Goodnight Beautiful(14)

“Sure you are,” she says, in a tone he doesn’t love. “Speaking of which, do you remember . . .” Sidney nods her head toward the far wall, where the bathrooms are, and yes, he does remember. The women’s bathroom at three in the morning the night of senior prom. She wasn’t even his date. “Jody still won’t talk to me,” Sidney says, referring to the girl who was his date, the one who walked in on them. “Twenty-two years, still gives me dirty looks every time I see her at the grocery store. She really hates you.”

“Who hates you?” A woman appears next to them. She’s their age, pretty, holds two glasses of wine.

“This is Sam Statler,” Sidney says, taking one of the glasses.

“Sam Statler,” the woman says, nodding. “Of course.” She extends her free hand. “Becky. We went to high school together, but you never spoke to me.”

Sam shifts uncomfortably, praying for Annie to hurry back and save him. “I’ve been hearing good things about you,” Sidney says. “It must be crazy, listening to people’s secrets all day.” She leans in. “Tell us the truth. What’s the juiciest thing someone’s ever talked about in therapy?”

“Juiciest thing someone’s talked about,” Sam says contemplatively. “Probably an orange.”

They both stare at him a moment, silent, and then burst into laughter. Sidney slaps his arm. “You’re still as charming as ever, Sam.”

“Isn’t he though?” Annie’s back by his side. Sam slips an arm around her, relieved.

“Congratulations on nailing down Mr. Least Likely to Commit,” Sidney says.

“No, that wasn’t Sam,” Becky corrects her. “That was Mike Hammill. Sam was voted Class Heartbreaker. Right, Sam?”

“That’s right,” he says, aware of Annie’s gaze. “And don’t forget prom king, two years in a row.”

“Oh please,” Annie says under her breath.

“What’s it like being married to a therapist?” Sidney asks, addressing Annie. “He must read you like a book.”

“Yes, he does,” Annie says. “But one of those books where the woman is crazy and you can’t trust a thing she says.”

They’re interrupted by the sound of someone clinking a glass, and the crowd begins to disperse, moving toward the front of the room, where the candidate is poised to speak. “Listen, there’s a bunch of us who get together sometimes,” Sidney says, in a hushed tone. “Dinner Club, we call it. Mandy, Ash. You remember them, Sam.”

Sam nods, though he hasn’t the faintest idea who she means.

“You should join us.”

“That’d be fun,” Annie says. “Sam will bake cookies.”

The women smile and walk away, toward the candidate, who is calling for people’s attention. Sam reaches for his drink, seeing the expression on Annie’s face. “What?” he whispers.

“‘Probably an orange’?”

“You heard that?” he asks, smirking.

“Yes, I heard that.”

“It was funny.”

She rolls her eyes again and walks past him, toward a guy with a tray of champagne. “Okay, heartbreaker. Whatever you say.”





Chapter 8




Sam is at work, and I am in a five-star mood.

The Mumble Twins had a major breakthrough during their session this morning, and I couldn’t be happier. Mumbly Wife wanted to spend the summer in Spain, but Mumbly Husband took a job without telling her. A freelance design gig for Apple (at least I think that’s what he said; the two of them talk like they’ve got marbles in their mouths). He couldn’t turn it down, and it led to a big fight, which led them to an appointment with Sam at ten o’clock this morning and the realization of a harmful and long-standing dynamic between them. It’s related to how critical Mumbly Husband’s mother was, and it’s too much to get into, but between their good news and the crisp scent of autumn in the air, I am in a fabulous mood.

I can hardly remember the early days anymore, those first weeks after moving here, when I wondered if I’d made a terrible mistake, agreeing to this whole situation. Moving into a money pit of a house. Giving up the city for this place. Chestnut Hill, NY, where every day feels like Wednesday.

But if Wednesday is going to be anything like this past Wednesday, I am all for it. That’s the day I pulled out of Farrell’s at 1:00 p.m. with a trunk full of groceries and spotted Sam through the window of the Parlor. I parked at the bank, snuck up behind him at the bar, where he was doing the crossword puzzle and nursing a seltzer with lime. We enjoyed a quiet lunch, the fish sandwich for him, a Mediterranean sampler for me. The whole thing was so marvelously relaxed, nothing like the stress of the city, where I would never think of ordering a twenty-dollar lunch entree, not worrying about a thing in the world. Until I lied to Sam again.

Not for the first time, he asked if I had given any more thought to my long-term plans, and while he did his best to keep any judgment from his voice, I could sense the underlying message. Are you ever going to do something useful with your days? I hate feeling stupid, and so I lied. “Funny you should ask,” I said. “I just so happened to accept a volunteer position today. I was planning on telling you at happy hour.”