Chapter Nineteen
Nineteen
I fell in love with you, she says.
He stares at her.
I did, she says. I fell madly in love with you, and I loved you for a long time.
We’re live at the site of an uncontrolled blaze in Midtown Manhattan, which has already claimed the lives of numerous firefighters and bystanders, while scores of guests remain trapped—
What the fuck are you talking about? he demands.
Wow, she says. Her breath left her all in a whoosh when she spoke, and she’s still trying to catch it. But not because she’s scared. She’s not nauseous anymore, either.
Jenny?
He’s dumbfounded. Standing there, looking down at her, motionless. Hands dangling at his sides.
She reaches out and takes one. Examines it. Brushes her thumb over his knuckles, back and forth. He has such good hands.
It was years ago, she says. And I was never going to tell you. But I just did. I decided to tell you, and I said the words—the thing I thought I’d rather die than say. So I don’t know, Nick. Maybe you’re right, maybe we’re not free. We’re not in control, we can’t change. Maybe me blowing my huge secret wasn’t a choice but a done deal, the inescapable result of every step I’ve ever taken and the person I am. But that’s great! Because it means the person I am is one who can tell the truth. I’ve been lying my whole life, but I can stop.
I did stop. She laughs, still feeling a little stunned. I just did!
He has backed away. He lowers himself to the edge of the bed. Staring at her.
She untangles herself from the duvet and goes to the minibar.
Meanwhile, the mayor is urging—
He mutes the television.
You love me, he says.
Loved, she says, pushing bottles around in the fridge. Past tense.
She finds a miniature vodka in the way back, and a bottle of orange juice in the door. Screwdriver! Perfect. It’s nearly morning.
He jumps up and starts to pace, swift strides across the room. Looking down at the floor, shaking his head. She mixes her drink and takes a seat on the sofa.
He stops in front of her.
All joking aside, he says. All…whatever. Anger. Recriminations. Are you telling me the truth?
She sips her screwdriver. Yep.
Yep! he says. You and your fucking yeps. When did this happen?
The first summer. Six or seven months after we started sleeping together.
And now it’s over? How long did you…how long did it last?
A year, she says.
He is astonished. That long?
It was that long. Even in her own mind she minimizes it. But it lasted a full year.
And you’re saying it stopped? How did it stop?
She takes another sip. I’m not crazy about your tone right now.
Well Jesus, Jenny! You can’t drop something like this on me and not expect a few—
Stop interrogating me, she says. Sit down. Talk to me like I’m a human being.
He takes a seat on the bed.
You loved me, he says. Why?
Why? she repeats. A million reasons. And no reason. You read my books. It’s all in there.
What?
That love you love? That swooning romance? It’s all you, Nick. I never would have written those books if I hadn’t fallen in love with you.
She can’t believe how incredible it feels to say all this. And to think back to loving him. How totalizing it was.
She smiles now, remembering. Almost— almost —feeling it again.
It was fantastic, she says. Awful, too. It wasn’t all rainbows and sunflowers. I felt this distance. From the real world, from my family.
She sips her drink, remembering how she would come home from being with Nick and sit in the chair in their foyer, that crappy yellow yard sale chair. She would take off her shoes and look down the hall into the kitchen, seeing Tom, the boys, all from a distance. She’d just had wrong sex, with the wrong man, whom she loved, wrongly. It made her an alien. A visitor in her own life.
Estranged from her friends, too. There was so much she couldn’t tell them. So much, they didn’t really know her. Nobody did. It was intensely lonely.
That’s why you stopped? he asks. The distance?
He’s not angry anymore. That’s something. It’s almost pleasant to be sitting here with him, discussing her great, dead passion.
Yes and no. That was nagging at me, for sure. But I realized I had to knock it off when you suggested we meet more often. Maybe you don’t remember, I think we werein—
I remember, he says. I…
He stands abruptly. Then he sits down.
Why would that make you stop? he asks. Isn’t that—wouldn’t that have been what you wanted?
Oh no, she says. You just wanted more sex. But I was barely hanging on. To see you every week? I would have lost myself.
He’s up again, walking to the window. Walking back.
None of this makes any fucking sense, he says. You kept sleeping with me, for years ? Most people would have endedit.
I almost did. And I would have, if I couldn’t have, you know, persuaded myself out of the emotional side of things.
Persuaded yourself, he repeats. Persuaded yourself to fall out of love with me. How?
I wrote, she says. A lot. Letters to myself. Letters to Tom, confessing what I’d done. Which I tore up, immediately. I made myself feel really bad about it. I explained to myself, over and over, that there was no way forward. That I didn’t want to blow up my life, or yours. That we were too different. It took a long time. It was probably the hardest thing I’ve ever done.
He nods. Listening. But does he get it? Does he have any idea how she felt, loving him? He’s read her books. Maybe he does. But even there, she didn’t captureit.
Not even close.
He was in her bones.
Anyway! she says. Gradually I was able to detach myself from the big feelings, and go back to appreciating what we have.
How long did it take to, to stop?
Six months or so, she says. No, probably more like a year.
So, two years you were in love with me, he says. Not one.
I guess that’s true, she says. Though the second year, when I was trying not to be in love, that felt different.
It’s so easy to tell him these things. The thought of him finding out used to provoke shudders of horror. Terror! She didn’t realize baring herself— I bared my heart to you —would feel so powerful.
She glances at the television. Brian is listening to something in his earpiece, nodding, looking grave. Powerful? She’s delusional. For all her fear, all the very bad news, she still can’t believe they’re going to die here.
Nick is pacing again, agitated.
What if—I mean, what if I’d loved you, too? he says. Loved you and been afraid to tell you? Wouldn’t you have wanted to know?
You, afraid to say something? Comeon.
He dismisses that with a wave of his hand.
Anyway, it didn’t matter what you felt, she says. It was about how I felt.
About me! he cries, stopping in front of her. How you felt about me !
She rises now, coming to meet him. Don’t be upset. She touches his arm.I—
He jerks away.
Don’t be upset? You’ve dropped a bomb on me, Jenny! Out of fucking nowhere, while I’m dealing with—here he flails a hand toward the television—how am I supposed to…
He’s all over the place. He needs to calm down.
He sits on the sofa. Grips his head in both hands and leans back, staring up at the ceiling.
What the fuck? he whispers. What the fuck ?
How did he miss it? How did he not see it? Love? A year? A year she was…
Did it not occur to you, he says, addressing the ceiling, that I might want to know about this magnificent romantic experience you were having? Not telling me…that means we were having sex, dozens of times, over the course of years, and I didn’t know you were in love with me. If I had known…I mean, you were sleeping with me under false pretenses.
Okay, well, I guess I’m a rapist, she says. Sorry.
That’s not what I meant. Jesus, Jenny, I don’t know what to think here! What am I supposed to do with this information?
Be flattered? she suggests. Touched? And maybe don’t use it to attackme?
Why didn’t you give me a chance to respond?
What, like, love me back? You didn’t need to know how I felt to do that. I was right there, Nick. That was your chance.
No, he insists. Because that wasn’t you! You were hiding your feelings. Hiding and lying.
You were hiding things, too. That didn’t stop me. It never stops anyone. Insufficient information, remember? You didn’t love me because you couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. And that’s fine!
He walks to the window. Walks back. A few more lengths of the room and he feels calmer. Slightly. Because you can’t survive at that pitch of aggravation for long.
He passes her again. Glances at her.
He always dismissed the thought of loving her, pushed it away, thinking only of himself, never wondering how she felt, whether she…and she did. Love him. And he didn’t know it. When he made that suggestion, and she shot it down…what if he hadn’t retreated? What if he’d asked a few more questions—actually tried to know what was in her head? What if he hadn’t felt so rebuked, what if he’d risked…
Not me, obviously.
He knew it had been six years. But he didn’t want her to know he knew. She didn’t want him to know, he didn’t want her to know…
Jesus Christ. What have they been doing all this time?
He stops at the door. Stands before it, in the low-lit foyer, still so elegant, unsullied by whatever the hell is going on downstairs, not to mention the turmoil between them. This fucking night. So longed for, so anticipated, so…
The door, he says.
He comes back to her. She’s standing by the bed, eyes on the television.
They’re saying one of the stairwells might be clear, she says. They have to check—
You said something to me. At the door.
What?
When you got here. I opened the door. What did you say?
Her expression changes. She looks guarded.
I greeted you, she says. I don’t remember, it was—
Hello, you said. Hello something. It surprised me at the time.
She doesn’t respond.
You know what I’m talking about, he says. I can tell.
It’s embarrassing, Nick! I don’t wantto—
Jenny goddammit, what did you say?
Too loud. She winces. God, he’s been a monster tonight. He was truly out of control there for a while. Now he doesn’t know what to think.
Except that he needs to know this one thing.
He takes her hands. Jenny. Please tell me. What did you say?
She sighs. Looks down.
I said, hello, happiness.
Hello, happiness, he says.
She pulls away and covers her face. It was so corny! You opened the door, and I was so glad to see you, I just blurted out the dumbest…what?
He has taken a step back. He’s gazing at her. Amazed by her.
You, he says. You.
She’s so lovely. Even after everything, he’s struck by it. She’s got such a beautiful, lively, living face.
Youuuuuu, he says. Shaking a finger at her. You.
What?
You love me, he says.
I don’t. I did—
And you stilldo.
Nick,no.
You do! You love the shit out of me, Jenny! Admit it. I’m your happiness.
Look, she says, taking his hands. I’m sorry about everything, okay? About not telling you, about springing it on you tonight, but I promise you, I got over it. I wish I had told you earlier. I’ve never felt so…
She keeps talking, and he watches her, letting her hold his hands, look at him and speak. Watching her mouth form words of earnest denial.
Love falters, he knows. Love dies.
But he’s her happiness.
Maybe not at this very moment. Or for considerable stretches tonight.
But recently. And for years.
People can’t talk themselves out of love, Jenny. You can fall out, but you can’t forceit.
No? You tell me how it works, Nick.
I just think you’re not being honest with yourself.
Often I’m not, she says. About this, I am. I care for you more than I should. But it isn’t love anymore. I feel so lucky that it was. Like I tried to explain, loving you did a lot for me. I wouldn’t give it up for anything. But the feeling itself? It’s in the past.
She smiles at him, so sweetly. Smiles down at his hands, clasps them tightly in hers. Then she releases them and walks away.
He watches her pour juice into her glass. She’s still so maddeningly calm.
You have no idea how I would have reacted, he says.
Oh, Nick. We both know you would have run as far and as fast as you could.
His chest is bothering him again. That pressure. He has to move, to loosen it. He starts pacing again, the endless pacing with nowhere togo.
He stops in front of her.
You didn’t give me a chance! he cries.
My love was not an opportunity for you, Nick. It was mine. And it changed me. Don’t believe me if you don’t want, but I know it did. It made me…
She trails off.
Made you what? he says. Jenny? Made you what?
But before she can answer—if she even had an answer, if that sentence wasn’t complete—it happens again.
Sound disappears. Like it’s been sucked out of the room.
He turns to the window in time to see an orange bloom reflected in the building opposite. Just a few stories below them.
The silence. The bloom.
Then the roar.
It’s louder this time. Or maybe it’s just closer.
He rushes to her. They cling together, pulling each other to the ground.
The room shudders.
It shudders again.
He holds her tight, feeling her body beneath the thick robe. Her good, firm arms, her back.
She is real. She is here. Jenny.
The room shudders a third time.
The picture on the television freezes. Pixelates. Disappears.
The lights flicker.
The room goes dark.