The Lies That Bind(48)

So when I do call him back, I’m more relaxed than I ever imagined I’d be, our conversation quite pleasant. That is, until he asks me whether I’m “still seeing that guy.”

Flustered, I give him a dodgy answer, determined not to lie, but equally resolved not to tell him the whole, awful truth. “No,” I say. “We aren’t together anymore.”

“So you’re single again?” he asks, sounding hopeful.

“Yeah. What about you?” I say.

“Yep. Still single,” he says. “I’ve been single this whole time.”

“I’m surprised Juliet didn’t try to get back with you.”

“She did,” he says with a laugh.

“Ugh,” I say, with the smallest jealous pang. “I can’t stand her.”

“You’ve never even met her,” he says.

“Don’t need to,” I say. “I know her type.”

There is a long silence, and then he says, “So. Do you miss me? A little?”

I hesitate. “Yeah. Maybe a little,” I say, trying to identify the weird feeling in my stomach.

“I’ll take it,” he says, sounding the way he did in the beginning of our relationship, when I had his full attention and he was always so excited to hear from me.

“In all seriousness, I do miss having you in my life,” I say.

    “You do?” he says, sounding so sweetly hopeful. “Really?”

“Yes, I do,” I say.

“God, Cess…it’s so good to hear you say that.”

“Well, it’s true,” I say, surprising myself as much as I seem to be surprising him. “And I want to thank you—”

“For giving you space and being patient?”

“Well, sure…I guess….But I was going to say for calling me on September eleventh…for letting me know that I was important to you.”

“You already knew that. You should know that.”

“Maybe,” I say. “But that confirmed it…and I realized how important you are to me, too. I mean—I really do care about you, and—”

“Can I see you?” he says, cutting me off.

“Yeah,” I say, surprising myself once again—not with the answer, but with the complete lack of hesitation.

“What are you doing tonight?”

“Not much,” I say. “What are you up to?”

“Nothing. I was just going to do a little work….I have a brief due Tuesday. But I can put that off until tomorrow….Wanna hang out?”

“Okay.”

“Here or there?” he asks, just the way he used to.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say, just the way I used to. “You choose.”

“All right…Come here, then. I just went to the grocery store. We can cook together.”

“Okay,” I say, realizing that this is the most normal I’ve felt since I first glimpsed those burning towers on television. “I’ll be there shortly.”



* * *



—

After we hang up, I take a shower, telling myself not to feel weird or overthink anything. I’m just going to spend time with a friend—someone who still cares about me. Someone I care about back. So I pull my hair into a ponytail, put on jeans and a blouse, and head over.

    But the second Matthew opens his door and looks at me, I sense that he may have slightly different expectations. His hair is damp and freshly gelled. His face has the pink glow of a fresh shave, and he smells so good.

“Hi,” he says, looking nervous. Cute nervous.

“Hi…You look really nice,” I say.

“You do, too,” he says.

“No, I don’t,” I mumble. “This whole time post–nine eleven has been so surreal….I haven’t really been eating or sleeping.” I think of Grant, but push the thought away.

“I know,” he says. “But you really do look beautiful.”

“Well…thank you,” I say.

We stare at each other a beat, with matching stiff smiles, before he says, “So…come in….”

I nod as he steps aside, and I walk past him into the apartment I once knew—still know—so well. Everything looks as immaculate as ever, some of our meal already prepped, onions and peppers diced on his massive wooden cutting board, an assortment of spices pulled from his spice rack. A candle is lit on the stove, and Alicia Keys sings on his stereo.

“So…is this a date?” I blurt out before I can think better of it.

Matthew looks sheepish as he says, “No…It’s just…two friends getting together…reconnecting.”

“Okay,” I say, nodding, relaxing. “That sounds good.”

“Would you like a drink?”

“Um, sure…What are you having?”

He points to a glass of beer on the far end of the counter and says, “A Heineken. Or I could open a bottle of wine?”

“A beer sounds good, actually,” I say.

He nods, grabs a bottle from the fridge, then opens the freezer, reaching for a chilled pint glass.

    “The bottle’s fine,” I say.