“The hotel’s on Fifty-sixth—between Sixth and Seventh, closer to Sixth . . . Go into the lobby—and right between the check-in desk and concierge stand, there’s a little curtain and a sign that says BURGER JOINT. I’ll be there, saving our table.”
I furiously scribbled the instructions on the back of my script, my hands now sweaty and shaking. I asked him what time, and he told me eight.
“Okay,” I said. “See you soon.”
I heard the smile in his voice as he replied, “See you soon, Tessa from the subway.”
I hung up the phone, closed my eyes, and screamed a giddy, girly scream.
“Holy shit. Go, Tess,” Cate said. “I mean, technically you should have told him you had plans already. Next time, at least mute the phone and pretend to consult your calendar. And never agree to day-of plans . . .”
“Cate!” I said, racing to my closet. “We don’t have time for a dating tutorial. I have to find something to wear.”
Cate grinned. “Padded bra, black thong, stilettos.”
“Fine on the padded bra and thong . . . But we’re going to a place called ‘Burger Joint.’ Not so sure the stilettos will work.”
Cate looked crestfallen as she followed me to my closet. “Burger Joint? God, I hope he’s not cheap. Sort of defeats the purpose of dating a doctor.”
“He’s still in school,” I said. “And I love burgers.”
“Well, if he’s as fine as you say he is . . . he can pull it off.”
“He is,” I said. “He’s that fine.”
“Well, then,” Cate said, rifling through my clothes. “Let’s get down to business.”
Hours later, I was standing in the chilled lobby of the Parker Meridien wearing jeans, a black tank, and jeweled flip-flops, a casual look that would typically not meet with Cate’s approval, but one she okayed that night on account of the grungy venue and the last-minute invite.
Still hot from my muggy cab ride, I fanned myself with my hand, inhaling my new perfume, bought earlier that day with Nick in mind, determined not to commingle old scents with fresh starts. Then I found the entrance to the restaurant, took a deep breath, and dramatically parted the floor-to-ceiling drapes sequestering the Burger Joint from the lobby. And there he was, standing before me, even finer than I remembered, his beauty a high contrast to the yellow lighting, vinyl booths, and random newspaper clippings taped to the faux-wood paneled walls.
He stepped toward me, smiling, then looked down at my left hand and said, “No ring.”
“No ring,” I said, nothing more, remembering Cate’s admonition not to talk about Ryan.
“I like you even better this way,” he said, smiling.
I smiled back at him, rubbing my thumb over my naked ring finger, feeling an affirming rush that I had done the right thing. Then he asked me what I like on my burger and when I told him just ketchup, he nodded and pointed to the only free booth in the corner. “You might want to grab that for us. This place fills up fast.”
I followed his direction, taking a few steps over to the table, sliding into my seat while I kept my eyes on his back and tried to decide what I admired more about him—his take-charge attitude or the perfect fit of his faded jeans.
Minutes later, he joined me with two burgers wrapped in foil and a pitcher of beer. He poured two glasses, then raised his and said, “Here’s to the best burger you’ll ever have.”
I smiled and thought, Here’s to the best first date I’ll ever have.
Then his face grew serious as he said, “I’m glad you called . . . I didn’t think I was going to hear from you . . . I thought you’d go through with it.”
“Why’s that?” I asked, fleetingly disappointed that he hadn’t had more faith in me.
“Because most people do.”
I nodded, thinking of my brother, but deciding not to air my family laundry right out of the gate. It was one of Cate’s many rules—no “my parents got a divorce” or “my dad cheated on my mom” or other hints of dysfunctional-family talk. I ticked through the other rules—no asking about his exes, no excessive talk about grad school or work, show interest in him without interviewing him.
“I usually hate to be wrong,” Nick said—which he would later tease was my official warning of his biggest character flaw. “But in this case, I’m glad I was.”
Three hours of conversation, two pitchers of beer, and a shared brownie later, he led me to the Columbus Circle subway station, down the steps, and over to the turnstile where he inserted two tokens and motioned for me to go first.
“Where are we going?” I shouted over an approaching train, feeling tipsy from a good beer buzz.
“Nowhere,” he said, smiling. “We’re just going to ride the subway.”
And so we did, making our way onto an empty train, but still opting to stand, holding on to a metal pole together.
“Think it’s the same one?” he asked at one point.
“Same what?”
“Same car? Same pole?” he said, right before he leaned in for our first kiss.
“I think so,” I said, closing my eyes and feeling his lips against mine, soft and sure and amazing.
Later, I called Cate and gave her the report. She calculated the cost of the night, dubbing it a ridiculously cheap date, but still deeming it a success—a romantic home run.
“I think it’s a sign,” she whispered into the phone.
“Of what?” I asked, hoping that I had just kissed the man I would someday marry.
“Of hot sex to come,” Cate said, laughing.
I laughed with her, hoping we were both right.
And within a month, I was sure we were. Cate considered it a miracle—that I had found the one guy in the city who was both thoughtful and reliable, yet also sexy and great in bed. He really was the best of everything. An unaffected, down-to-earth boy from Boston who loved burgers and beer and baseball. Yet he was also a Harvard-educated surgeon-in-training, a natural in Manhattan’s swankiest restaurants. He was handsome without being vain. Scrupulous but not judgmental. Confident but not arrogant. He did exactly what he said he was going to do—no exceptions—yet retained an air of mystery that kept me on edge, kept me wondering. He cared little what others thought of him, yet seemed to earn everyone’s respect. He was coolly aloof yet somehow still passionate. And I fell hard and fast in love with him, overwhelmed by the certainty that our feelings were as equal as they were real.
Then, six months later, in the dead of the winter, Nick took me back to our burger joint. And after we ate and drank and reminisced, he pulled his keys out of his pocket and carved our initials into the graffiti-covered corner table. Skillful, neat, deep grooves declaring his love. I couldn’t imagine a sweeter gesture, until an hour later, in an empty subway car, he pulled a ring from his pocket and asked me to marry him, promising he’d love me forever.
22
Valerie
As the days turn colder and shorter, they both continue to pretend. They pretend that the visits and phone conversations and texts are the normal course of doctor-patient follow-up. They pretend that their friendship is appropriate and unremarkable. They pretend that there is nothing to hide—that they are not literally hiding in Valerie’s house. Most of all, they pretend that they can stay in this tenuous middle place, between their existence in the hospital and her official return to reality.
It almost reminds Valerie of the days she stayed home sick from school when she really wasn’t. She always had the sense that Rosemary knew the truth, but went along with her feigned symptoms so that she could stay home from work and spend time alone with her daughter. They were some of her best childhood memories—being curled up on the couch in her Wonder Woman sleeping bag, immersed in soap operas and game shows with her mother, who would bring her chicken soup and root beer floats on an orange lacquered tray, thoughts of school and homework and cafeteria happenings a million miles away. This was the escapism she felt when Nick came over with videos and music for Charlie, wine and take
out from Antonio’s for them. It was as if she was shutting her mind down and living in the moment, forgetting everything else in the world, and especially his family, just a few miles away.
But the day before Thanksgiving, their charade becomes more difficult, when Nick stops by unexpectedly on his way home from work—minutes after Jason dropped by to pick up a card table for the feast he’s hosting tomorrow. The second the doorbell rings, Valerie knows she’s in trouble, especially because Jason is in the family room, nearer to the door. She freezes over the sweet potato casserole she’s making, knowing there will be no explanation other than the truth. The real truth—not the one she and Nick have fabricated together.
“Nick,” she hears Jason say, surprise commingling with disapproval and concern.
She arrives in the foyer in time to see Nick reach out to shake her brother’s hand and say, “I was just stopping by to check on Charlie.” His forehead is lined with worry, and he is visibly flustered in a way that Valerie has never seen him before, studying his watch a beat too long, as if stalling to gather his thoughts. “Is he still up? Or did I miss him?”
“He’s in bed,” Jason says purposely.
“But he’s doing very well today,” Valerie finishes, carrying on the ridiculous house-call charade. “Would you . . . like to come in . . . anyway?”
He opens his mouth, poised to refuse the invitation, but she nods, eyes wide, a smile frozen on her face, as if to tell him leaving now would make things worse, more obvious—and that he has no choice but to stay.
“Okay. Sure. For a minute,” he says.
Valerie takes Nick’s coat, hangs it in the hall closet, and leads him into the living room where he sits in a chair he has never chosen before—an armchair from her grandmother’s house and her grandmother’s house before that. It is not a good antique—just an old chair covered in an unappealing mauve paisley, but Valerie can’t bear to reupholster it for sentimental reasons. She keeps her eyes fixed on the design now, as she takes a seat on the couch opposite Nick. Meanwhile, Jason selects another chair, completing their triangle. His expression is inscrutable, but Valerie senses judgment in his silence, and wonders if it is about Nick’s being here—or her keeping a secret from him. Secrets have never been something that existed between the two—other than the one she kept for the three days that followed her positive pregnancy test.
“So how are you doing?” Nick asks, glancing from twin to twin.
They both tell him they are fine and Valerie launches into a nervous, detailed account of Charlie’s day—what they did, what he ate, how many times she changed his dressings. She finishes by saying, “He’s going back to school on Monday.” As if the instruction didn’t come from Nick himself.
Nick nods and tosses out another question. “What are you doing tomorrow? For Thanksgiving?”
“We’re all going to Jason’s house,” Valerie says—which, of course, Nick already knows. “Jason’s boyfriend, Hank, is quite the cook.”
“Is he a chef?” Nick asks.
“No. A tennis pro,” Jason says. “But he knows his way around the kitchen.”
“Ah. Okay,” Nick murmurs. “Nice perk for you.”
Valerie can tell her brother is resisting a smart-ass remark, probably something about the perk of dating a doctor—when he stands, rubs his hands together, and says, “Well. As much as I’d love to stay and chat, Hank and I have a turkey to baste.”
Nick looks relieved as he stands and shakes Jason’s hand again. “Good to see you, man,” he says a bit too robustly.
“You, too, Doc,” Jason says, flipping up the collar on his leather jacket. “It was a . . . nice surprise.” On his way to the door, he shoots his sister a bemused look and mouths, “Call me.”
Valerie nods, locking the door behind him, and steeling herself for the awkward exchange to come.
“Shit,” Nick says, still sitting rigidly in her grandmother’s chair, one hand gripping each armrest. “I’m really sorry.”
“For what?” she asks, returning to her spot on the couch.
“For coming tonight . . . For not calling first.”
“It’s okay,” she says.
“What are you going to tell him?” he asks her.
“The truth,” she says. “That we’re friends.”
He gives her a long look and says, “Friends. Right.”
“We are friends,” she says, desperately clinging to this version of their story.
“I know we’re friends, Val,” he says. “But . . .”
“But what?”
He shakes his head and says, “You know what.”
Her heart stops and she considers a last-ditch effort to change the subject, get up, hurry out to the kitchen to finish her casserole. Instead she whispers, “I know.”
He exhales slowly and says, “This is wrong.”
She feels her hands clench into two fists in her lap as he continues, a note of panic in his voice. “It’s wrong on several levels. At least two.”
She knows exactly what those two levels are but lets him spell it out.
“For one, I’m your son’s doctor—there are ethics involved. Ethics and rules designed to protect patients . . . It would be unfair of me to . . . take advantage . . . of your emotions.”
“You’re Charlie’s doctor, yes . . . But that’s not what this is about,” she says adamantly. She has thought about it often, and although she feels endlessly grateful to him, she is certain that she’s not confusing gratitude with anything else. “Besides, I’m not your patient.”
“You’re his mother. It’s actually, probably worse,” Nick says. “I shouldn’t be here. Jason knows it. You know it. I know it.”
She nods, staring down at her hands, aware that he is referring to his second point, the one she has yet to address. The small issue of his marriage.
“So does that mean you’re leaving?” she finally asks.
He moves to the couch, next to her, and says, “No. I’m not leaving. I’m going to sit here next to you and continue to torture myself.” His eyes are intense, almost angry—but also resolved—as if he hates to be tested and refuses to lose.
Valerie looks at him, alarmed. Then, ignoring everything she believes, all that she knows to be right, she responds by pulling him to her in the embrace she has imagined so many times. After several seconds, he takes control, slowly lowering her to the couch, covering her with the weight of his body as their legs entangle, their cheeks touch.
After a long time like this, Valerie closes her eyes and lets herself drift off, lulled by his steady breathing, the feel of his arms encircling her, and their chests rising and falling, together. Until suddenly, she is awakened by Eminem’s “Slim Shady,” the ring tone that Jason programmed into her phone just for his calls. Nick jolts in such a way that she can tell he fell asleep, too—the idea of which thrills her.
“Is that your phone?” he whispers, his breath warm in her ear.
“Yes. It’s Jason,” she tells him.
“Do you need to call him back?” Nick asks, repositioning her slightly, just enough to look in her eyes. He reaches out and touches her hairline, so tenderly and naturally that it feels as if they’ve been together like this a thousand times and done everything else, too.
“No,” she replies, hoping he won’t move away from her. Hoping he won’t move at all. “Not now.”
Another moment passes before he speaks again. “What time do you think it is?” he says.
She guesses nine, even though she believes it to be later. “Maybe ten,” she adds reluctantly, wanting to be truthful.
He sighs, then swings himself into an upright position, pulling her legs onto his lap before checking his watch. “Damn,” he mutters, shaking his sleeve back over his watch.
“What?” she says, looking up at him, admiring his profile, yearning to touch his lower lip.
“Ten after ten. I better get going,” he says, but does not move.
“Yes,” she says, processing what has j
ust transpired, wondering what will follow. She can tell he is doing the same, asking himself all the same questions. Would they retreat or move forward? Could they do this thing they were on the verge of doing? Did they have it in them to make a wrong decision just because it felt right?
Nick stares ahead, then turns to look down at her, his eyes jet black in the dimly lit room. He holds her gaze, then her hand, as if to tell her that the answer, his answer anyway, is yes.
Then he stands and collects his coat from the closet. She watches him, still unable to move, until he comes to her, taking her hands in his, pulling her to her feet. Wordlessly, he leads her to the front door, which she unlocks and opens for him.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says, which has become a given. Then he hugs her hard, an upright version of their last embrace, his fingers cupping the back of her head, then running through her hair. They do not kiss, but they might as well, because in that silent moment, they both stop pretending.
23
Tessa
It is Thanksgiving morning, and I am in my kitchen, preparing dinner with my father’s wife, Diane, and Nick’s mother, Connie. In past years, the collaborative effort would have annoyed me, as much for Diane’s gourmet airs as my mother-in-law’s tendency to usurp my kitchen. But this year, oddly enough, my first Thanksgiving as a stay-at-home mother, I feel no sense of ownership of the meal, and am actually grateful to be stationed at the sink, peeling potatoes, the least important task on the Thanksgiving totem pole. It occurs to me, as I stare out the window into our fenced backyard, that I might be depressed—not depression-commercial miserable where the women can’t get out of bed and look as if they’ve been beaten with a bag of rocks, but the kind of depressed that renders me unnerved, exhausted, and largely indifferent. Indifferent to whether we use rosemary or thyme to flavor the turkey. Indifferent that the children are running around in sweats instead of the matching chocolate-brown corduroy pants and jumper my mother sent. Indifferent to the fact that Nick worked late last night—again. And that we argued this morning—over nothing, really, which is the best kind of argument to have when a marriage is working, the worst when it’s not.