The Lies That Bind(4)

I wait for him to speak, but when he doesn’t, I say, “So. I still don’t know your name.”

“Wait. Are you asking me for real this time? Or is this another head fake?”

I smile and tell him I’m ready now.

    He clears his throat, then swallows, his face growing serious, the suspense building. “It’s Grant,” he says.

I silently replay the one syllable, thinking that it fits him. Classic but unexpected. Simple yet strong. Positive connotations abounding. Granting a wish. Receiving a grant. “Grant what?” I say.

“Grant Smith.”

“I like that,” I say, both of us frozen in place, curled-up mirror images of each other. Close enough to touch if one of us extended our arms. But we don’t.

“Okay. Let me guess your name,” he says, chewing his lip in exaggerated concentration. “I bet you have one of those feminine names that ends with an eee or ahh. Something like…Sophia…Emily…Alyssa.”

“Wow,” I say. “You’re actually right….Three syllables. Ending in an eee sound.”

“What is it?” he says. “Tell me.”

“Cecily,” I say, wondering why it feels as if I just shared an intimate secret.

From under the covers, his hand finds mine. “Cecily,” he says. “And to think I was worried…”

“Worried about what?” I ask, our fingers now lacing together, my heart thudding harder.

“Worried that I might not like it.”

“And why would that matter?”

“Because,” he says. “I have the feeling I may be saying it…a lot.”

“You do?” I ask, my cheeks on fire.

“Yes, Cecily,” he whispers. “I do.”



* * *



—

Less than an hour later, we are sitting in a bright, bustling diner on Second Avenue. Between us on the table is a New York Times he bought at the door and two cups of coffee our waitress just poured. We are waiting for our omelets—his Greek, mine plain cheddar.

    I stare over at him across the steam rising from our mugs, marveling at how seamless the transition from bed to booth has been—with not a single uncomfortable moment. Not when we got up and took turns in the bathroom. Not when I told him I didn’t have a spare toothbrush, but he was welcome to use mine (he did). Not even when Scottie called on our way out the door, and I made the mistake of picking up the phone as he pummeled me with yes-no questions, and I informed him that no I wasn’t alone; and no it wasn’t Matthew; and yes he was cute.

“So. Tell me about yourself,” I say to Grant, wondering how I can feel like I know someone so well when I actually know nothing about him.

He nods as he pours cream into his mug and stirs. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything,” I say. “Everything.”

He crosses his arms, then rests his elbows on the table, leaning toward me. “Nobody really wants to know everything about another person, do they?”

I can’t tell if he’s being cagey or coy, so I say, “Good point. Just give me the basics.”

“What’s basic?” he says.

“You know…How old are you? Where’re you from? Do you have any siblings? That kind of stuff.”

He nods, takes a sip of coffee, then tells me he’s thirty, from Buffalo, and has a twin brother.

“Oh, that’s cool,” I say. “Identical or fraternal?”

“Fraternal. But we look a lot alike….That’s what people tell us, anyway.”

“Who’s older?” I ask.

“He is. By four minutes.”

    I nod, then ask where he went to college, as it occurs to me that maybe he didn’t go at all.

“Stanford,” he says.

I raise my eyebrows and say, “Wow. Impressive.”

“I had a basketball scholarship….Don’t be too impressed,” he says with a smile. “What about you? All the same questions?”

“I’m from a small town outside of Milwaukee. I went to the University of Wisconsin for college and grad school….I have an older sister and a younger brother.”

He nods, sips his coffee, and says, “Middle child, huh.”

“Afraid so.” I smile.

“Are you close? To your family?”

“Yeah. Very. I miss them a lot. Sometimes I wonder what I’m doing here,” I say.

“And? What are you doing here?”

“I came for a job.”

“What do you do?”

I hesitate, thinking that I never know whether to say that I’m a writer or a journalist or a reporter. Writer feels too vague; journalist sounds self-important; reporter seems somewhat misleading—too hard-nosed and gritty to describe what I do at this stage of my career. I avoid it altogether and simply tell him I work for The Mercury.

“Aw, you should’ve told me sooner,” he says, glancing down at the Times. “I wouldn’t have bought your competition.”

I laugh and say, “Yeah. We’re big rivals…neck and neck with the Times.”

“Hey, I like The Mercury.”

“All the news that’s not fit to print?” I say, the joking tagline my friends and I have given our tabloid employer.