The Lies That Bind(86)

“I’m sorry for lying to you for so long.”

    “I lied to you, too. I should have told you that I knew.” She tilts her head and picks up her wineglass, then she puts it down without taking a sip.

There is a long stretch of silence before she says, “I wasn’t nice to him the last time I saw him. We were in such a bad place in our marriage….I was angry that he hadn’t told me he was coming home….I know he was in Europe to try to save his brother. But still. He always put his brother first, ahead of me.” Her voice is a flat monotone, as if she’s talking to herself or taking notes into a Dictaphone. “But that night when he walked in…he told me he needed to talk to me, and I told him I was too tired—and that I was going to bed. God…I’ll always regret that….Forever.” She shudders, then gives me a funny look and asks, “Did he go to see you that night?”

I take a sharp breath, then whisper yes.

“Wow,” she mumbles, her eyes finally glistening with tears that she manages to blink back.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“It’s okay….As shitty as that makes me feel, I’m glad to hear it, too.” She sniffs, then forces a smile.

“Why? How?” I say.

“I’m glad he had you…that he didn’t feel alone that night.”

I stare at her, marveling at her generosity.

“I just hope he didn’t die alone,” she says. “I hope it was quick—or that he was at least with someone.”

I stare at her, suddenly realizing that I still have to tell her the rest. That he’s not dead. That Byron’s the one who is dead. That Grant is still lying to everyone.

But right as I’m on the verge of blurting it all out, I stop myself. This particular lie isn’t mine to undo. Instead I tell her to go to the cabin. As soon as she can. I tell her that I was there today, and she needs to go, too.

“Why?”

    “You’ll find answers there,” I say, suddenly desperate to leave this bar and this conversation—and sadly, even this so-called friendship, also built on lies. “Just trust me,” I say. It’s a most ironic statement.

“I do trust you,” she says, then glances over to the bar, as if remembering Chad. “But…come on, Cecily….Do you have to be so cryptic? Can’t you just tell me what you know? After all we’ve been through?”

Her guilt trip gets to me, and I start to fold, but somehow manage to stay firm. “I’m sorry. I really can’t….I wish I could be a friend to you—you’ve been a good friend to us.” I pause, wondering if that’s really true. Or if it was all about her own ulterior motives—different from mine, but ulterior motives nonetheless.

“So just tell me,” she says.

“I can’t,” I say. “I have to focus on the baby right now. And making amends with Matthew. I have to do what’s right, for us. And I just can’t be involved in this anymore.”

“Involved in what?” she says.

“In anything related to Grant,” I say.

“So…you mean…our friendship?”

“Yes,” I say. “Including our friendship.”

She looks sad, then a little pissed, then just sad again.

“I’m sorry. I just think…this is too hard.”

She nods, and says she understands. But I can’t tell for sure what she’s really thinking.

In the next instant, though, she is glancing over at Chad again. “God…I feel bad for keeping him waiting so long.”

“I know,” I say, just as I watch him turn and look at her.

She smiles at him, and he smiles back.

“Why don’t you go over there and talk to him?” I say.

She nods and says okay as we both stand.

It occurs to me that Ethan was right—Grant, too—when they both said that Amy is going to be just fine. She already is. It also occurs to me that the only way she could have handled behaving normally around me, after seeing that postcard, is if she didn’t truly love her husband in the first place. At least not in any deep way. Either that, or she was grateful for something to ameliorate her own guilt.

    As we both turn to go—one of us to leave, the other to head to the bar—I say her name one final time.

“Yeah?”

“I’m really, truly sorry. For being so selfish. For lying to you.”

She stares at me for several seconds, as if thinking this over, then nods, and says, “Thank you, Cecily. I forgive you.”





I call Matthew as soon as I leave Dharma and ask if I can come over to talk to him. He hesitates, then says yes. It’s a hopeful sign, but I’m still nervous as I take the subway to the Upper West Side, knowing it will be faster than a cab—and also more soothing. I have always done some of my best thinking on the train, especially at odd hours when the cars are mostly empty.

When I walk into Matthew’s building, I exchange hellos with his doorman and say, “He’s expecting me.”

The doorman nods, having done away with buzzers since we got engaged, as I head for the elevator.

A moment later, I’m at Matthew’s door, debating whether to knock or just walk in. I compromise, knocking once, then opening the door. He is sitting at his table, typing on his laptop, and barely looks up at me as he says hello.