A Second Bite at the Apple (25 page)

In less than twenty-four hours, my story will be on the front page of the
Washington Chronicle
. In less than twelve hours, it will be up on the Web site. And in less than six hours, I will meet Zach at the Kennedy Center.

There is not a silo of Pepto-Bismol big enough to get me through this day.

I manage to find someone to cover my shift at the Penn Quarter farmers' market, giving me ample time to prepare physically and mentally for tonight's potentially calamitous meeting with Zach. I try not to let Libby's and Heidi's negativity infiltrate my psyche, but I am not very successful. What if they're right? What if this is a huge mistake?

The problem is that even if it is, I cannot stop myself from making it. Zach is my kryptonite. When I look at him, I don't see twenty-six-year-old Zach, with a sleek side part and laugh lines and a law degree under his belt. I see fourteen-year-old Zach, the one I fell in love with, the one who bought me my first bouquet of roses and sent me my first box of chocolates. Maybe if I could see him through some other lens, I wouldn't have agreed to this rendezvous, but it is impossible for me to look at him without getting bitten by the nostalgia bug. If I'm being honest with myself, I didn't agree to this meeting because I wanted to give him a second chance; I wanted to give a second chance to myself, a second chance to
us.

I spend most of the day working myself into a borderline psychotic lather, trying on no fewer than six outfits and five hairstyles. I wish I didn't care so much about how I look this evening, but part of me wants Zach to see what he has been missing the past five years. Admittedly, if I were being more forthright about the situation, I would show up braless, in sweatpants, with unshaven legs and a seriously questionable bikini line. But he doesn't need to know I let myself go in his absence. What he needs to see is Sexy Sydney, the woman he could have had if he hadn't foolishly thrown it all away.

Somewhere around five thirty, between vetoing a black shift dress and squeezing into a too-tight pair of gray capri pants, I realize I haven't eaten anything but a bowl of cereal all day. I scan my refrigerator, which offers precious little in terms of lunch or dinner options, but I spot leftover chicken salad sitting in the back corner of the top shelf. I lift off the lid of the Tupperware and take a whiff. It doesn't smell . . . bad, per se, but it doesn't smell particularly good either. I bought it from Whole Foods before Jeremy left for Chicago, which means it is more than a week old.

As I stare at the limp lettuce, my phone buzzes on my countertop. A text from Jeremy:

I pick up the phone and reply:

Then I grab a fork, stab at the salad, and shovel a huge helping into my mouth. Because tonight I'm going to need all the sustenance I can get.

 

Due either to the mild weather or a temporary lapse in sanity, or possibly both, I decide to walk to the Kennedy Center from my apartment. It's a straight shot down New Hampshire Avenue, crossing through Dupont and Washington Circles, but I am Sydney, the least fit woman in Washington, and so halfway through the journey it becomes abundantly clear I have made a huge mistake. Sweat stains have already begun to develop beneath the arms of the gray silk top I so carefully chose, and thanks to the light June breeze that blows my hair to and fro, the front strands of my hair are caked in sticky lip gloss.

I eventually pass the Watergate building, whose curved rows of white concrete and dark windows make it look like a lumbering spacecraft, and wind my way toward the Kennedy Center, located around the corner. I hurry up the wide steps and head for the entrance, taking cover beneath the soaring, hundred-foot overhang. The building is rectangular in shape, made of white Carrara marble, and lies along the Potomac River, just beyond the National Mall. At night, a series of lights sets the white marble exterior aglow, and from a distance, the building appears to hover atop the flickering water. Heidi, never missing an opportunity for snark, likes to call it “the Kleenex box on the Potomac.”

I push through the glass doors and head down the magnificent main hallway, where the ceiling rises sixty-three feet and a plush red carpet extends from end to end. Flags from around the world dangle on either side of the hall, abutted by smooth gold columns, which lead toward the main lobby. The lobby stretches six hundred feet, set parallel to the Potomac, and features floor-to-ceiling windows, which look out onto the river and a broad terrace, where patrons often gather at intermission. A small crowd of concert attendees congregates in front of the refreshment stand, buying snacks and wine before the concert begins, but, as far as I can tell, Zach is not among them.

I scan the vast lobby from end to end, searching for Zach's face among the swarm of guests, but I do not see him anywhere. I cool my heels beneath the elongated crystal chandeliers, glancing at my watch as my stomach gurgles from a combination of leftover salad and nerves. He wouldn't bail without telling me, would he? I'm not sure what makes me feel sicker: the thought of his not showing, or the realization of how much I care.

As I wait, I pull out my phone and refresh the
Washington Chronicle
Web site. No sign of my story yet. Stu said it wouldn't be up until ten o'clock, but something in my gut tells me that in the age of
get there first
reporting, he will post it earlier if he can. Even though no one else will know the story is mine, I'll know, and part of me won't believe any of this is real until I see my work in print on the
Chronicle'
s site. Some days all of this feels like a strange dream.

Finally, at 6:45, I spot Zach hurrying down the main hallway. He clutches a briefcase in one hand and a huge bouquet of red roses in the other, the same sort of roses he used to send me every year on our anniversary. My knees weaken as he approaches, his golden yellow tie bright and shiny against his pale blue oxford shirt.

“Sorry I'm late,” he says. He extends the flowers in my direction. “These are for you.”

I take the roses from his hand and lift them to my nose, trying to mask my quivering lip. Why did he have to bring roses? Why does he get to be the good guy?

“Thanks,” I say, gripping the crinkly cellophane.

He studies my face. “Your makeup looks nice. I like the navy eyeliner.”

My cheeks flush. I know he means that as a compliment, or at least I think he does, but somehow pointing out that I'm wearing makeup—that I cared about how I looked tonight, that maybe I even tried a little too hard—rubs me the wrong way.

“Thanks,” I say again.

He scratches his temple, then glances down at his watch. “Should we head inside, or do you want a glass of wine?”

“We should probably find our seats.”

He nods. “Let me just grab the tickets.”

He reaches into his briefcase, and as he searches for them, I glance at my phone again. Still no sign of the story.

“You got somewhere else you need to be?” he says with a smirk as I flick through my phone.

I look up. “Sorry. No. I just . . . It's a work thing.”

“Did Old MacDonald lose his chickens or something?”

I bristle. “No. It's a story I've been working on.”

“You're still writing? About what?”

“Food stuff.”

He grins. “That's my girl.”

His girl
. Since when am I his girl?

A loud chime interrupts my train of thought—
do, mi, so—
an ascending arpeggio that rings throughout the lobby to encourage us to take our seats. Zach glances over his shoulder. “We'd better take our seats before they close the doors. Come on.”

As we hurry down the hallway, he gently rests his hand on the small of my back, and I feel myself shrink away. I'm not ready for him to touch me yet. Merely being in the same room as him is more than I can handle.

We run up the carpeted steps toward the usher, who points us to the right, and as the chime sounds again, Zach grabs my hand and rushes us toward the stairs to the first-tier seats. I yank my arm free.

“Stop,” I say.

Zach slows his step. “Stop what?”

“The flowers, the touching, the hand-holding—just . . .
stop
.”

He flushes and raises his hands defensively. “Sorry. I was trying to be nice.”

“Well, don't.”

“Don't be nice?”

“No . . . what I mean is . . .” I stop in front of the stairway and let out a sigh. “We can't just pick up where we left off.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“Sure. I screwed up. I know that.”

Part of me wishes this admission of fault were enough, that I could leave the past in the past and give us both a fresh start. But I can't. Letting him off with a bouquet of roses makes all of my tears and pain seem silly and pointless, and that isn't fair. He hurt me. That was real. And even if that doesn't matter to him, it matters to me.

I am about to tell him all of this when the chime sounds for a final time.

“Come on,” he says. “We can talk about this during intermission.”

We run up the stairs side by side, and when we reach the top, the first-tier usher directs us to our seats. We slide past two other couples before sinking into our plush velvet seats, and I slide my roses into my tote and lay the bag at my feet. Zach looks over at me, but I can't bring myself to make eye contact right now. There is so much I want to say to him, but I can't say it here, now, and I refuse to let him disarm me with a touch or a gentle smile. So instead, I root through my tote and, since it's been fifteen minutes since I looked at the
Chronicle'
s site, I check my phone one last time.

And that's when I see it, on the landing page of the
Washington Chronicle
:

My stomach curdles.

Oh my God.

Oh. My. God.

No. No, no, no, no, no. This can't be happening.
My name
. Stu told me he removed it. He
told
me. But when I click on the link, there it is again:
Sydney Strauss and Stu Abbott,
our names sitting like a crown above our thousand-word bombshell. The story has been up for fifteen minutes, which means for a quarter of an hour, anyone with an Internet connection could see my name attached to this story. Anyone in the world. Anyone at Green Grocers.

My heart races, but before I can contemplate what this means—for me, for my career, for Jeremy—the lights dim. A hush falls over the crowd, and an announcement booms through the speakers, telling people to turn off their cell phones. I flick the silent switch on my phone, but as I do, a text from Jeremy pops up on my screen.

All the blood drains from my face as the room darkens, and the crowd bursts into applause as the violin soloist and the conductor walk on stage.

Zach rests his hand on my knee. “Everything okay?”

I stare ahead in stunned silence, my leg tingling from his touch, and as the violinist raises her bow, I reply in a strained whisper.

“No,” I say. “Not at all.”

The violinist dances with her violin, bowing and bobbing in her bright green satin dress as she attacks the strings with her bow. The music surrounds me, my emotions churning and swirling with each rapid-fire arpeggio, as the music builds in speed and intensity through the first-movement cadenza. I ride each frantic scale, rising and falling and crashing into a pit of despair. No matter how loudly the horns blare and the cellos groan, they cannot drown the voice in my head shouting, “
You are so fuuuuucked!
”

How? How did my name end up on that story? And how could Jeremy have already seen it? The Green Grocers PR machine must be crapping their pants with even more gut-wrenching intensity than I thought. They probably had some intern refreshing the
Chronicle'
s site every five seconds, some lackey who e-mailed the story to everyone on their team—Jeremy, his bosses, Green Grocers' in-house department. And now, thanks to some idiot on the
Chronicle'
s Web team, they all know my name.

I can't believe this is happening.

The whirling violinist comes to a standstill, and as the tempo slows for the second movement, Zach looks at me and winks, as if to say, “Isn't this great?” But it isn't great. It's terrible. I'm on a date with my philandering ex-boyfriend, who keeps making passes at me in the hope that we can rekindle our old flame, while my current boyfriend flies through the air, most likely plotting my murder. I don't want to be here. I don't want to be anywhere, for that matter. I want to evaporate.

The conductor waves his arms in broad, billowy movements, coaxing along the strings. I have to call Stu. No, first I have to call Jeremy. The damage has already been done. Even if Stu removes my name now, Jeremy and everyone at his company have already seen it, so at this point, it hardly matters. But if I could talk to Jeremy, if I could get him on the phone, I could explain how all of this happened. He would probably still be angry—as, let's be honest, he has every right to be—but at least he would understand why I did what I did. Or if he didn't understand, at least he would know my reasoning. Whether that will make the situation better or worse, I don't know, but I can't imagine many situations worse than having him stew in his own angry juices for two hours as he flies from Chicago to Washington. Which, I remind myself, is exactly what is happening at this very moment.

The orchestra moves into the exuberant final movement, and the soloist's bow flies across her violin as she races through the upbeat melody. I glance down at my phone and notice I have twelve unread e-mails and four texts. Old professors, college friends, my parents, Charles—everyone is chiming in with kudos and praise. I surreptitiously log on to Facebook, where two people I haven't spoken with in at least four years have linked to the story and tagged me, claiming fame for themselves by association. The story has already spread like wildfire. My name is everywhere.

The music slows briefly as the violinist trills on her strings, and then the tempo begins to increase, measure by measure. The conductor waves his arms excitedly, and the violinist hugs her instrument close to her, as if the violin is speaking to her, telling her how to play. She charges toward the coda, and as the music gets faster and faster, beads of sweat form on my upper lip. I have to call Jeremy. Immediately. I know he is on a plane, and I know he won't pick up, but I have to leave a message so that when he lands, my voice is the first voice he hears, rather than that of some jerk from Green Grocers telling him I am the devil. Because I'm not the devil. I'm a good person. Aren't I?

My heart beats faster than all of the violins, which race up and down the scale together as the timpani bang excitedly in the background. The conductor stabs his baton in the direction of the orchestra as the players pound out the final three notes in unison. As soon as the stage goes silent, Zach leaps to his feet and joins the applause as the crowd cheers and shouts, “Bravo!”

Holding my phone tightly in my slick hand, I stand with Zach and the rest of the audience, my legs like jelly. I feel cold and hot at the same time, shivering and shaking as the sweat drips down my back, and the floor seems to rock back and forth. The violinist takes three encore bows, and then the crowd begins to move toward the lobby for intermission. Zach rests his hand on my back and smiles. “Pretty amazing, huh?”

I nod. I wish he would stop touching me.

“Want to have a drink on the terrace?” he says.

“Sure.” Alcohol may not save me, but it certainly couldn't hurt.

While Zach waits in line, I make my way to the sprawling terrace, in the middle of which sits a huge, square fountain and two rectangular blocks of planted trees. I walk to the edge and stare out at the river, hoping the serenity of the placid water will abate my queasiness before I call Jeremy. The terrace juts out over the Rock Creek Parkway, and I close my eyes and listen to the northbound traffic whoosh below me, car after car after car, as the water in the fountain behind me spurts up and crashes down. This, unfortunately, does not make me feel better, and if anything, the cacophony of sounds makes me feel worse. I wish I could blame all of this nausea on my nerves, but I'm beginning to wonder if the week-old salad I ate was, in fact, a colossal mistake.

Since an end to my nausea is nowhere in sight, I pull out my phone and dial Jeremy. As expected, the call goes straight to voice mail.

“Jeremy—hey, it's Sydney. Listen, the horsemeat story . . . Oh God, I'm so sorry all of this happened the way it did. I've been meaning to talk to you about it, and my name wasn't even supposed to be on the story, but someone at the
Chronicle
screwed up—”

“I hope you're okay with red.”

I spin around and face Zach, who is standing in front of me holding two plastic cups filled with red wine. I wave him quiet with my hand as I carry on with my message.

“. . . and now everything is a mess, and . . . Oh, God, I'm so, so sorry. Please call me as soon as you get this. I really need to talk to you.”

Zach hands me a cup of wine. “Who was that?”

“No one,” I say.

He raises an eyebrow. “Didn't sound like no one.”

I bring the cup to my lips, but the strong, musky smell turns my stomach inside out, and I pull it away. “You're right. It wasn't no one. It was the guy I've been seeing, who made me really happy before you swept into town and tried to confuse me.”

“I'm not trying to confuse you.”

“Then what, exactly, are you trying to do?”

He shrugs. “To make a fresh start. To do CPR on what was probably the most meaningful relationship of my life.”

I bring the cup to my lips a second time, but again the smell overwhelms me, and I gag.

“Are you okay?” Zach lays the back of his hand on my forehead. “You don't look so good.”

I recoil and brush his hand away. “I'm fine.”

“You sure?” He sweeps my hair away from my face. “You look . . . green.”

“It's just the lighting out here. I'm okay.” He goes to tuck my hair behind my ear, but I whack away his arm before he can. “Stop touching me.”

“Jesus, Sydney, what's your problem?”

“What's my problem? What's my
problem?
” Zach's cheeks flush as my voice rises. “Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's the fact that you broke my fucking heart. Or maybe it's the fact that you never apologized, until five years later, when you suddenly realized what a dick you'd been. Or maybe, just maybe, it's the fact that I haven't stopped thinking about you for five years—
five fucking years
—and now that you're here, I can't quite figure out why I bothered.”

“What if I told you I'm still in love with you,” he says.

The words land between us with a loud thud, and the air around me suddenly feels too thick to breathe.

“I . . . I . . .”

I need wine to answer that question
. I force myself to take a sip, but as soon as I do, I know I've made a mistake. The wine only makes it halfway down my throat before it is met by the contents of my stomach, erupting in the opposite direction. The terrace goes blurry, and I slap my hand over my mouth to keep the chicken salad from ending up all over Zach's bright yellow tie. I have mere seconds to spare before the horrible occurs, and so, with few options left and none of them good, I stumble past Zach and charge straight ahead and, in what I am sure is a first for this illustrious institution, I throw up in the Kennedy Center fountain.