13
By the time I reach the final page, I’m practically breathless and gripping the laptop tightly. Before I can process what
I’ve just read—the truth about my life, this one, anyway, spelled out in black-and-white—the door creaks open. I look up to
see Christian, as a kaleidoscope of butterflies rises and falls in my stomach.
“Hi,” I say, my tone tentative.
He doesn’t reply, just opens the fridge and stares inside for what seems like an eternity before pulling out a Heineken and
prying off the cap, which he hurls across the kitchen. It misses the trash can, falling to the floor instead. He doesn’t pick
it up.
“You’re back early,” I say cheerfully. “I thought you had that meeting with the... LA team?”
Christian just stands there, leaning against the black granite countertop, staring off into the distance. He takes a swig
of his beer, his shoulders slumped, before his eyes finally meet mine. “When were you going to tell me?”
I shake my head. “Tell you what?”
“Don’t pretend, Lena,” he says. “I read the email you sent Dr. Miller.”
At first I’m confused, but then I remember what Frankie said in the park today—my apparent wariness about fertility treatment.
“Oh,” I say, closing the laptop.
Christian sits beside me on the couch, rubbing his forehead. “I can’t believe you’d pull the plug on this without talking to me about it.”
I reach for his hand, but he pulls away.
“Lena,” he continues, eyes filled with pain. “From day one, you’ve known that being a dad is all I’ve ever wanted.” He pauses,
his eyes welling up with tears. “How could you take that away from me?”
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, connecting the dots. Christian wants a baby. I don’t.
“All these months, all those appointments. Lena, I was excited. So hopeful. I honestly thought you were, too.” He shakes his
head, deeply wounded. “You should have told me how you felt. You should have...”
“Christian,” I whisper. “I’m... so sorry. I don’t know what to say. I—”
“Just tell me one thing: Is it that you don’t want to have a baby, or that you don’t want to have one... with me?”
I bury my head in my hands, my heart on the verge of exploding.
“Yeah, that’s about what I expected,” he says, rising to his feet. “More stonewalling.” He reaches for his keys on the counter,
then pauses by the door, wiping a tear from his cheek before reaching for the doorknob. He pauses, back still turned to me.
“Lena, I love you, but you’re breaking my heart.”
I ’ m lost in thought for the remainder of the afternoon, turning Christian’s words over in my mind, picturing the pain in his
eyes. I want to make sense of it all, but mostly I want to fix this disastrous mess that I’ve seemingly created. Hurricane
Lena—the destroyer of her best friends’ lives.
I sigh, walking to the closet, where I slip into a black sweater dress and a pair of tall suede boots. As I’m fastening my
hair into a bun, it hits me: I know what I need to do to set things straight.
In the living room, I reach for a couple of note cards and envelopes on the desk.
Frankie texted me the restaurant address earlier—some new cheffy place on the Upper East Side called Graham’s—and when the cab drops me off, I spot her at a window table, locked in conversation with a man whose back is turned to me—Townes, no doubt.
“Hi,” I say, sinking into a chair on the opposite side of the table. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic was brutal.”
“It’s okay, honey,” Frankie says, beaming. “I’m just glad you’re here.” She turns to her date. “Lena, meet Townes.”
“Great to meet you,” he says, smiling. He seems nice enough—dare I say, normal—and definitely handsome, more so even in real
life. Though, when he extends his hand, I can’t help but notice that it’s quite clammy—no, borderline sticky. I have an impulse
to run to the restroom and suds up, but I’ve just arrived, and I want to do my best for Frankie.
“Tell me,” Townes says, eyeing me curiously, “why not take the subway? Might have saved you a solid fifteen minutes.”
I laugh a little nervously, wiping my hand on my dress. Is this guy actually critiquing me right now? “Oh yeah, your preferred mode of transportation,” I say, sparring back. “Frankie showed me the photo.”
“Oh, that,” he continues with a dismissive laugh. “I’ll be honest, one of my friends runs that Instagram account. She put
me up to it, staged the whole thing.”
Of course she did. I knew he didn’t read that book!
“I mean, I was doing her a favor, actually.” He shrugs. “Or maybe she did me a favor. Seriously, if you could see my DMs right now, well...” Frankie and I exchange glances as he drapes his arm, rather
awkwardly, around her shoulder.
Charming.
Christian hasn’t arrived yet, but when the waiter appears, Townes takes it upon himself to order every appetizer on the menu.
“Um, do you think that might be too much food?” Frankie asks, her tone more polite than critical.
“Nah,” he replies, perusing the wine list before rattling off his selection to the waiter, which I can’t help but notice is a very expensive bottle of Barolo.
We’ve already finished our first glass when Christian finally arrives, his hair speckled with raindrops. “Sorry I’m late,”
he says, avoiding eye contact with me as he hands Frankie a bouquet of tulips and kisses her cheek. “Happy birthday.”
“Ah, Christian! Thank you!” She smiles at me, then back at Townes, who seems unusually stiff. I am, too.
“So,” Christian says, sliding into the empty chair beside me as Frankie fills his wineglass. “What have I missed?”
“Not much,” I say, feigning cheerfulness. “Just getting to know... Townes .”
“Hey, man,” Christian says, extending his hand as the two men lock eyes. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Townes replies, reaching for the wine bottle and helping himself to another large pour, then staring across the
table as if he’s sizing up a competitor. “So, what kind of work do you do?”
“I’m in finance,” Christian says, loosening his tie.
“He’s being humble, like always,” Frankie interjects, smiling proudly at Christian. “He’s a genius, actually. He brings failing
companies back from the brink of bankruptcy.”
“So, kind of like a corporate fairy godmother, then?” Townes quips.
Christian chuckles. “I guess you could say that, though I much prefer godfather .” He clears his throat, obviously annoyed but showing miraculous restraint. “How about you? What’s your line of work?”
“Townes is a musician,” Frankie interjects, swoony-eyed. “He writes his own songs.”
“Wow,” Christian replies, his expression teeming with skepticism. “That’s great. So, you’re signed to a record label, then?”
“Well,” Townes begins, faltering, “I’ve had a lot of offers, but I’m not in any rush to sign a contract.”
“So you’re doing charity work, then,” Christian spars back. “I mean, until your career finally takes off.”
Townes smirks, but before he can retaliate, Frankie takes the reins.
“Guys,” she interrupts, laughing nervously. “It’s Friday night. How about we ditch the work talk?”
Townes orders another bottle of wine—the same—and a round of cocktails with the second course. By the time mains appear, he’s
slurring his words and recounting something funny one of his ex-girlfriends did last summer. Frankie is clearly underwhelmed,
and so am I. When he suggests we skip dessert and head to the bar for a round of shots, I decide to have a word with him.
That’s right—Mama Bear has entered the chat.
“Townes,” I say, standing up, “meet me at the bar.”
He grins, following behind. “Let’s get this party started.”
“Not that kind of party,” I say, pointing to a stool. “Sit down.” I give him a long look. “What the hell do you think you’re
doing?”
He’s obviously a little dazed—and hiccupping. “Hey,” he begins, waving to the bartender. “I thought we were all having a good
time.”
“That’s not my definition of a good time, and I can tell you for sure, it’s not Frankie’s, either.”
“Come on,” Townes continues. “You all need to loosen up a little.”
I roll my eyes, beyond annoyed. “Listen, this is my best friend’s birthday dinner, and you’re on the verge of ruining it.
Either you get your act together, or you head for your beloved subway. Are we clear?”
“You know,” he says suddenly with an arrogant sniff, “I don’t need this negative energy.”
“Neither do we,” I fire back. “I think it’s time to say goodbyes.”
“She’s not my type, anyway,” he mutters as he stumbles back to the table.
“I see you’ve got a live one on your hands,” the bartender says sympathetically. “Here,” he adds, pouring me a shot of whiskey. “On the house.”
“Thanks,” I say, throwing it back as I watch Townes fumble his goodbyes to Frankie, then stagger for the door. “I could use
a little extra liquid courage tonight.”
A few moments later, Frankie makes a beeline to me, her expression furious. “Lena, what the hell did you say to Townes?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, feigning ignorance. “He clearly had too much to drink. I just suggested that he call it a night.”
She folds her arms across her chest.
“Come on,” I say, leading her back to the table. “Let’s not let that guy ruin your night.”
Christian’s still giving me the silent treatment, but I’m grateful, for Frankie’s sake, when he orders dessert, which I hope
will lighten the mood. “Good riddance,” he says to Frankie. “That guy was full of himself .”
“You know what? You’re right,” she says, finally coming to her senses. “I mean, who orders two bottles of Barolo and ditches
before the bill?”
“Guys named Townes, that’s who,” Christian says, sliding his credit card on the table.
“Some birthday,” Frankie says, taking a final sip of wine.
Christian motions to the waiter, then hands him his card. “And we’re going to turn it around—starting now.”
Frankie smiles listlessly.
“Tell us, how was your day before that bonehead tried to ruin it?” he asks her.
I feel a prickly sensation on my skin; it travels from the back of my neck and down my spine.
How was your day? Four benign words, just pleasantries, really, but in the context of this moment, they’re borderline profound.
“I mean,” he adds, “aside from your unfortunate encounter with New York’s most ineligible bachelor.”
Frankie laughs, blotting a napkin to the edge of her mouth before recounting something that happened at work, but her voice is muffled. My heart is pounding with such force, it drowns out everything else.
“Listen,” I say, coming to my senses after Frankie finishes her cake. “I hate to be a party pooper, but I’m exhausted, and
I... need to get a new draft to my editor by tomorrow morning.” I smile. “Why don’t you two grab a nightcap?”
Frankie looks at me, then at Christian. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah! Don’t let me spoil your evening. Go have some fun.”
“Okay,” Frankie finally says. “I mean, Christian, if you’re up for it?”
“Sure,” he says. “Anything for the birthday girl.”
“Here,” I say, handing my best friend an envelope from my purse. “I almost forgot—your birthday card.” She begins to tear
open the flap, but I shake my head. “It’s just a bunch of sappy stuff. Do us all a favor and read it later, ’kay?”
“Okay,” she says, nodding with a smile.
I stand up, discreetly slipping another envelope into Christian’s coat pocket before I turn to leave. “Have fun tonight,”
I say, blowing air kisses through misty eyes. “I love you both,” I whisper under my breath as I walk out the door. “I always
will.”
An hour passes, then two. At some point, I lose track. Time doesn’t matter anymore, nor does my destination. I walk aimlessly,
weaving through city streets until I spot Grand Central Station in the distance, like a torch in the darkness.
I’m too exhausted to walk any farther, so I slip inside the old train station and tuck into an empty bench. It seems like
the appropriate place to close my eyes, to end one day and start another, in the company of other weary travelers. No matter
what our destination, we’re all in the same boat—lingering in the in-between place... saying farewell to the past and anticipating
the journey ahead, wherever it may lead.
I yawn. Sleep will come soon. But before I close my eyes, I think of my best friend, home in her lonely apartment, maybe reading my card at this very moment:
Frankie,
There’s something I’ve known for a long time, but it only recently became clear to me: It should have been you who approached
Christian at that bar all those years ago, you who he fell in love with, and you who he married. He was always and forever
will be meant for you.
I have to go away for a while. Don’t worry, it will all be fine. Please show Christian the love I never could. You have my
blessing.
Love, always,
Lena
And Christian—perhaps he’s unlocking the door right now, setting his keys on the kitchen counter. He’ll find my card in his
coat pocket tonight, or maybe tomorrow, but when he reads it, he’ll know :
Christian,
I’m so sorry that I couldn’t love you the way you deserved to be loved, but someone else can and will. You won’t have to look
far. You know who she is.
She’s your soulmate.
Love, always,
Lena