The Lies That Bind(94)

My heart racing and my hands shaking, and my eyes filling with tears, I take off my beautiful diamond ring and hand it back to him.

He looks down at it, then back up at me, and says, “Are you really doing this?”

I nod, fighting tears. “Yes, I am. We are doing this. We have to.”

“Because things aren’t perfect right now?” he says. “We’re throwing in the towel on everything?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head, tears now streaming down my cheeks. “Not because things aren’t perfect. Nothing is perfect. But because we just aren’t right together.”

With wide, frightened eyes, he says, “How do you know?”

“I just do. And so do you,” I say, trying, once again, to give him back the ring. “Please take it.”

He shakes his head and says, “I’m not taking it back, Cecily. It was a gift.”

“But I can’t keep it—it’s not right to keep it,” I say. “It was a promise to get married—”

His eyes, now welling up, too, plead with mine. “Just think of it as another kind of promise….”

“And what kind is that?” I say, really wanting to know.

“A promise that I’ll always love you. And if the baby is mine, I will always be there for you both,” he says, his voice trembling.

I try to speak, but can’t. I’m crying too hard.

So I just nod and put the ring on my right hand, accepting his gift—along with his promise.





I give my notice to The Mercury the morning after Matthew and I break up, and start to shut down my life in New York. My dad and brother offer to come move me in a U-Haul, but I tell them I can handle it, shipping boxes, selling and giving away furniture, and throwing so much away. I say my goodbyes at work, sending out a mass email. My editor surprises me with an email in return, thanking me for all my hard work and telling me I’ll be missed. I print it and put it in a folder with all my best pieces, nearly four years of work boiled down to one slim file. I remind myself that there’s more to it than a few newspaper clippings. I have experience—and I have Jasmine, a friendship that I know will last forever.

On Tuesday, December 11, three months to the day, almost to the hour, from when that first plane hit the World Trade Center, my plane takes off from LaGuardia. My stomach twists in knots as I think about 9/11, knowing that nothing will ever feel fully normal again—at least not the old normal, the way things once were.

Pressing my forehead to the glass, I peer down at the most spectacular clear view of Central Park, a rectangular patch of green bordered by the buildings of Midtown. I can make out the Empire State Building, and also the MetLife Building, where Matthew is probably now sitting at his desk, working.

I miss him already, in some ways more than I did the first time we broke up, because now it feels more permanent. I look down at the diamond on my right hand, where I have vowed to keep it, at least until the baby is born. So far Matthew has kept his word, too, going with me to my last doctor’s appointment in New York and handling so many of my moving logistics. For now, we are still something of a team—just no longer a couple.

    A few seconds later, the plane crosses over the northern end of Manhattan. I look out my window and can see the length of the island and where those shiny towers once stood, the view still so shocking without them. I crane my neck to see the Brooklyn Bridge, remembering the morning I crossed it with Grant, that brilliant pink and orange sunrise, when I was so starry-eyed and sure that he was the one. How could I have been so wrong about him, I wonder, as Manhattan disappears from my view.

I tell myself that as much as I regret him, I learned from the mistakes I made. At the very least, I will have lessons to share one day with my son or daughter—a cautionary tale to always follow your heart, but never stop listening to your head, either.

As we fly west, I feel such a range of emotions. Shame and fear. Relief and hope. In some ways, I feel like a coward, taking the easy way out, running home to the safety net of my parents because I can’t hack it on my own. I even feel disloyal to the city that I came to call home, although I know New York doesn’t need another mediocre reporter.

In other ways, what I’m doing feels so simple and right. I am seeking a safe haven for my baby. I am preparing for motherhood, the most important job I will ever have.

I try to imagine what my life will soon be like, living with my parents again. We have agreed that it is only a temporary arrangement, and Scottie has already begun house hunting for us, sending me listings of charming little fixer-uppers. I keep reminding him that we are both broke, and that neither of us knows how to fix anything up, but he insists that we can do it. That we can do anything. Maybe he’s right.

    It helps that I just landed a job with the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel—and on a real news beat, no less. Apparently, my new editor was impressed with my New York City experience, particularly my pieces on 9/11—which feels more than a little ironic.

At some point, I stop thinking. I just close my eyes and pray for the best, whatever that looks like. Then I sleep the rest of the way home.





Five months later

It is Sunday afternoon in mid-May, but one of the first days that has truly felt like spring after the longest winter of my life. The windows of Paul’s old bedroom are open as Scottie, my sister, and I put the finishing touches on the Beatrix Potter–themed nursery with its sage green and buttery yellow color scheme.