The Virgin Society Collection

29. I Am My Past

29

I AM MY PAST

Layla

We’re finally having our dinner at Hugo’s.

When we walked in to pick up the wine, Nick noticed there was only one table left—a quiet one in the corner, accented with a red-brick wall.

He asked the owner if he could seat us there, and since a reservation had canceled, the table is ours.

It’s perfect for us—friends who are lovers who don’t want to be seen. The lights are low and candles flicker on the table.

It’s a make up dinner in every sense of the word. Making up for the fight and making up for the date we never had when he arrived in the city.

This date won’t end with the promise of another night. In fact, it’ll end far too soon since we’ve just finished a sumptuous meal—a risotto for me and a seared salmon for him, but the best part was a fantastic conversation about trends in customer experiences with apps, the disruptive business models he hunts for, the collaborations I’m doing with Mia. Over a sauvignon blanc with tangerine notes, we didn’t once discuss us or the big obstacle that makes another night like this an impossibility.

That we can’t be a thing.

This is so much better than cold shouldering him. I can’t believe the ice age lasted as long as it did in the car. That was a feat of sheer will on my part. A necessary one though at the time. I lift my glass, swirling the last of the wine. Old standards play softly overhead. Ella Fitzgerald is crooning right now, and the tune gives me a wistful, achy feeling in my heart, especially when she sings about lipstick’s traces. “They’re playing your songs,” I say then take a sip, savoring the taste.

“And you like them too,” he counters, never missing a beat.

I do have an affection for those tunes. “I grew up listening to them,” I say, inviting him in more.

He arches an eyebrow. “Parents loved them?”

I smile at the sweet memories. “They did. Used to dance to them in the kitchen.”

“Some songs are just good.”

I’m quiet for a moment, content to zoom in on the lyrics about an airline ticket to romantic places, then feeling the possibilities of them, like a little zing. “Maybe I could even dance to it.”

I smile. Nick smiles back.

“Bet you’d enjoy dancing to Ella with me,” he says.

I picture that. It’s a good image. “Are you a secret ballroom dancer and you never told me?”

“Maybe.”

“Shut up. Are you really?”

He laughs, then shakes his head. “No, but my mom made me take dancing lessons at Johnny Angel’s School of Dance when I graduated from college. That was her graduation gift. She was convinced I was going to need to foxtrot or waltz with Rose at our wedding.”

Funny, how I felt a flare of jealousy over Rose the other week. Now, I understand his story, so I feel curiosity rather than envy. “And did you?”

“Nope. After all that, we had a small civil ceremony. Just family. We didn’t make a thing of it at all.”

“Was your mom devastated that you didn’t get to foxtrot?”

“I think so, but she’s a stoic woman so she didn’t let on much. Just gave a harrumph and said Let me see if I can get a refund for the rest of the lessons .”

“And did she?”

He holds up a finger. “One lesson. She snagged a refund on one lesson since I never got to the tango.”

“She got the tango refund,” I say, admiring her already from a distance. “But were you even going to tango at your wedding?”

“No, but she’s all about preparation. Covering your bases. She didn’t want to take a chance.”

“What’s your mom like? Besides, well, determined.”

“That describes her well. She’s no-nonsense. Direct. Very mom-like too. She worries about flu shots and sunscreen and whether I packed enough underwear for a trip.”

I burst into laughter, covering my mouth. When the laughter subsides, I say, “Still? She still worries about your underwear?”

He nods, grinning. “She sure does. And yours? What’s she like?”

That’s a loaded question. It’s one I’ve covered in therapy ceaselessly. But now’s not the time to focus on the push and pull between us. I home in on the good. “She’s always been driven and dedicated in everything she does. She works long hours, and is passionate about her work, and that probably rubbed off on me.”

“I’d say so. You’re intense and driven,” he says, already knowing me well. Then, like he’s seizing the chance of this conversation, he asks, “What drove you to start the videos?”

Instantly, I feel seen, and I’m not even sure why.

Maybe because he asked without an agenda? That must be it—his genuine interest in knowing me rather than the headlines. Nick never looked me up. He kept to his word. He wants to hear about me from me.

That impulse I felt to share a week ago awakens again. But it’s not quite as feral now since I know where it’s coming from—it’s coming from my heart. I want to be close to Nick, even though intimacy has always been terrifying. But it’s not scary with him. It’s comforting. It’s warm and hopeful.

With a gulp, I open the door. “I started doing the makeup videos after my dad’s death. I also started wearing makeup after his death. A lot of it,” I say, finally going there, to the place that marks my before and after.

With a somber nod, he says, “That makes sense.”

“And I did come to love it. It’s fun, it’s artistic—it’s like putting on a costume. But I think it was a mask at first. A necessary one.”

“One you needed to make it through the day?” he asks, getting it. Getting me. Showing me yet another reason why I want to be close to him. His kind and patient acceptance. His understanding.

“Yes, I needed it. Desperately. Like my mom needed Beautique. She poured herself into the company after he was killed,” I say, then almost apologetically I add, “She was crazy for him. His death was hard for her.”

“Of course it was,” he says, then takes my hand gently, encouraging me to say more if I want to. Or to stop. I can already read his touches. He’s saying without words that he’ll listen for as long as I want to talk.

Briefly I look away, staring at the other tables at Hugo’s, full of couples, families, friends, colleagues. Are they talking about loss? Are they digging into their wounds? No, they’re probably discussing stocks and social media.

I turn back to Nick, wanting to give him an out. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

Nick rubs a thumb along my hand. “We don’t have to. But I want to…if you do.” His voice is gentle, but his intention is clear. He’s telling me he’s a safe space.

And I feel that deep in my heart—he is the safest space for who I am and who I was. I’m not simply my present. I am my past. With my free hand, I rub the daisy on my shoulder, drawing courage from it.

“She tried everything to deal with the loss, Nick. Yoga, meditation, therapy, Xanax, burying herself in work, obsessing over me. I think he was her obsession when he was alive. They went out every weekend on dates. Dinner, dancing, movies, just the two of them. They had this intense bond. He was so devoted to her. But he was still a great dad,” I say, my voice full of the missing I still feel every day.

“What was he like?” His attention feels like a strong, sturdy hug.

I hardly ever have the chance to talk about the before . No one asks about my father as a person anymore. He’s been an event rather than a man.

“He walked me to school every morning. When I was younger, we lived here, on the Upper West Side, but my school was across the park. So he’d walk me through Central Park every day to school. We’d walk past all these benches. You know the benches in Central Park?”

He nods. “Yes, you can give them as gifts. Or in memory of someone.”

“We’d read the names and the sayings on the plaques along the way. Some were sort of public secrets—like now it’s your turn , and others were direct, like in loving memory . Some were proposals. Anyway, he loved the park. He used to donate for its upkeep.”

Nick smiles. “That’s nice that he did that—enjoyed the park and looked out for it.”

“I think so too,” I say, then impulsively I blurt out, “I donated a bench for him.”

“You did?” he asks, with new emotion in his eyes. A deeper affection perhaps.

“I did,” I say, and I’m still a little surprised I’ve told Nick. “I’ve never told anyone that. I’ve always sort of felt like it’s just mine, the bench. My little public secret.”

“Do you go there a lot?”

“Not as much as I thought I would. I used to go a lot though. After therapy. Or before,” I say.

“That’s understandable. You’d want someplace to process or to prep.”

“Exactly. Now I just go there when I need to…talk to myself,” I admit.

“It’s good that you have it.” Everything Nick says is like a warm invitation to keep sharing.

Or maybe he’s the invitation to share.

My mind rushes forward to teenage memories of my dad. “Anyway, later, when I was in high school, he was strict, and he set strict curfews and bedtimes, but he also encouraged me to pursue my dreams. We did this thing where I’d say he was my favorite dad, and he’d say I was his favorite daughter.” I stop to take a breath, but emotions crawl up my chest, lodging themselves there. “I miss him so much.”

“Of course you do, Layla,” he says, tenderly, emotions leaking into his tone too. “Is that why you started The Makeover? To help you handle the loss?”

“Yes,” I say, then I take the last swallow of my wine. But it’s not for liquid courage. It’s functional. I’m going to say something that will scrape my throat down to my soul. “But I also started it because of what happened to me.” I meet his gaze, then face the past head-on. “The man who killed him tried to kill me too.”