The Lies That Bind(21)

“That’s not entirely true,” he says. “That’s your convenient spin—”

I cut him off, annoyed. “Look, Matthew, whether you meant to or not…you were stringing me along….And you would’ve kept stringing me along, well into my thirties—”

Now he interjects, his voice rising a little. “You’re only twenty-eight, Cecily. What’s the rush?”

“I never said there was a rush.”

He looks at me, raising one eyebrow in a way that I used to find irresistible, and still gets to me a little.

“I never said there was a rush,” I repeat. “But we dated for more than three years…and I think if you don’t know by that point in a relationship whether it is ‘forever material,’ then you have your answer.”

    “You can know that it’s ‘forever material,’ and still not be ready to take that step,” Matthew says, as I feel us going around in the same old frustrating circles.

I sigh, remembering all the red flags and disappointments. His cousin’s wedding, for one. All the nights he chose his friends over me. Knicks games, flag football, or simply a “good night’s sleep,” saying he was just too tired to come over, but it was “fine if you want to come here.” The way he bristled at mentions of the future that extended beyond the upcoming summer Hamptons share. The fact that he still kept in touch with Juliet—his smug Sotheby’s-employed ex-girlfriend—despite knowing how much it bothered me.

“Cecily, don’t you know how much I love you?” he says.

The words take me by complete surprise, and as much as I don’t want to be having this conversation, I have to admit it feels good to hear him say this. I mean, who doesn’t want to be loved, particularly after feeling so rejected?

But overriding all of that is the feeling that it’s too little, too late—and that this entire conversation is disloyal to Grant.

“Can we not do this?” I say. “We made a decision.”

“You made a decision,” he says.

“Fine,” I say, owning it. “I made a decision. But only after you wouldn’t make one.”

Matthew stops walking as we reach an empty bench, putting his hand gently on my forearm. “Cecily. Look at me. Please.”

I stop, too, turning toward him, feeling nauseous.

“Can we sit?”

I say okay and reluctantly take the seat beside him, waiting for him to speak.

“Why couldn’t I make you happy?” he says.

    I let out a long sigh, trying to put my emotions into words without sounding pathetic or giving him false hope. What I want to say is that I always had the feeling he was looking around for something better. Someone more sophisticated. Less Midwestern. That I always felt like a placeholder. That I had the sick sense I’d be the girl he dated right before he fell madly in love with the woman he’d quickly marry. Or worse, that he’d propose, while wondering, deep down, if he was settling.

But I don’t say any of this. Instead I tell him that it doesn’t matter anymore. That it’s all a moot point.

“How can you say that?” he asks.

“Because.” I swallow, then force myself to say the rest. “Because I’ve moved on.”

He gives me an incredulous look and says, “After one month?”

“A lot can happen in a month,” I reply, sounding more flippant than I mean to.

“Oh, really?” he says, his eyebrow arching.

“Yes,” I say quietly. “Really.”

“Wait,” he says, his expression changing. “Are you seeing someone?”

I nod a tiny nod.

“Seriously?” he says, looking both wounded and panicked. Yet it doesn’t bring me any satisfaction of the sort Scottie would have predicted. Instead, I’m only uncomfortable—and very sad.

“Who is he?” Matthew says. “Do I know him?”

I shake my head and say, “No.”

He stares at me for several long seconds. “So that’s it? Just like that, you’re over us?”

I look away, feeling a stab of guilt.

“Okay,” I hear him say as I make myself meet his gaze again. “So I’ll take that as a yes. Nice.” He shakes his head, looking pissed.

“Matthew. Stop,” I say, rolling my eyes.

    “Stop what?”

“Stop trying to make me feel guilty. I honestly didn’t think you’d care that I’m seeing someone—”

“Whatever, Cecily,” he says, cutting me off. “You know what I think?”

I shrug, a little afraid about what he’s going to say.

“I think this is classic projection,” he says. “I think you’re the one who didn’t love me.”

“You know that I did,” I say quietly.

“Did? So you don’t anymore?”

“Did. Do. Part of me will always love you. But—”

“Then give us another chance,” he says, interrupting again. “Come to the Hamptons with me this weekend….” He reaches for my hand as I quickly cross my arms.

“I can’t,” I say, shaking my head, feeling like the kid who closes her eyes, puts her pointer fingers in her ears, and says, La, la, la, la! I can’t hear you.