The Lies That Bind(9)

“Of course,” I said. “I mean, obviously.”

“Okay. But what if you had been married to Matthew when you met what’s-his-name? What would you have done then?”

I told her that was an easy question. That I would never have progressed past pleasantries with him—or anyone. That no matter how much chemistry we shared, my mind would not have been open to the idea.

“And that’s a good thing?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah, that’s a good thing. It’s also the right thing,” I said.

“Really? Is it?” she pressed. “It’s a good thing to be walled off to possibilities? And new experiences? In your twenties? The time when you should be exploring who you are?”

“You can have new experiences that don’t include sex,” I said.

“True,” Jasmine said. “But you can’t have new sexual experiences that don’t include sex.”

I laughed—it was a fair point—but told her I thought it more than a little depressing to suggest that at any given point in time, you could be perfectly willing to switch out your partner for a new one. Wasn’t there something to be said for loyalty and fidelity and monogamy, even in the face of temptation? You know, loving the one you were with?

Our conversation went on like that for a while, as we discussed all sorts of things, including her view of feminism, which is all about empowerment and independence from men, whereas my view of feminism has more to do with choice. Women in the twenty-first century (which still sounds so funny to my ears) have options. We can marry or not marry; have children or not have children; be stay-at-home mothers or have careers. So yes, I told her, I want to get married, and yes, I want to find a life mate sooner rather than later, but that didn’t make me a bad feminist. It just made me determined to have it all—one of the reasons I came to New York in the first place.

    As I mull all this over and climb into bed, my phone finally rings. I answer it, my heart pounding.

“Hi, there,” I hear in my ear. “It’s me. Grant.”

Speechless for a second, I grin, then blurt out a statement that Scottie would never approve. “I was starting to think I wasn’t going to hear from you.”

“Wow,” he says, and I can tell he’s grinning back at me. “So little faith.”

“My best friend gave you an eight P.M. deadline. Today.”

“Well, then I’m only an hour late,” he says. “Fashionably late.”

“An hour late in my world means a story won’t go to print.”

“Touché,” he says. “So…does this mean you’re not going to buzz me up?”

“Wait. What?” I say, bolting out of bed, raising my blinds, and looking out, even though I know I can’t see the building entrance from my window. “Are you here now?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Just passing by…and I was starting to forget what you look like.”

“That’s not a good sign,” I say, as I start frantically straightening up, throwing clothes in my closet and in the hamper.

“Well, how about this for a sign?” he says. “I’ve been thinking about you nonstop since Sunday afternoon.”

“You have?” I say.

“I have,” he says. “So…you gonna let me up or what?”

I smile and press my buzzer.



* * *



—

A moment later, Grant is standing in my doorway in a navy suit, a light blue dress shirt, and a red striped tie. I had a cute, clever remark all planned, but I forget it the second I see him. He steps forward to hug me, and I fall into his arms. Our height difference makes the embrace a little awkward at first—at least physically—but we make the requisite adjustments. I stand on my toes, clasping my hands around his neck as he bends at his knees, his arms around my waist, both of us inhaling, exhaling. Several thrilling seconds pass before he lets go, straightens, and beams down at me.

    “You really forgot my face?” I say, gazing up at him.

“No,” he says. “But you were starting to seem like a dream. I was afraid I’d imagined you….”

I don’t admit that the same was true for me. Instead I pinch him and say, “Well. Here I am. Real.”

“Yep,” he says, smiling. “Here you are.”

I smile back at him, then ask if he’d like a drink, maybe something to eat.

He shakes his head and says he’s fine, as we walk over to my sofa. He looks around at my sparsely decorated living room, his eyes resting on a framed poster from Summerfest 1993.

“Were you there?”

“Yeah,” I say, then tell him that Bon Jovi headlined that year.

We sit down, chatting about music and concerts for a few seconds before he says, “So tell me about your week so far. What’s been going on?”

“Nothing too exciting,” I say.

“Tell me anyway.”

I shrug, then tell him I filed a story on mad cow disease, and I’m currently working on a feature about a Brooklyn bowling alley closing. “Thrilling stuff, huh?”

He ignores my self-deprecation and says, “Which alley?”

“Bedford Bowl. A neighborhood institution. Very old-school. No psychedelic lights or center consoles. The scoring is all done by hand. Anyway, Medgar Evers College is right across the street, and they need more classrooms for the student body, which is expected to double by 2004.” I stop abruptly, realizing I’m babbling.