Lies That Bind Us(2)

The other couple, Brad and Kristen, lived in Atlanta, though she was a Brit by birth and currently had a recurring role on a sci-fi show that was shot there. Brad was originally from some no-name town in Missouri. He was in real estate of some sort, but I didn’t recall the details. Like Simon and Melissa, they had a shine about them, a glamour that made you want to be in their orbit, like a minor satellite, and I felt giddy at the prospect of being included in their presence again. It felt—to extend that orbit metaphor—like the Greek sun itself, warm and benevolent and invigorating. I just couldn’t wait.

The timing was precise, if silly. The last night of this trip would mark the 1,999th day since we met. The idea had come to us near the end of that first week. We’d been mellowed by sun and drinking and by that special camaraderie that comes from feeling unbelievably lucky to have blundered into each other. Prince had been playing on the radio, and Kristen was talking about a friend of hers who had just had a baby and was obsessed with what she called “the first two thousand days,” which was supposed to be crucially formative in a child’s life. Somehow Melissa, who had never been much interested in children, latched onto the number and suddenly lit up.

“That’s what we should do!” she said, the light of joyous revelation in her eyes. “To celebrate our friendship. New friendships are born, right? They have to be tended, nurtured.”

“How much have you had?” asked Brad, checking her glass playfully.

“I’m serious!” she exclaimed. “We make a pact right now that wherever we are, whatever we are doing, we get together again, here, in two thousand days, just to do this all again.”

“You’re crazy,” said Brad. “I like it.”

“Wait!” said Simon. “Hear that?” He cocked his head toward the sound of the radio. “We’re not babies. But I think we might party like it’s 1999!”

Melissa’s eyes and mouth widened with delight. “I knew there was a reason I loved you,” she said, leaning over and kissing him loudly.

“Won’t that be, like, October or November?” said Marcus, counting the months on his fingers.

“Fall break,” said Simon, as if we were all still in college. “Perfect.”

“Fall break!” sang Melissa. “We in?”

“I’m in,” said Simon.

“Hell yeah,” said Brad.

“1999,” Kristen agreed.

Then Marcus. Then me. It was infectious—ridiculous, perhaps, but infectious just the same, because in that moment we were just so happy that anything, however random or goofy, that seemed like it would make it all happen again had to be grabbed with both hands.

“To us,” said Melissa, raising her glass, “and to one thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine days till one hell of a party!”

I could see it all, feel the last warmth of the afternoon sun on my skin, the still greater warmth of being with them, of being one of them. The memory still made me smile.

It was going to be so very good to see them all again. That week when we had stumbled onto each other, clueless foreigners all, pointing our way through whatever the hotel bar had to offer because none of us spoke the language, had been, now that I thought about it, one of the highlights of my life. Perhaps the highlight. Till then, at least. Now I had other great things to look forward to, the vacation included.

Over dinner that night—takeout from Barrington’s, which was fabulously expensive and deserved better than the mismatched china I served it on—Chad had taken a break from his pan-seared grouper to ask if I minded going alone and if I felt awkward about seeing Marcus again. I actually laughed.

“I honestly hadn’t thought about it,” I said, taking a sip of wine. “I mean, you know I still see him from time to time. We’re still friends. But I don’t miss him. Not in that way.”

“Sounds very healthy,” he said, returning to his fish. “Good.”

“Chad Hoskins,” I said teasingly, “are you jealous?” Then I kissed him so invitingly that he spilled his wine. “Goose,” I said, laughing. “Now you’re all wet. Whatever shall we do?”



I didn’t fly much. The new job might change that, I supposed, and I rather liked the idea of jetting around with the sober business-suited bound for Tulsa, Newark, or Chicago on a Monday morning, gabbling instructions to my assistant in a no-nonsense way over my cell phone, asking for receipts with my steak dinner since I was “expensing” everything. Maybe that got dull eventually, but for now flying was still a little exotic, however much the airlines packed us in and gouged us for every inch of legroom and every bag of stale pretzels. The Aegean plane was nicer than the American Airlines one I’d crossed the Atlantic in: clean and sleek and new, with room to stretch out and everyone looking fresh faced and excited for the hop across the sparkling water.

I remembered the last time I had been to Greece, marveling at the blueness of the water that I had seen in books and brochures but assumed was a trick of filters or Photoshop, and my heart gave a little flutter of anticipation. I thought of Melissa and the others, and I realized I didn’t know when everyone else would be arriving. I half thought Marcus might have been on the Charlotte plane and was a little disappointed when he wasn’t. Just for company, of course. I had kept an eye open in the gate area at Douglas and made a couple of strolls down each aisle of the plane after they’d served dinner and dimmed the cabin lights, but there was no sign of him. One of the haughty, brittle flight attendants had pointedly asked me if everything was OK, like I might be planning some elaborate terrorist heist on my way to the bathroom, so I told her I’d lost an earring.