The Lies That Bind(51)

Matthew smirks, like I just said something funny.

    “What?” I say.

He shakes his head and says, “Nothing…I was just thinking that you sound like the old me—just wanting to take our time and enjoy the moment…and I feel like the old you over here, all worried that you don’t love me.”

“You’re worried that I don’t love you?”

“Yeah,” he says. “A little.”

“You know I love you,” I say.

“Well? Can I have a little proof?” he says. “I’m feeling pretty exposed and naked here.”

“You are naked,” I say.

“Emotionally naked,” he says.

I sigh, knowing that he’s partly joking—but also not. And as much as I want to comfort him, I really am worried about something I can’t quite put my finger on. “You said last night that you think we’re perfect together?” I say.

“Yeah.”

“Did you mean that?”

“I never say what I don’t mean.”

“But…perfect?”

“Okay. Maybe not perfect,” he says. “Nothing is ever perfect. But we are better together than we are apart.”

“That’s a much lower bar,” I say, as I suddenly pinpoint my concern—and wonder if this bar is being set high enough for either of us.



* * *



—

Over the next few weeks, Matthew and I continue to spend time together, meeting for lunch, going to dinner, and occasionally spending the night at his place or mine. When we do, we always have sex—and it’s always good. In some ways, it feels like our old rhythm. In other ways, it feels new. At the very least, we have a fresh, healthier dynamic. I’m less needy; he’s more present.

    The problem is that I continue to miss what I had with Grant. The mystery and excitement and feeling of a really deep connection. I constantly remind myself that what we had was actually shit—built entirely on lies. Scottie helps in this quest, calling Grant a dog and a sociopath. I tell him that’s a bit much—can’t we just stick to a liar and a cheater? But the point is taken, and the bottom line remains: you can’t lose what you never had.

Still, there is a nagging part of me that doesn’t fully believe that Grant was a bad guy, and that what we shared wasn’t real. I felt what I felt. Something there had to be real. I know it’s a moot point—because he’s gone—but I begin to worry that I’ll never be able to fully move on, whether with Matthew or anyone else, until my questions are answered. Was my connection with Grant simply an illusory one, only about chemistry? Did he have genuine feelings for me? What was his marriage really like? Was he as bad as Scottie says—or was this just a case of a good person doing a bad thing?

And then there’s Amy. Whether it’s because I genuinely like her or because she’s my only connection to Grant, and therefore the only real path to finding answers to my questions, I continue to talk to her. Against every bit of advice from my friends, and my own better judgment.

One afternoon, we meet for a walk in the park, and during our conversation, I share with her that I’ve been spending time with my ex, Matthew.

“Spending time or back together?” she asks.

“I’m not sure,” I say. “We’ve agreed not to label it.”

She nods and says that it’s probably a good idea to take things slowly. She then adds that some of the best marriages she knows came after a breakup, whether short or long.

My stomach drops as I ask, “Did you and Grant ever break up?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Once, right after college.”

“Why?” I say, feeling more queasy by the second. “If it’s not too personal?”

    She shakes her head and says it’s not too personal, but she can’t really remember all the specifics. “We were arguing a lot. I had moved back to New York, and he was still in Palo Alto, looking for a job….I was mad that he was looking in cities other than New York.”

“He was?” I say, for some reason clinging to the idea that their marriage hadn’t been a foregone conclusion. “Where else was he looking?”

“I can’t remember that, either….But he wasn’t a huge fan of New York. He liked smaller cities. He liked the woods.” She makes a face. “I mean I get it—for vacation or whatever. But I could never live in the suburbs, let alone the country.”

“So what happened?” I say. “He just caved to the idea?”

“Yeah. Basically. I remember it came down to two jobs: teaching English at a boarding school in New Hampshire…or the Wall Street job my dad got him. No-brainer. But anyway, I’m so glad you’re back with your ex. Matthew, is it?”

“Yes,” I say. “Matthew.”

“Second chances are rare and wonderful.”

I turn this statement over in my mind, both the sentiment itself and what it says about Amy as a person. Her husband—the man she’s been with since college—is dead, yet she can be so genuinely happy for someone else. It’s such a generous quality.

“Yes,” I say. “I guess they are.”