The Lies That Bind(60)

“Oh my God,” I say under my breath, thinking that Amy omitted this detail, too. Wondering why—whether it felt too painful or too private or a source of too much guilt—I say, “That’s so awful.”

“Yep,” Matthew says. “Crazy, isn’t it?”

I nod, suddenly desperate to know the rest, to have all the gaps filled in. “So then what happened? Did Amy’s family go to the funeral? Is that how they all became friends?”

“I don’t know all of that….I just know that Mr. Silver helped out Grant’s mom for years.”

“Financially?”

“Yeah. I think so. And he just sort of looked out for them, too. Took them to baseball games and concerts. Stuff like that.”

“Who is ‘them’?” I say, though of course I know the answer.

Sure enough, Matthew says, “Grant and his brother. Twin brother, as I recall.”

“Out of guilt?” I say, trying to imagine that dynamic and how it unfolded.

“I don’t think guilt per se. It’s not like Mr. Silver hit Grant’s dad.”

“Still,” I say. “If it weren’t for that flat tire…”

“I know,” Matthew says, nodding. “Of course he knows that, too. But Mr. Silver’s a really good person.”

I swallow and nod.

“And then their mom died, too,” he says, shaking his head. “Of some slow, awful degenerative disease like MS or ALS or something….I just can’t believe one family has endured so much tragedy….It’s like the Kennedy curse without the politics.”

    His voice trails off as I shiver, blinking back tears, turning to plump my pillow so he can’t see how emotional I am.

When I finally get the nerve to meet Matthew’s gaze, I know I’m at a crossroads. That this is truly the point of no return. If I don’t tell him right this second that I already knew this story because I knew Grant, dated Grant, and had sex with Grant the night before he died—then the lie will be forever sealed into the fabric of our relationship. This is it. My heart thuds, and suddenly tears are streaming down my face.

“Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry,” he says, reaching for me. “I shouldn’t be telling you stories like this right now…when you’re already hormonal….”

“No. It’s not that,” I say, conjuring all the courage I can muster. “It’s just that…” My voice trails off, as I lose my nerve. “It’s just that life is so tragic.”

I am crying harder now, because life is tragic and also because I know that I’m a coward.

“It can be. But it can also be really beautiful.” He puts his hand on my stomach and says, “And I promise this baby is going to have a wonderful life.”

I shake my head and tell him that he can’t promise such a thing—nobody can.

“You’re right,” he says, looking at me so tenderly that my heart breaks even more. “But I promise that I will do everything I can to take care of you and our baby.”

I nod, accepting this immeasurable gift from my fiancé, even while knowing that I don’t deserve it.





Over the next several days, I remain constantly on the verge of tears. I think Matthew is right—my already fragile state is being exacerbated by pregnancy hormones. Not to mention all the emotions swirling around the realization that I’m going to be a mother in just a few short months.

But I can’t deny that Grant is part of my melancholy. Instead of time working its healing magic, I find myself missing him more. There’s something else though, too—something about the story that Matthew told me. It fills me with such sadness, but also makes me obsess over the question of who Grant really was, as a son, brother, husband, and man. I keep sifting through all the clues, replaying our conversations and re-creating scenes from his life. I picture his father on the side of the road, helping a stranger with his flat tire, in a last, selfless act. I think about the moment Grant’s mother told her two young sons the news. I picture the funeral, wondering if Amy’s father attended, and when, why, and how, exactly, he forged such a close relationship with a grieving family. And how did it come to include Amy? I know it shouldn’t matter. Yet it somehow does.

So when Amy calls the following Saturday morning and asks if I’m free for brunch, I say yes. She suggests a French bistro on Madison Avenue—not exactly the neighborhood I’m in the mood for—but I agree, thinking the change of scenery might do me good. I throw on clothes and take the subway uptown, and walk east toward the park. As I cross Madison, I spot her standing outside the restaurant, looking golden and tousled in bell-bottom jeans and a trench coat.

    As I approach her, she looks up and beams at me, sliding her dark oval sunglasses up like a headband. “Hey, you!” she says, her voice as rich as her honey highlights.

“Hi,” I say, smiling back at her.

She gives me a quick hug before we duck inside and check in with the hostess, Amy telling her that we’d love a table outside. Once settled, we consult our menus and both order the challah French toast. Amy also asks for a Bloody Mary while I pretend to contemplate a mimosa before announcing that I think I’ll stick with coffee for now.

We chat about our work and her yoga classes and, of course, my engagement party. We both marvel over the coincidence of her growing up in a building with Matthew, as she remarks more than once how incredibly small the city is. Thinking that it’s way smaller than she even realizes, I finally get up the nerve to ask her how she’s doing.