Heart of the Matter (21 page)

“What?” I asked her, my palms sweaty.

“You’re ending your sentences with the inflection of a question. Sounds like you’re not sure who you are . . . It’s Tessa Thaler? From the subway?”

“I don’t think I can do this,” I told her, pacing along the Asianinspired screen separating my bed from the living area.

“You want him to start dating someone else? Or worse, forget you altogether?” she asked, the master of scare tactics. “C’mon. Timing is everything.” She removed an emery board, a bottle of nail polish remover, and several cotton balls from her mammoth purse and began giving herself a manicure.

“I’m not ready for a relationship,” I said.

“Who said anything about a relationship? Maybe you’ll just have hot sex for once in your life. Would that be so bad?”

“For once in my life?” I said. “How do you know Ryan and I weren’t having hot sex?”

She shuddered as if I were talking about her brother—which wasn’t far from the truth given the fact that we had operated as a chummy threesome during much of college. “Well? Were you?”

I shrugged and said, “It was decent.”

She shook her head, filing her nails into a shape she called “squoval.”

“Well, we’re aiming for something north of decent. So pick up the damn phone and call him. Now.”

And so I did, dialing the number on his business card, and taking a deep breath as the phone rang. Then, upon hearing his unmistakable hello, I read from my script, somehow managing to end all my sentences with a period.

“Who?” Nick said.

“Um . . . We met on the subway?” I said again, completely flummoxed and deflated.

“I’m kidding,” he said. “Of course I remember you. How are you?”

“I’m good,” I said, wishing I had practiced beyond the first three sentences. I looked to Cate for reassurance as she gave me a thumbs-up and a hand gesture to keep the conversation rolling. “How are you?”

“Can’t complain . . . So how was the honeymoon?” he asked, no hint of lightheartedness in his question, although weeks later he confessed that it was an attempt at a humorous icebreaker—but that he felt insensitive as soon as the words were out.

I let out a nervous laugh and told him there was no honeymoon, no wedding.

“Oh,” he said. And then—“I’m sorry? Congratulations?”

“Thanks,” I said, which seemed to cover both sentiments.

“So? Are you just calling to share your news?” he said smoothly. “Or to ask me out?”

“To share my news,” I said, his banter making me bold. “The asking out is up to you.”

Cate raised her brows and grinned, clearly proud of my response.

“Well, then,” he answered. “How ‘bout tonight? You free?”

“Yes,” I said, my heart thumping wildly—a reaction I never had with Ryan, not even seconds before our first time.

“Are you a vegetarian?” he asked.

“Why?” I asked. “Is that a deal breaker?”

He laughed. “No . . . I was just in the mood for a burger and a beer.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said, thinking that sprouts and tofu would have sounded just as appealing. Anything with Nick Russo.

“Okay. I’ll meet you at the Burger Joint at the Parker Meridien . . .Do you know it?”

“No,” I said, wondering if it was something I
should
know—if it gave me away as the homebody I was with Ryan, something I had vowed to change.

“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 Manhattans 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 takeout 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.