The Lies That Bind(2)

    I headed east, in the opposite direction from Matthew’s Upper West Side apartment, but with no destination in mind. I considered stopping by the bodega on Second Avenue, which has the best selection of candy and magazines, but kept going, past Stuyvesant Square, then onto Fourteenth Street. Along some of the sketchier blocks, I contemplated digging into my purse for my pepper spray, but there were too many people out and about for me to really worry. It was a concept my parents didn’t grasp, their view of New York rooted in the seventies, back when the city apparently turned into a gauntlet of criminals after nightfall.

When I reached Avenue B, I couldn’t help but think of Rent, the musical that takes place in Alphabet City. It is an impossible ticket to come by—and ridiculously expensive—but Matthew had made it happen for my birthday. I felt a sharp pang of nostalgia and the beginning of a downward spiral, but I told myself to stay the course, literally and figuratively, just as I spotted a bar on the corner of Seventh and B, with Tudor-paned windows and a red castle-arched doorway. It looked promising—soothing even—and I ducked inside, taking a seat at the horseshoe-shaped bar.

And that’s how I got to this moment, staring at a cordless phone, nursing my second pint, listening to Dido go on and on about the best day of her life. My willpower crumbling, I pick up the receiver and begin to dial Matthew’s number. I get through all the digits except the last before I hear a deep voice behind me saying, Don’t do it.

Startled, I look over my shoulder and see a guy about my age, maybe a little older, staring down at me. He is tall—basketball player tall—with a five o’clock shadow and strong, dark features.

    “What’d you say?” I ask, thinking I must have heard him wrong.

“I said, ‘Don’t do it.’ Don’t call him.” He is stone-faced, but something in his brown eyes looks amused.

Too dumbfounded to issue an outright denial, I say, “What makes you think I was calling a him?”

He shrugs, takes the stool next to mine, and says, “Well? Am I right?”

I shrug, fight a smile, and tell him yeah, he’s right.

“Who is he?”

“My ex.”

“Well. He’s your ex for a reason. Onward.”

I stare at him, speechless, thinking that it’s almost as if he’s a secret agent hired by Scottie to spy on me. Or maybe he’s my personal guardian angel, like Clarence in It’s a Wonderful Life.

Meanwhile, the bartender returns, and my new stool mate orders a Jack and Coke while gazing up at the wall of liquor partitioning the bar. “And…let’s see…two shots of Goldschl?ger.”

“Goldschl?ger?” I say with a laugh. “Didn’t see that coming.”

“I’m full of surprises,” he says. “And you look like you need it.”

I shake my head and tell him I don’t do shots.

“That’s a lie right there,” he says, smiling at me.

He’s right, of course—so I smile back at him as the bartender retrieves the long-necked bottle, unscrews the top, and fills two shot glasses to the brim, placing them before us, then walking away again. We pluck them off the bar in tandem, raising them to eye level.

“To moving on,” he says.

“To moving on,” I repeat under my breath.

We make eye contact before throwing them back. It takes me two swallows to finish mine, my throat burning. But I remain stoic, skipping the standard chaser and grimace.

    “Feel better?” he asks.

I say yes, marveling that I actually do. “How about you?” I ask, prying a little.

“Yes,” he says. “I do, too.”

It’s an easy, natural opening to ask for his story—who he loves or no longer loves—or at least the usual barroom questions you pose to strangers. What’s your name? Where’re you from? Where’d you go to school? What do you do for a living? But I don’t go there. I don’t go anywhere. Instead, I just enjoy our quiet camaraderie, the feeling of not being alone, the miraculous absence of misery. He must feel something of the same, because over the next hour and a half and several drinks, we talk remarkably little, yet neither of us makes a move to leave.

And then it’s last call. I suggest a parting shot of Goldschl?ger, and he agrees that it’s a good idea. This time we skip a toast, but I silently replay our first one. To moving on. That is definitely what I am trying to do.

When our check arrives, he pulls his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans while I reach for my purse. He shakes his head, and says, no, he’ll get it. I start to protest, but say thank you instead.

“You’re welcome,” he says. “Thank you.”

“For what?” I ask.

“You know,” he says, removing several bills from his wallet and putting them on the bar.

I nod, because I think I do.

He catches me staring at him and looks self-conscious for the first time all night. “What?” he says, running his hand through his hair.

“Nothing,” I say.

“You were definitely thinking something…” he says, returning his wallet to his back pocket before pushing up the sleeves of his sweatshirt.

“I was thinking that I still don’t know your name,” I say.