My One and Only(53)

Nick came over to the table. “Hi,” he said quietly.

“Hi,” I breathed. He didn’t seem mad. Or even upset, really. Maybe he could tell that was just a stupid sloppy kiss from an irritating poser. His eyes went from me to Dare, then to the others.

“Um, guys,” I said, “this is Nick.”

I guess I sounded weird, or scared, because everyone quieted down.

“Nick? Who’s Nick?” Ben asked, emerging from the back room.

“You sneaky thing, Harper,” Prish said. “I didn’t know you were dating someone.”

The magnitude of what I’d done finally hit me. Nick looked at me, stunned, as if I’d just shot him in the heart. Which, in a sense, I had. He blinked—twice—I was on hyperdrive with the details here—his gypsy eyes as dark as a black hole. “She’s not dating anyone,” he said. “I’m her husband.”

Somewhere, a fire truck laid on the air horn. Over the sound system, a jazz band was murdering “White Christmas.” But otherwise, our party had gone abruptly silent.

“I thought you were only, like, twenty-one, Harper,” Ryan slurred. “What, are you in one of those religious sects or something? A sister-wife?”

“You’re married?” Jocasta asked, incredulous. “Are you kidding?”

And then Nick did walk out.

“Ruh-roh, Scooby-Doo,” Ryan said. I shoved away from the table, but Dare caught my hand.

“You don’t have to go after him,” he said.

“Yes, I do, ass**le,” I hissed, yanking my hand free. The bells on the door jangled with obscene good cheer as I ran out into the cold night air. No Nick. At the corner, I looked both ways, and there he was, hands jammed in his pockets, walking fast, head down. “Nick! Wait!”

He didn’t wait, so I ran after him, tripping on the cobblestones, and caught up to him at the next corner.

“Nick,” I said. He didn’t look at me. I grabbed his arm. “Nick, wait,” I panted. “Please let me explain.”

“Go ahead,” he said, and his voice was oddly calm.

“Okay, well…I—I obviously didn’t…”

“Mention me.” The light changed, and he started across.

“Right,” I said, trotting after him. I’d left my coat at the restaurant, and it was horribly cold. My teeth wanted to chatter, but I clamped my jaw closed.

“You were kissing that guy.” Voice still calm, feet still walking. “What else have you done with him?”

“Nothing! That was nothing, Nick. He’s an idiot. He was drunk. That was nothing.”

“But nobody knew you were married.”

“No…I—see, Nick, I…” Oh, God, what was I going to say? “Let’s go home and talk, okay?”

He stopped, finally, and I immediately wished he hadn’t. He was furious. His eyes were black and hot and burned like a brand. “You never mentioned me.”

“No,” I admitted in a whisper.

“Not even once.”

I shivered, and not just from the cold. Nick didn’t offer me his coat. I didn’t blame him. “No, Nick. I didn’t tell them I was married. I didn’t talk about you.”

“I see,” he said softly. And he started walking again, but he took off his coat and threw it on the ground behind him, and the gesture broke my heart.

“Nick? Please! I’m sorry.”

He didn’t stop, or pause, or answer. I followed, picking up his coat but feeling unworthy to wear it. I was ridiculous in my shiny silver tank top and high heels, teetering after my furious husband. I was also full of self-hatred. And last but not least…I was utterly terrified.

And if there was one feeling I hated more than any other, it was being scared.

You know, he’s got some nerve, a small, evil part of my brain whispered. The seeds of resentment that had been festering for the past few months suddenly found fertile soil, replacing the abject terror and sense of doom. After all, Nick was a fine one to be mad. Really, Nick was feeling abandoned? Nick? I was the one who’d been dropped into a huge city and basically patted on the head and told to go off and play and not to bother the grown-ups. I was the one whose husband had no time for me. Of course I’d found friends. Of course I’d been hungry for some attention. He sure as hell wasn’t giving me any. My box had been checked! When was the last time Nick and I had had a real conversation, huh? He didn’t want real conversations. Not with me. Nope, I was just there to do his laundry, keep the fridge stocked and be available for a quickie in the middle of the night. Some marriage. No wonder I hadn’t talked about it! Who could blame me?

Oh, Harper, don’t do this, the better angel said, but it was easier—so much easier—to be the victim. And so I built the case against Nick—I really was meant to be a lawyer—and found myself innocent. I’d made a mistake, yes, but not a huge one. Definitely forgivable, but what about his sins, huh? I let the righteous anger grow while Nick’s figure grew smaller and smaller as the distance between us grew. Fine. He didn’t want to hear what I had to say? Fine. That was nothing new, was it?

New York was quiet on a Monday night; Tribeca deserted at this late hour. Sirens, almost constant in the city, blared uptown. A single sheet of newspaper tumbled down the cobbled street, the only thing keeping me company. A bitter wind blew off the Hudson, cutting into me, bringing the smell of blood from the meatpacking companies on the West Side Highway.