Ordinary World (18 page)

Harvard Square

and the university. Just about every stick of furniture and artwork was new, although I recognized some pieces from the WestVillage loft. Dinner consisted of take-out Chinese food and the movie was a DVD from Netflix—the classic Cary Grant film
His Girl Friday
.

“I was gonna get
Roman Holiday
, but thought it was too soon for that,” he said. I agreed.

At first, I kept my distance on the sofa, but found myself inching closer, until finally he moved over and put his arm around me, allowing me to put my head on his shoulder. This was nothing like Rome—here, I was terrified to feel such affection. When the movie’s end credits flickered in the darkness of the room, he made eye contact with me and then leaned in to kiss me. I pulled away as if I was sitting next to a stranger. As if I was doing something
wrong
.

“I’m sorry, I can’t do this. I feel like I’m cheating on my husband.”

I could tell he was trying to be understanding, but felt frustrated.

“Look, I don’t wanna make you do anything you don’t wanna do,” he said.

“I’m confused, David. And afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Look, I’m just not ready, okay?”

He drew away from me and leaned back on the sofa. Come to think of it, he reminded me of Cary Grant.

“Okay,” he said. “Do you want me to take you home?”

“I can manage. I used to take the train back to Long Island at all hours, remember?”

He remembered. He then stood up to get my coat and purse and walk me to the door. He gave me a kiss on the cheek.

I got home thirty minutes later. Then I called him.

“Look, can we just hang out like we used to, as friends?” I asked. “I just need some time, that’s all. I need to get used to the idea that there’s actually someone else in my life. Someone different, that is.”

“And that it’s okay,” he added. He sounded sleepy.

“Let’s just be Devin and Andi for awhile. Can we do that?”

“But we’re not—”

“Please? I need to go back to something I know. I know what you said about me avoiding things that are unfamiliar, but that’s what I need right now.”

He took a breath that sounded somewhat like a sigh. “Okay.” He sounded unconvinced.

“Thanks,” I said, temporarily relieved.

“G’night, Andi.”

“Night, Devin.”

I couldn’t admit it to myself, but what had frightened me that night was that I had
wanted
him to kiss me.

Chapter Twenty-four

May

S
PRING SETTLED UPON NEW ENGLAND WITH unusually warm weather. For the last two months, there wasn’t a day under sixty degrees. Sixty-eight was the average. Devin (I had reverted to using his old name again without his objection, although I had never actually asked his permission) and I began meeting regularly in

Harvard Square

, which had been Sam’s stomping grounds when he was a grad student and later became part of our weekend routines. We used to jaunt up and down Massachusetts Avenue or Brattle Street and split a danish at the Au Bon Pain and gaze at each other over coffees at the Harvard Coop. Devin’s and my dates (if you could call them “dates”; I tended to call them “meetings”) weren’t spent much differently, except for the gazing part. In that case, I resumed my old ways of avoiding eye contact with him. Almost eight years ago, I had tried to hide my feelings from him. Now, I was trying to hide from his feelings for me. But we did the kinds of things we used to do as friends: walked a lot, perused bookstores and frequented galleries, sauntered through Radcliff or sat on the stairs of one of the Harvard buildings and watched students play Frisbee or touch football. We talked baseball and movies and writing and art.

It’s not that I didn’t feel any yearnings for his affection or attention, or to be more than friends. But this time,
I
was the one keeping him, and myself, at a considerable length.

            One sunny afternoon I sat in Melody’s office, saying very little.

            “You look like you’re losing weight,” she remarked.

            “Yeah, I think I am. I’m more active these days.” I told her about going to the Boston Museum of Art with Devin two days ago.

            “Have you spent any nights with him since Rome?”

            “Well, there was dinner and a movie that one night.”

            “But none since?”

            “I’m much more of a homebody now. It’s not like it was in New York. You can’t be a homebody in Manhattan—you might miss something.”

            “Is he okay with that?”

            “I guess so.”

            “So then, are you dating, or are you just friends?”

            “We decided to go back to being friends,” I said, avoiding eye contact.

            “Both of you decided this?”

            “Yeah,” I lied.

            I kicked off my shoes and curled up in the cushioned clamshell chair, pulling my knees to my chest while Melody’s conspicuous skepticism surrounded me.

            “That surprises me,” she said.

            “Why?”

            “Andi, the two of you made passionate love in Italy.”

            I shifted my position in the chair.

            “So?”

            “So, I find it hard to believe that after sex like that you’d want to just slip back into a situation that never satisfied you to begin with. Why are you trying to cling so hard to something that you’ve both obviously outgrown?”

            “I’m not ready,” I insisted.

            “Not ready for what?”

            “To be with someone else.”

            “You mean, to
sleep
with someone else?”

            I reverted to my first position in the chair.

            “Yes. And don’t bring up Rome. That was different. That was a fantasy, a rebound.”

            “Are you saying it never happened?”

            I rolled my eyes. “Of course it happened. But it was different. I was sexually frustrated, that’s all. It wasn’t supposed to happen. I mean, it was what it was and that’s that.”

            “So, you just used him like an escort?”

            “Of course not,” I said, offended. “I just didn’t intend for it to happen. I mean, I didn’t go looking for it. It was an accident.”

            “Andi, I don’t believe there are any accidents or coincidences in life, and I don’t think it was a rebound. You’re rationalizing. You told me that when you left Rome, you were ready to envision something different for your life. Why can’t that vision include a sexual relationship with a man you’re obviously attracted to and whom you trust?”

            “Because it just can’t. I can’t do that to Sam.”

            “What if he brought you two together?”

            “Please,” I said with an air of pretension, withholding that I had actually wondered the same thing that night at the fountain, if only for a fleeting moment. “Two years ago, I might have offered the same suggestion to someone else in my position. But cynicism moved in the moment the police showed up at my house. And what, the drunk driver—that was part of ‘God’s plan,’ to get my husband out of the house and offed so I could get back together with a former escort? Come on, Melody. You can’t expect me to believe that.”

            “I don’t have answers or explanations,” Melody said. “I only have possibilities. Why can’t that be a possibility? And why can’t you believe in a possibility?”

            I took a forceful gulp from my water bottle. “I’ll pass.”

            “Andi, you’re starting to feel again, and that’s great. That’s important. But one of the things you’re going to feel is fear, and you can’t hide from it. You’ve got to face it head on.”

            “What if I’m not ready?”

            “Who is ever ready? Do you think there’s any woman who isn’t afraid of giving birth, or any man who isn’t afraid of being a father? Do you think the president isn’t afraid of making certain decisions that can cost lives?”

            “Not if he’s a Republican.”

            “Stop using your sarcasm to avoid the issue. I don’t think it’s that you’re afraid of cheating on Sam—you know he’s not coming back.”

           
Yeah, thanks for reminding me…

            “But I’m still
married
to him,” I insisted. “That hasn’t changed just because he’s gone.” I still had trouble saying the word
dead
.

            “Didn’t you say you had a hard time leaving Devin at first? Didn’t you originally want things to work out with
him
?”

            “That was different. It was so long ago, for one thing. I was a different person. Back then Devin and I were each other’s consolation prizes. We were comfortable with each other and used each other to a certain extent. He gave me confidence in myself and my body and he helped me let my guard down and heal the demons of my past.”

            “And what did you do for him?”

            “I taught him to be a better writer.”

            “That’s it?”

            I contemplated before responding. “I guess I accepted him for who he was. After all, I was the only one who really knew him.”

            “If it was so good between the two of you, then why didn’t it work out?”

            “Because we weren’t totally being ourselves. I mean, he was this escort who kept all his clients wanting what they would never get from him, and I was trying to be this sexy, desirous woman who had it all together. Neither of us was willing to say to the other, ‘I need to be loved by you.’ And neither of us was willing to make ourselves vulnerable enough to risk being hurt or rejected by the other.”

            “Isn’t that what you’re trying to protect yourself from now?” Melody asked.

            I looked at her, confused. “What do you mean?”

            “If you allow yourself to be vulnerable for one second, if you allow yourself to admit that you still need to be loved, doesn’t that mean you might get hurt again?”

            “You think Devin’s gonna dump me?”

            “Did you for one minute ever think Sam would leave you?”

            I said nothing and looked down at my shoes on the floor. The tips were scuffed.

            Melody said, “I’m going to end today with this. You made a wish, a promise to yourself at that fountain: to re-see your life. That doesn’t mean you have to turn your back on Sam. It doesn’t mean you abandon him. But you have to see
him
in a new way too.”

“It’s about revision,” I said, the revelation coming into focus.

“Exactly,” she said. “As a writer, you understand what revision is all about. You have to do the same with Devin. He’s not the escort anymore who used to dangle the carrot in front of you and all the other women. He’s asking for more. He’s
asking
you this time. And he’s willing to be vulnerable now. Is it really fair for you to string him along?”

            Again, I said nothing.