The Lies That Bind(52)

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A few days later, Amy and I meet up again, after she invites me to the evening yoga class she teaches at a studio in the West Village a couple times a week “just for fun,” on the side of her job as a personal stylist.

At first, as I watch her long lean limbs twisting up into impossible poses, all I can do is picture her with Grant—and I can’t shake the feeling that it’s so messed up that I’m here. But after a while, that goes away, and I find myself forgetting that she’s the one saying, “just do your best” and “don’t compare yourself to anyone.” By the end of the class, I have fallen into a deep state of Zen and feel a little teary. Good, cathartic teary. I can’t think too hard about why I’m letting this relationship continue to develop, but I know there is a genuine piece to it.

    “What did you think of the class?” Amy says to me after everyone else has rolled up their mats and departed, and I’m helping her shut down the studio for the night.

“I loved it,” I say. “You’re such a good instructor.”

She thanks me and says that means a lot, adding, “You should bring Matthew sometime. I’d love to meet him….Or we could grab drinks?”

I nod and say sure, but get an instant knot in my stomach, thinking about the two of them being together, and that it could somehow lead to my lies of omission being revealed. That Matthew might randomly bring up my “summer fling”—maybe in a joking or offhanded way—and Amy might find it curious that I never mentioned the interim relationship to her. I know that’s a far-fetched scenario, but it still feels like a potential land mine and, worse, another layer of deceit.

I start to change the subject back to yoga, but before I can, Amy says, “Maybe we could all get together next week? I could invite a friend so, you know, I’m not the third wheel.”

“That sounds fun,” I say, smiling, figuring I can come up with an excuse later.

“Awesome,” Amy says. Then she gets a funny look on her face and adds, “You know, in a strange way, our friendship has really helped me….”

I feel my smile fading. “Why’s that?” I ask, afraid of her answer.

“I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe because you have absolutely nothing to do with Grant.”

My guilty heart lurches as I nod and do everything in my power to keep my expression blank.

    Then, when I think it can’t get any worse, she stares off into the distance and adds, “I think you would have really liked him, though…and he would have loved you.”



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“Do you think she knows?” I ask Jasmine later. “Like is she stringing me along and waiting to see if I’ll confess?”

“No, I don’t. And you have nothing to confess,” she says. “You didn’t know about her when you were with him.”

“But I still slept with her husband. And I know about her now. And I’m not telling her the truth.”

“Yes, I know. And I still say you should tell her. Or at the very least, stop hanging out with her….But she definitely doesn’t know. No one has that kind of discipline and restraint. I mean maybe she could have played you for a minute—that first time you got together—but she wouldn’t be able to keep up this act, inviting you to yoga and all of this.”

I feel myself calming a little as I nod and say, “Yeah. You’re right.”

We sit in silence for a few seconds, then she says, “Do you ever wonder how this would have played out?…If Grant hadn’t died?”

I tell her yes, of course, then rattle through the flowchart of possibilities: Amy finding out and leaving Grant. Amy finding out and forgiving Grant. Amy finding out and Grant leaving Amy. Grant pulling off a double life for months, years.

“Yeah,” Jasmine says. “But I guess that doesn’t matter anymore.”

I nod, desperately wishing that were true.



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That Saturday night, Matthew and I have reservations at One if by Land, Two if by Sea. In a carriage house in the Village that once belonged to Aaron Burr, it is widely considered the most romantic restaurant in the city. I would have to agree, not only because of the venue itself—complete with a piano player, two fireplaces, a lush garden, and a staircase intertwined with fresh flowers—but because the only time Matthew and I dined there, about six months into our relationship, he told me he loved me for the first time.

    In any event, it’s our first real date since getting back together—or whatever it is that we’ve been doing—and it feels like something of a test, at least for my own heart.

Around five-thirty, Matthew arrives at my apartment to pick me up, bringing with him a bottle of champagne.

“Wow. You look gorgeous,” he says, as if he’s never seen this dress before—a simple navy one that I got years ago.

“Thank you,” I say. “So do you. Is that a new sport coat?”

He nods, then says, “Yeah. Do you like it?”

“I do,” I say, thinking that Matthew has good taste in just about everything.

“Glass of champagne before we go?” he says, holding up the bottle.