I'm Fine and Neither Are You(45)

He’d meant it as a compliment, but I could feel my spirits sink. “Certainly not me.” Eager to change the subject, I said, “Any news on the Atlantic piece?”

“I’m still waiting for it to go through another edit. But I’m making headway on the book.”

Over dinner, he told me about how he had outlined the entire proposal and had started thinking through how he would begin the first chapter. I made sure to ask him questions and keep my eyes on him as he answered. But after he had finished telling me about his agent search and then looked at me like he wasn’t sure what to say next, I drained my wine instead of speaking. Why did this have to be so much work? Shouldn’t we—two people who had known each other for the better part of twenty years and had vowed to spend the rest of our natural lives as partners—be able to connect without so much effort, say nothing of a blasted list?

But these things took time. Just as Rome wasn’t built in a day, my marriage would not be salvaged in a single date. I needed to believe that, because the alternative was more than I could bear.

Sanjay must not have shared my angst, because after we got to the garage where we’d parked the car, he put his hand on my thigh and gave it a squeeze. I stared straight ahead, because I knew exactly what that squeeze said: Remember our project ? We’re supposed to be having sex.

Well, yes, we were—but in a cramped sedan? In the middle of a parking garage?

“I had a nice time,” said Sanjay.

“I did, too,” I said. Especially the part where he paid the bill in cash—I hated to be so old-fashioned, but there was something romantic about knowing dinner wasn’t going on our joint credit card.

He leaned over the gearshift to kiss me. His lips were soft but insistent, which was my kind of kissing.

A car, a car, a car, a car! I heard Jenny say. Could you, would you in a car?

I could not, would not, in a car. Because I couldn’t stop thinking about where we were. Granted, it was dark, and no one appeared to be around. One could also argue that these same things made the garage an ideal location for a serial killer to prey on a couple midcoitus.

“I’m sorry,” I said, pulling away from Sanjay. “I’m too anxious. Maybe at home?”

“No problem,” he said.

“You’re disappointed,” I said.

He sighed. “No, I get it.”

“But?”

“But I’m thinking that by the time we write the sitter a check and have a discussion with her about how we should really download one of those money-transfer apps and then peek in on Stevie and Miles and floss and brush away the garlic and Chianti and get into bed, I’m pretty sure neither of us is going to be in the mood.”

“Well, when you put it like that . . .”

“It’s fine,” he said, but his straight-ahead stare on the drive home said otherwise.

“Sorry,” I said again when we pulled up to the house. And I was. He had asked for one single thing, and I had repeatedly failed to deliver it.

“Don’t be.” He gave me a small smile. “It was nice to go out with you.”

I put my hand on his. “It was,” I said. “Let’s not have the money-transfer app conversation with the sitter. And I’m okay with your garlic breath if you don’t mind the taste of red wine.”

He laughed lightly. “Deal.”

When we got inside, our sitter, Emma, was slouched on the sofa. Her thumbs continued tapping on her phone as she addressed us. “Have a good time?”

“Yes,” Sanjay and I said in unison, then smiled at each other. I knew what he was thinking: Get out of here.

“That’s awesome?” said Emma, using intonation I suspected was intended for whomever she was texting, or whatever newfangled app she was using to communicate.

While Sanjay cut Emma a check and sent her on her way, I ran to the bathroom, feeling abuzz with nervous anticipation. Aside from our one aborted attempt the night I had drinks with Jael, Sanjay and I hadn’t slept together since before Jenny’s death. And the last time we had, it had been . . . well, it must have been rote, because I honestly couldn’t remember it. But in spite of the parking garage incident, I was feeling optimistic. I could do this.

In front of the mirror, I dabbed concealer under my eyes and on the sides of my nose. Upon further inspection, I decided a bit of blush wouldn’t hurt. Freshly rouged, I went to the bedroom and changed into the new camisole I had ordered online. It looked far better on the model than it did on me—as completely unshocking as this was, it never failed to disappoint—but it matched the underwear that I had purchased to go with it, which were cutting into my hips. Maybe they would stretch if I kept them on long enough. Worst-case scenario, I would swap them for cotton briefs before going to sleep.

I got into bed, draped my legs with the duvet, and waited for Sanjay while attempting to get in the mood.

In my mind, I was striding down a snowy street near Grand Central in Manhattan, just a few months after 9/11. I was still apprehensive about the state of the world, but I was excited to meet Sanjay, whom I had just started dating, for drinks. Then I was watching that no-longer-new boyfriend sleep as the early morning sun streamed through the bay windows in our Brooklyn apartment. I was introducing him as my husband at a coworker’s wedding. I was putting a tiny, dozing Stevie into his arms for the first time. He was carrying me over the threshold of our first home.