The Futures(23)

“Do you think he worries about you? That you might ever cheat on him?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Were you guys always faithful to each other?”

My face must have tightened when Evan asked that last question, but he didn’t notice. He just kept running his fingers through my hair, tracing the ridge of my ear. I thought before answering. This was the second time a chance had arisen to make my confession. The first had been the very first night of school, while we were eating pizza. He’d asked me about my summer, and I’d almost said it—the look on his face had been so warm and trusting, and I wanted to tell him everything. He was just a friend at that point, and there was no reason not to be truthful. But even at that first moment—and at that second moment, too—I wanted Evan to think of me a certain way.

“Yes,” I lied. “I mean, I always was, and he was, too, as far as I know.”

“Mmm,” Evan said. “Did I tell you about what happened at practice? So one of my teammates said…”

It never came up again. He never knew the difference. Perhaps he hadn’t been administering any kind of test, or perhaps he had been, but only unconsciously. As the night wore on I began to feel a certain relief—that I had passed—but there was guilt, too. Did I think it was okay to lie because it was never going to happen again? Or did I know, even then, that it was an error destined to be repeated?

*

I tried not to think about Adam. I really tried. Our encounter that summer had lasted barely two minutes, capped with an empty promise to stay in touch. How many times did that happen in a given day in Manhattan? Hello and good-bye, a hundred heartbeats. I did everything to force Adam McCard out of my mind. I focused on whatever was in front of me: Evan, work, friends. But there was too much time in between. Too many empty hours, alone with nothing but my thoughts. I scanned the faces of everyone I passed in the street. I jumped every time my phone rang. While I was waiting for sleep, I found myself thinking about him. Adam McCard, Adam McCard, repeating billboards at the side of the highway. It seemed impossible he wasn’t thinking about me, too.

And then, just as September was about to turn into October, I heard my phone ringing over the weak dribble of our shower. How did I know? But somehow I did: I knew that this time it would be him. His voice on the message was deep and smooth, an answer to an unasked question.

“Julia, gorgeous, it’s me, Adam. If you’re screening my calls, I don’t blame you. God, I was so happy to run into you this summer. My only excuse for not calling is how busy work has been. Original, huh? But let me buy you a drink some night and tell you all about it. Please. I’d love to see you. Call me back. Same number.”

We planned to meet for drinks the next night at a bar downtown. From the outside, it looked like a very Adam place. A wooden door, no visible sign. The kind of place easily passed without notice. I’d dressed carefully, pulling my hair back and putting on lipstick, and earrings that dangled against my neck. My palms were sweaty, and my mind was jumbled. I had to remind myself it didn’t matter. He was the one who called me. There was nothing to lose. I walked into the bar a few minutes late and didn’t see him. Lots of young men with dark hair and deep voices, but no Adam. Maybe he was standing me up. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe it was better to go back to my own life and listen to that instinct flaring in the back of my mind—to stay away.

Then I felt the hand on my shoulder.

Adam kissed me on the cheek in greeting, the scent of his aftershave something that I’d never realized I’d memorized.

“Julia. You look amazing.”

“Thanks.” I tried not to blush.

We found a small, rickety table next to an open window at the front of the bar, where the breeze from the sidewalk drifted in. It was still warm, the last of an Indian summer. Adam picked out a bottle of wine for us to share. A Friday night, and the bar was full of people laughing off the week with pints of beer and platters of oysters on ice.

“This place looks great,” I said.

“It used to be a dive bar. We’d come here sometimes in high school. You could bribe the bouncer to let you in without ID.”

“Doesn’t seem like that would work anymore.” There were exposed bulbs, framed prints, cocktails, craft beers, the prices high enough to make me wince.

He lifted his glass. “Then it’s a good thing we’re so old,” he said. “Cheers.”

It was like days had passed, not years. Adam’s voice had that unchanged quality to it, a baritone depth that made me feel like we were actors on a stage, exchanging lines. Something about the way he leaned forward and cocked his head: it was like a cue, and the words that emerged from my mouth were more eloquent and interesting and right. The evening light came in at a low angle, casting a long shadow behind my wineglass on the table, warming my shoulders. I crossed one leg over the other, and my sandal dangled from my big toe.

I had a second glass of wine, a third. I’d been nervous and hesitant walking into the bar, but even an hour with Adam put me at ease. I was more relaxed than I’d felt in months. I was flirting, but just a little. I was still waiting for a signal that it was okay to keep going down this road.

The sun finally slipped behind the building across the street, and Adam’s face sharpened in the dimmed light. In the previous few years, since I’d last seen him, he’d acquired an appealing patina of experience. The conversation lulled, and in that moment I felt the night changing cadences. A deepening, the wine sinking in, the dinner hour upon us. The silence flustered me, and I didn’t know where to direct my gaze. A long second ticked by. When I looked up at Adam, his smile had disappeared.