waiter had delivered with their order, she pretended she was wiping her mouth. She didn’t want comforting. She was too proud for that.
“When something cool like that happens,” he said, “you want to celebrate. Celebrating alone is the pits.”
“Well, I’m celebrating with you.”
“I’m honored.” He hadn’t known he would say that, but it was the truth.
Her tears spilled more heavily now, a trickle turning into a torrent. He handed her his napkin, because hers was sure to be saturated soon. “I’m going to break up with him,” she said.
Because of Nick? Because of the fiancé’s inability to acknowledge how important her professional accomplishment today was to her?
Because of the song? Because she was changing?
The reason didn’t matter. She was breaking up with the bastard. And Nick was thrilled.