“No. She’s not gorgeous. He said she’s attractive. But not gorgeous by any stretch.”
Valerie groans, feeling queasy and light-headed.
“Just remember, Val, she’s married to a cheater. You should feel sorry for her. Not jealous of her,” Jason says.
“Yeah,” she says, trying to convince herself that her brother is right, that she is better off without him, without any man. That he is Tessa’s problem, not hers. But in her heart, she knows that the only thing that has changed since Saturday morning is that he stopped calling her. She knew all along that he was married. She knew all along that he had a wife. She knew all along that she wanted something—someone—that didn’t belong to her and probably never would. This is what she gets. This is exactly what she deserves.
Jason blows his nose and then asks her if she’s going to be okay. She tells him yes, and hangs up, willing herself not to cry as she swivels her chair and stares up at a watermark on the ceiling.
Seconds later, the phone rings, the screen lighting up “private caller.” She answers it, assuming it is Jason with some follow-up Nick bashing, some nugget of relationship wisdom.
“Yeah?” she says.
“Hi, Val. It’s me,” she hears. She catches her breath, realizing that it is still her favorite voice in the world.
Rage and relief battle inside her as she says, “Hello, Nick.”
“How are you doing?” he asks.
“I’m fine,” she says as quickly and convincingly as she can. Her voice is cold—too cold to indicate indifference.
“I’m sorry I haven’t called . . .” he says.
“It’s okay. I understand,” she says, even though it isn’t and she doesn’t.
“I’ve just been confused . . . trying to work through some things . . .”
“You don’t have to explain. It’s really not necessary,” she says, hoping that he will anyway.
“Val,” he says, anguish in his voice that gives her a small degree of comfort. “Can I see you? Can you meet me somewhere? I need to see you. Talk to you.”
Her mind races. She knows she should say no. She knows she must protect her son’s heart, even if she isn’t willing to protect her own. Charlie is attached to Nick now—fiercely bonded—but if she continues to see him, it will only be worse when Nick disappoints her again. Her chest tightens as she prepares to tell him that it’s not a good idea, that Friday night was a mistake, and that she can’t afford to make another one. But she can’t do it. She can’t make herself shut the door completely. Instead, she opens her mouth and tells him she was just about to go for a walk in the Common, that he is welcome to join her.
“Where?” he says. “Where can I meet you?”
“By the Frog Pond,” she says as nonchalantly as she can, pretending that it isn’t a hopeful, sentimental choice. That it isn’t because she wants to walk with him in a place she loves, breathing in the cold winter air together. That it isn’t because she imagined the two of them taking Charlie there, ice-skating and drinking hot chocolate afterward. That it isn’t to create a vivid backdrop to the memory she hopes he wants to make. The explanation, the affirmation, the promise of what’s to come.
Minutes later, after touching up her makeup, running a brush through her hair, and telling her secretary she has to step out for an appointment, she is bundled up in her heavy black trench coat, making her way past the wharfs, emptied of their boats for the winter. She inhales the sharp, cold air, her eyes fixed on South Station looming ahead, set against a colorless sky. She crosses into the gritty downtown, passing electronics shops and Laundromats, dive bars and ethnic restaurants, falafel stands and roasted nut vendors. She keeps walking, amid throngs of holiday shoppers and aimless tourists, turning down Franklin Street, lined with its stately gray buildings, and finally reaching Tremont Street, with its view of the State House and the historic, cobblestone section of town. All the while, the wind whips in from the harbor, taking her breath away, slicing through her.
As she crosses the street and approaches the Common, she sees the infamous old homeless man, known by many as Rufus. He has been around for as long as she can remember, but hasn’t appeared to age, his dark skin lined with no more wrinkles than it was a dozen years ago, the gray hair only at his temples. She makes eye contact with him and thinks what she always thinks when she sees him in the cold winter months, Why not move to Florida, Rufus?
He smiles at her, as if he remembers her from her last walk along this route, and says, “Hey, darlin’ . . . Lookin’ mighty fine today, darlin’ . . . Got a dollar? Some change to spare?” His voice is low and raspy and strangely comforting. She stops and hands him a five, and as he takes it, he tells her she has beautiful eyes.
She thanks him, choosing to believe he means it.
“God bless,” he says, putting his fist over his heart.
She nods, then turns and keeps walking. Her pointy-toed black boots are not made for walking, and her toes are now numb, the cold stripping her of any dwindling optimism. She takes longer strides, moving toward Nick and her destiny. She tells herself not to be overdramatic, that he is just another guy, another chapter in her lackluster love life. She tells herself she’d rather know than wonder—that the wondering is always the worst part.
And then she is in the Common, approaching the Frog Pond, teeming with ice-skaters, some accomplished, most teetering, all gleeful. The sun suddenly breaks through the clouds, reflecting off the ice. Having forgotten her sunglasses, she shields her eyes with her hand, looking for Nick along the circumference of the pond and even on the ice, as if he might actually stop and put on some skates for a quick spin. She finally spots him in his navy overcoat, a generous gray scarf looped several times around his neck. He is squinting toward her but she can tell he does not yet see her. She studies him for a full minute or more before their eyes meet. His face lights up without smiling and he begins to trek toward her, looking down at his feet, his hands thrust deep in his pockets.
She waits for him, rearranging her expression several times, then making it as blank as possible. She has no idea what to expect—yet she knows exactly what to expect.
“Hi, Val,” he says when he is standing before her. His eyes are bright—as bright as brown eyes can be—but something in them tells her that he is here to break her heart. Still, when he reaches out to hug her, she does not resist. Her cheek rests against his broad shoulder as she says hello, her voice lost in a sudden gust of wind.
As they separate, he looks into her eyes and says, “It’s great to see you.”
“You, too,” she says, her chest knotted with anticipation approaching fear.
He presses his lips together, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lone cigarette and a pack of matches. She has never known him to smoke—would have bet all odds against it—but does not ask him about it, whether it’s a new habit or an old one returning. He inverts the pack’s cover, striking a match with one gloveless hand, reminding her of just how skillful they are.
“You have one of those for me?” she asks as they begin to walk.
“Sorry. That was my last one,” he says, his voice tight, uneven. He reaches out and offers it to her.
“That’s okay,” she says, shaking her head in refusal. “I was sort of kidding. I don’t smoke . . . unless I’m drinking.”
“Should we go drink?” he asks with a small, nervous laugh.
When she doesn’t reply, he tries again with another question. “How’s Charlie?”
“He’s fine,” she says, bristling, refraining from telling him anything more.
He nods and raises his cigarette to his lips. Closing his eyes, he inhales, then turns his head to the side. He does not exhale, but simply opens his mouth, the smoke swirling above his head and quickly vanishing. Then he glances around, mumbling something about a bench. She shakes her head and says she’d rather walk, that it’s too cold for sitting.
So they move forward, encircling the pond, their eyes on the mirthf
ul skaters moving counterclockwise across the ice in a blur of bright colors.
“Can you skate?” he says, their elbows occasionally touching.
She readjusts her stride, moving away from him, and says, “Yes.” Then she sighs, signaling that she is not here to chat. After a full lap around the ice, he speaks again.
“Val,” he says. “Our night together . . . it was amazing.”
She nods her agreement—there is no way to deny this, no way she could ever deny this.
“You are amazing.”
She feels herself tense, her throat constrict. She does not want compliments, whether real or consolatory. She can tell where this is going, and only wants the bottom line.
“Thanks,” she says again—and then as flatly as she can, “You are, too.”
He stops walking suddenly and grabs her arm, “Can we go somewhere to talk? Somewhere inside?” he says.
She can no longer feel her feet, and her nose is beginning to run so she nods reluctantly and then follows him to 75 Chestnut, a restaurant on the street with the same name. They find a table in the back and when the waitress comes to take their order, she says, “Nothing for me,” with a gesture toward Nick.
He shakes his head, overriding her decision, ordering two spiced ciders.
“Just tell me, Nick,” she says when the waitress is gone. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking a lot of things,” he says, scratching his jaw, covered with several days of growth.
“Like?”
“I’m thinking that I’m crazy about you.”
Her heart jumps as he continues, now leaning across the narrow table, their faces inches apart.
“I’m thinking that I love the way you look and feel and taste. I love the sound of your voice and the way you look at me with those eyes . . . I’m thinking that I love the way you are with Charlie. The way you are.”
“Maybe it’s just physical?” she calmly offers, pretending not to be deeply moved by his words.
“No,” he says, shaking his head adamantly. “It’s not a physical thing. It’s not a crush. It’s nothing like that. I love you, Val. It’s the truth. And I’m afraid it will always be true.”
She now has her answer, the word afraid giving him away. He loves her but wishes he didn’t. He wants her but can’t have her. This is his decision. She feels herself collapse inside as the waitress returns with their cider. She wraps her hands around the warm mug, inhaling the musky apple scent as he continues, almost as if talking to himself. “I know the moment it happened. The night we went to Antonio’s and you told me Charlie had no father.”
“Is that why?” she asks, doing her best to stay calm, strip any bitterness from her voice. “Is this a savior thing? You saved Charlie—and you wanted to save me, too?”
“I’ve considered that,” he says, and the fact that he doesn’t automatically refute it gives his answer more credence.
“I’ve thought about that—just as I’ve wondered whether that is your attraction to me.” He takes a long sip and then finishes, “But I know that’s not it. Not entirely anyway.”
“That’s not it for me, either,” she says, the closest she’s come to admitting that she loves him, too. “I don’t need to be saved.”
“I know you don’t need to be saved, Val. You don’t need anybody—you are the strongest person I know.”
She forces a smile as if to prove his theory right—even though she doesn’t believe it herself.
“You don’t think you’re strong,” he says, as if reading her mind. “And the fact that you think you’re barely keeping it together . . . is so . . . is so . . . I don’t know, Val. It’s just another thing I love about you. You’re strong and vulnerable, at once.”
He leans toward her, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.
She shivers and says, “But?” She knows there is a but—that there has always been a but.
“But . . . I can’t . . .” His voice cracks. “I can’t do this . . .”
“Okay,” she says, taking this as his final word, seeing no reason for a belabored discussion on why he can’t do it.
“Don’t ‘okay’ me, Val,” he says. “Don’t let me off the hook this easily.”
“There is no hook.”
“I don’t mean ‘hook’ like that . . . I just mean . . . I just mean that I made a mistake by going down this road with you. I thought that if I felt this way about you—that it would make what we were doing okay. That I could separate myself from the men who have affairs for all the wrong reasons . . . But then Tessa came home from New York . . . and . . . I can’t carve out this exception for myself. For us. Not without impacting everyone around me. My kids . . . Charlie . . .”
“And your wife,” she finishes for him.
He nods sadly and says, “And Tessa, yes . . . Things are not great with us right now. And I’m not sure what the future holds . . . But I respect her. And I still care deeply for her . . . And unless I’m ready to throw all of that away, all of those years, and the home and family we built . . . unless I’m ready to do that right now,” he says, tapping the table, “today, at this very second, then I can’t be with you. It’s just not right, as much as I want it to be. It’s just not.”
She bites her lip and nods as tears sting at her eyes.
“Believe me, Val, I’ve looked at this from every angle. I’ve tried to find a way to do the one thing I want to do . . . which is to take you back to your bed right now . . . hold you, make love to you . . . just be with you.”
She bites her lip harder, her breath quickening in a final attempt not to cry.
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry that I did this to you. It was selfish and wrong . . . And part of me wants to say . . . that maybe someday we can be together . . . maybe someday things will be different . . . but saying that would be just as selfish . . . a false promise . . . a way to hold you on the line while I try to fix what I’ve done at home.”
“You should fix it,” she says, wondering whether she means it and why she’s saying it if she doesn’t.
He nods, looking grave and grief-stricken. “I’m going to try.”
“That’s all you can do,” she says, wondering what that entails. Wondering if he will make love to his wife tonight. Whether he already has since last Friday night.
“Is there another doctor? Another doctor we can see?” Her voice cracks, but she manages to keep it together. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for Charlie to keep seeing you . . .”
He nods in agreement, then reaches into his pocket for a business card, sliding it across the table.
She glances down at it, her vision growing blurry, only half hearing his words of praise for another surgeon. “Dr. Wolfenden is wonderful,” he says. “I learned much of what I know from her. You’ll love her. Charlie will love her.”
“Thank you,” she says, blinking back tears.
Nick nods, blinking in unison.
She picks up the card and says, “I have to go.”
He grabs her wrist and says her name. “Val. Wait. Please.”
She shakes her head, telling him there is nothing left for him to say. The conversation is over. They are over.
“Good-bye, Nick,” she says. Then she stands and walks away from him, back into the bitter cold.
37
Tessa
As the days pass, and the countdown to Christmas begins, I feel as if I’m stuck in a bad dream, watching myself from afar, watching someone else’s marriage implode with all the clichéd benchmarks of depression. I drink too much. I have trouble falling asleep at night and even more difficulty getting out of bed in the morning. I can’t satisfy my deep, ravenous hunger, no matter how many comforting white carbs I down. I am lonely, yet avoid my friends, even Cate, and especially April, who has left me multiple messages. I lie to my family, shooting them chatty updates, snapshots of the kids on Santa’s lap, and uplifting YouTube clips with notes such as This is cute! or You’ll love!,
always with exclamation points, sometimes with emoticons. I overcompensate with my children, a fake smile plastered on my face as I hum Christmas carols and punch open days of our Advent calendar with wild enthusiasm. I lie to Nick, curling against him every night, wearing his favorite perfume, pretending that I had another productive, festive day. Most of all, I lie to myself, telling myself that if I keep pretending, I can change the course of my life.
But I cannot escape her. I cannot escape the obsession with a woman I’ve never laid eyes on. I am not sure of the details. I do not know if the text I saw was from her, or if Nick was with her the night I was in New York. I do not know what, exactly, Romy saw in the parking lot. Whether it was innocent or not. I do not know whether he made love to her or kissed her or held her hand or simply stared longingly into her eyes, thinking about any of the above. I don’t know if he told her about our problems or has otherwise betrayed me.
I do know one thing, though. I know that my husband is in love with Valerie Anderson, the only woman he’s ever befriended, other than me. The woman for whom he left work, in the middle of the day, in order to drive over to a school that I’ve wanted him to visit for months, whispering with her in a parking lot, for Romy and all the world to see, risking his career, his reputation, his family. The woman he met on our anniversary, the starry night it all began, the night he first saw her face and her child’s face, the one he has since fixed and memorized and maybe even come to love. I know this by the way Nick opens the refrigerator and stares inside, as if he forgets what he was looking for in the first place. I know by the way he pretends to be asleep when I whisper his name in the dark. I know by the mournful way he tucks the kids in at night, as if contemplating what it would be like if he were separated from them. I know with a deep-to-the-bone certainty that comes with the impending loss of something you desperately don’t want to lose. I know because I just know.
And then one cold, cloudless, blue-sky afternoon, ten days before Christmas, when I can’t stand it another second, he walks in the door with a look that tells me that he can’t stand it another second, either. His face is chafed, his nose red, his hair windblown. He shivers as I go to him and unwrap the scarf from his neck.