The Lies That Bind(19)

I freeze, staring at his name and the subject line saying simply hello. Several seconds pass before I click on it, holding my breath, hearing his voice as I read:


Cecily, I just wanted to say hi and check on you. I hope you’re doing well. Any chance you’d like to meet for lunch or coffee? I understand if you don’t think it’s a good idea, but I miss my best friend. Matthew.



Wondering how a message can be both bland and explosive, I am filled with competing emotions of irritation and satisfaction, resentment and nostalgia. Nervously, and before I can really think things through, I forward the email to Scottie and ask him to call me. Seconds later, my phone rings.

    “I told you!” he yells into my ear. “I told you he’d be back if you listened to me!”

“Yeah. You sure did,” I say, staring at my screen, wishing that my relationship coach hadn’t been right in this instance.

“He totally wants you back,” Scottie says.

“Not necessarily,” I say, thinking that I don’t share his conclusion—and I definitely don’t share his sense of triumph. “He just says he misses his best friend.”

“It’s the same thing, and you know it,” Scottie replies, before asking what I’m going to write back.

“You think I should write him back?” I ask, thinking that it contradicts Scottie’s usual guidance that silence and feigned indifference are the source of all power. Then again, maybe he realizes that it’s no longer about power to me. That I am moving on with my life.

“Absolutely,” he says. “It’s one thing not to contact him first. It’s another thing to ignore him once he caves. You’ll just look petty. Or bitter. Like you’re not over him.”

“But I am over him,” I say, though I still have an occasional fleeting pang. “So I don’t really care what it looks like.”

“You care a little bit,” he says.

I smile to myself—because it is so like Scottie to try to tell me how I feel. “Maybe. But can I at least wait a few days?”

“Hmm,” he says. “I don’t see the upside to waiting in this instance….I actually think it’s better if you just fire off a quick reply right now. You don’t want to look like you’re playing games.”

I sigh, filled with dread. “Okay. Fair enough. So what do you think I should say? Do I tell him I’m seeing someone?”

“No. Not out of the gate,” Scottie says. “Not in this email. Again, you don’t want to come across as vindictive….Besides, he probably wouldn’t believe you. It’s only been, like, a month. He’ll think you’re just lying to make him jealous.”

    I nod, knowing what comes next. I indulge him and say, “I’m ready,” while cradling the phone under my ear and positioning my fingers on my keyboard. I won’t necessarily say what he wants me to say, but I’ll at least take down his words for consideration.

Scottie clears his throat, then starts talking, while I type verbatim, for now: Hi Matthew…comma…It’s nice to hear from you…period…Even though I think we made the right decision…comma…I would be happy to meet up with you for coffee…period…Does tomorrow afternoon work…question mark…Let me know…comma…Cecily.

“Tomorrow?” I say, staring at the words on my screen. “Grant leaves tomorrow.”

“So?” he says. “All the more reason.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Because you’re taking the high ground while keeping your options open. It’s a solid A-plus strategy.”

“Scottie!” I say, dropping my head to my hands.

“What?”

“I don’t want to keep my options open. I don’t need a strategy. I know what I want.”

“I got that…but why burn bridges? You know…just in case.”

“Just in case what?” I say, forcing him to actually say aloud what he’s clearly driving at.

“Just in case things don’t work out with the mysterious Grant,” he finishes.

“They will,” I say.

“Then meet Matthew, look him in the eye, and tell him that,” Scottie says. “Tell him you’re happy with your decision and that it’s over for good.”

    “Okay. Fine. Fine.” I relent—not because I buy his rationale, but because it suddenly does feel like the mature, kind thing to do.

I press send, anxious to get it all over with.



* * *



—

Later that night, after I go home and shower, I walk to Miracle Grill on First Avenue for my final dinner with Grant before he leaves for London. I have every intention of telling him about the email exchange with Matthew, but I change my mind once we’re all tucked into our cozy, dimly lit, back-corner table.

I just want to focus on us, enjoy every last moment together. We vow not to be sad, and end up having a surprisingly light night, talking and laughing and drinking and strolling all over the East Village until we end up on our stools at the bar on Seventh and Avenue B where it all began. It’s hard to believe that was only a month ago.

After last call, I assume we will head back to my place, but he suggests we stay out all night and watch the sun rise. Savor every moment together. It’s the most romantic suggestion, so I say yes, and we keep wandering, ending up at the Brooklyn Bridge. I’ve walked across it before, but this time feels so different. For one, it’s the dead of night, and we aren’t surrounded by tourists, only the bright, twinkling lights of two boroughs. For another, I’m with Grant and everything feels different with Grant. Somehow more vivid and significant. I try to think of a metaphor, but the closest I can get is that Matthew and I were spectators of a sport—watching and cheering together—while Grant and I are actually playing in the game, together. At some point, I let my mind go blank, just feeling his hand in mine as we cross over the rushing river into Brooklyn.