The Lies That Bind(58)

“Do you think it’s too scandalous?” he says.

“I don’t—but obviously you do,” I say with a laugh. “Or you wouldn’t ask the question.”

He gets defensive and says, “I was just asking.”

I shrug and say, “I don’t think so. But would your parents?”

“Maybe,” he says. “Would yours?”

I laugh and say, “Definitely…but it’s our life. And I think that may be the best plan.”

Matthew agrees, and a few days later, we decide that we’ll tell our parents the news together, in person, at a meet-the-in-laws dinner that they have already planned for the second weekend in November. It is a risky plan—and becomes even riskier when Matthew’s mother decides to turn our dinner into a small engagement party at their Park Avenue home. But Matthew insists that everything will be fine. We’ll tell our parents, alone, before the guests arrive, and then make an announcement to everyone at the party. A two-for-one celebration. Despite his reassurances, I continue to feel uneasy, and call Scottie to talk it over.

    “It’s not like you got engaged because you’re knocked up,” he says. “You found out after.”

“Does that make a difference?” I ask.

“Yeah. Because there’s no way his parents will see it as entrapment.”

“Shit, Scottie!” I say, having actually never considered that possibility. “Is that what this looks like? Do you think people will think that?”

“Not anyone who knows you,” Scottie says. “And I mean, do you really care what people think?”

I sigh and say I guess not, and then turn the tables on him. “Speaking of which? Any thoughts about talking to your parents?”

“A few,” he says. “But can we just get through your crisis first?”

“Crisis?” I say.

“You know what I mean,” he says. “Celebration, crisis. Love child, bastard. Same difference.”

I laugh and say, “Wow. Thanks so much for the pep talk.”

“Anytime,” Scottie says. “That’s what I’m here for.”



* * *



—

About a week later, Amy calls. I nervously pick up, having been doing my best to avoid her.

“So you’re going to die,” she says. “I’m sitting here in my parents’ kitchen…and guess what I’m holding in my hand?”

“Ummm…I don’t know,” I say, suddenly terrified that she has tangible proof about Grant and me, though her voice doesn’t sound at all upset.

“I’ll give you a hint,” she says. “It has your name on it.”

“Something I wrote? An article?”

“No,” she says. “It’s an invitation to your engagement party!”

“What?” I say, so flustered that I knock over a half-full Starbucks cup. I grab a stack of napkins and wipe up the spill just as it nears my keyboard. Meanwhile, Amy continues, sounding giddy.

    “So Matthew’s family—although we still call him Matt—and my family are close. We all lived in the same building for years. I went to Spence with Matt’s sister.”

“Elizabeth?” I say, in a mild state of shock that the world could be this dangerously small.

“Yes! But we still call her Liz,” she says with a laugh.

My head spinning, I murmur yes, thinking that’s what Matthew sometimes still calls her. In the next horrible instant, I recall Matthew making a reference to Amy—not by her name, but as a family friend who lost her husband in the towers. What else had Matthew told me about them? I wish I had listened more closely, but there were so many of these stories in the immediate aftermath of the attacks—especially the two-or-three-degrees-removed anecdotes—and I had been so focused on my own loss. What I originally thought was my own loss, anyway.

I tune back in to hear Amy say, “I just can’t believe Matt is your guy! What a cutie he is! And so smart.”

“Yeah. He is,” I stammer, still trying to process everything.

“So anyway, I’ll be there!”

“You’re coming?” I say, hoping she doesn’t hear my dismay.

“Well, now I am. I told Matt’s mom already.”

“Told her what?”

“The whole coincidence,” she says. “That we’re friends…and that I’m crashing the party with my parents. I mean, can you believe?”

“No,” I say, running my hand over my stomach. “I really can’t.”



* * *



—

“So, I heard we have a mutual friend,” I say to Matthew later that night as we’re getting ready for bed at his place. I’ve been thinking about little else, but have finally worked up the nerve to mention it, feeling an awful mix of guilt and dread.

    “Oh?” he says, tapping his toothbrush on the side of the sink, then putting it back into the cup holder. “Who’s that?”

I busy myself pulling down the covers on my side of the bed as I say, “Amy Smith.”

Walking toward me, he says, “Should I know that name?”