Chapter 29 SIOBHAN
Chapter 29
S IOBHAN
“I don’t believe it!” said Paige, as she ran on the treadmill. She returned the phone to Siobhan, who was at the next machine, jogging at a considerably slower pace, and added: “I had to read the message twice. How dare that lousy wretch show up again now?”
“That’s not the question,” argued Lena, running alongside them. “The question is why. Why now and not eight months ago.”
“Isn’t it obvious? Because he’s discovered that Shiv is a winner, and he wants her back. Period. Come on! He even followed her on Twitter and had the nerve to like her pinned tweet!”
“A pinned tweet that mentions her novel.”
“A novel inspired by him.”
“Precisely.”
“Get lost, Buckley!” they chanted in unison.
Siobhan sighed. She was starting to question whether this democratic approach to deciding her emotional future had been such a good idea.
“Girls, you’re not helping,” she said. “What do I do? Do I meet him? Do I ignore him? Do I send him a link to buy my book and a friendly invitation to rate it on Goodreads?” She realized she was struggling for breath. She lowered the speed a couple of points and wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. “Christ! Isn’t there anywhere else we could meet on a Sunday morning other than the goddamn gym? I’m dying here.”
“Hey, you’re the one who complained about having eaten like an Arctic whale all week,” Paige said. “That’s why we’re here instead of working on our tans in Central Park.”
“It’s not like I need any more vitamin D. Have you seen my freckles? The sun in Louisiana is brutal.”
“I think they look cute,” Lena reassured her.
“You’re not exactly objective. But thanks anyway.”
Paige cleared her throat.
“Getting back to the important item on today’s agenda, I think you should ignore your ex. The guy disappears overnight after ... how long? About a century together? He goes off with no explanation. He blocks you from his socials. He leaves you with a bunch of debts. And let’s not forget the most important thing: he breaks your heart. And now he crawls out of the woodwork and wants you to go out for dinner with him. Tell me that’s not the most absurd thing you’ve heard in your life.”
“Well, maybe we should ask Shiv how she feels about it,” Lena said.
That was the problem: she didn’t feel anything at all. She hadn’t felt butterflies in her stomach when she opened her inbox the previous day and saw Buckley’s email. She didn’t feel dizzy or even need to understand why he had left her all those months ago. She wasn’t angry or hurt. Puzzled, perhaps. But there wasn’t a shred of emotion. Even so, shouldn’t she at least hear what he had to say? Buckley had been an important part of her life. On the other hand, dining with her ex was pretty much the last thing she felt like doing.
“I still haven’t decided,” she admitted.
Paige shook her head energetically, her long red ponytail swinging wildly from side to side.
“If I were you, I’d be perfectly clear. It makes no sense for you to see each other. Especially after everything that happened in New Orleans.”
“But nothing happened in New Orleans,” said Siobhan.
“Except you kissed Marcel.”
“I was drunk.”
“And you slept in his bed. Cuddling him like he was your teddy bear,” Paige countered. Lena coughed, trying to disguise a laugh.
“Because I was shit-scared. Do you have any idea how terrifying the summer storms are in Louisiana? It rained like the world was coming to an end.”
“So, I suppose the part where you nearly hooked up doesn’t count either?”
“We were just—”
“Don’t tell me. Doing research for the novel?”
“Bingo! How did you guess?”
Paige pressed the button to stop her treadmill, and as it slowed down she turned to face her friend.
“Shiv, look at me.”
“I can’t look at you, Paige. If I turn my head, I’ll wind up on my ass.”
“Is it so hard to admit you’ve fallen for him?”
Lena stopped too.
“You’re. Shitting. Me. Okay, are we sure about this? I mean, on a scale of one to ten, how intense are your feelings? Because looking for a quick roll in the hay isn’t the same as liking liking someone, you know?”
“I don’t know . . . Six?”
“Twelve and a half,” Paige corrected her, as she dried herself with a towel. “She likes him likes him. Actually, she loves him loves him.”
Siobhan’s eyes narrowed, and her mouth pursed into a tight knot.
“You don’t know what’s going on in my head,” she muttered.
“I don’t need to. I know you well enough. You would never kiss a guy if you didn’t feel anything for him, even if you were wasted. And since when have you been scared of storms?”
“Yeah, but, in Louisiana—”
“Not to mention that, since you returned from your honeymoon in the South, your eyes light up every time you mention Marcel. Honey, I’m sorry, but you’re more transparent than Halle Berry’s 2002 Oscars gown.”
Siobhan sighed.
“Okay, you’re right. I do like him. I even ... love him.”
“Oh. Then, this is serious,” said Lena, stretching her quads.
“Pretty serious, yeah.” Siobhan gave up on the exercise session. When the machine came to a stop, she bent double to recover her breath. “But he’s made clear he’s not interested in a relationship, so the best thing we can do is forget about it and pretend this conversation never happened.” She straightened up and drank a gulp of water. “Can we go to the sauna now, please?”
“Did he tell you that?” asked Paige.
“Are you crazy? Of course not. I just know.”
“Well, his sister doesn’t seem to think that’s the case.”
“It doesn’t matter what Chaz thinks. Marcel isn’t the kind of guy to commit. Let’s leave it at that. Are we going to the sauna?”
In other words: I’m not prepared to fall in love with a man who doesn’t believe in happy endings.
“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have feelings for you, Shiv. He takes you to New Orleans, introduces you to his sister, tells you his secrets, and lets you into his bed because you’re scared of a lousy storm.”
“I told you already, the storms in Louisiana are”—she gesticulated in exasperation. “Oh never mind.”
In other words: Marcel’s life is complicated, and I’m not the heroine of a romance novel. I can’t mend all his cracks just by existing.
Lena stepped off the treadmill and stood in front of her friends.
“What if all Marcel needs is a wake-up call?”
Siobhan furrowed her brow.
“I don’t follow.”
“Tell him Buckley’s back on the scene. Tell him you’re going to dinner with him, and let’s see how he reacts. The best way to find out whether he feels anything for you is to put the ball in his court.”
It wasn’t a bad idea.
Except for one small detail. She wasn’t about to lie to Marcel to put him to the test, so there was nothing she could do but accept Buckley’s invitation.
Siobhan cleared her throat, glanced at Marcel over the computer screen, and said:
“I need to ask you a favor. Two, in fact.”
“Sure. Go ahead.”
“Well ... I have a date tonight, in a couple of hours, to be precise.” Marcel’s expression was impenetrable. “Can we leave it here for today?”
“No problem. What else do you need?”
“To take a shower. And get ready. In your bathroom. For logistical reasons. It just doesn’t make sense to go all the way back to Brooklyn,” she explained.
“So it’s an important date, huh?” he asked, scrutinizing her with a flash of interest in his eyes.
“You could say that.” Siobhan took a deep breath as she prepared to drop the bomb. “I’m going out for dinner with ... Buckley. In Gramercy.”
Marcel raised a quizzical eyebrow and folded his arms over his chest.
“Buckley? Buckley, your ex? The same Buckley who left you hanging with no explanation and almost plunged you into poverty? That Buckley?”
“You sound just like Paige. You two would get along well.”
“I didn’t think you kept in touch with that guy.”
“I didn’t. Until Saturday night, when I got a message from him.”
“Seriously? Wow, what a coincidence, right when a photo of the two of us starts circulating out there,” he noted. “I hope at least he’s taking you to the Rose Club and not some crappy hamburger joint.”
The photo.
She and her friends hadn’t considered that possibility.
And Siobhan found it disconcerting that Marcel was the one who raised it.
“I very much doubt Buckley can afford the Rose.”
Marcel laughed contemptuously.
“Yeah.”
“What’s wrong? Are you pissed that I’m going out with him?”
She asked the question in the hope that he would say yes. Which was completely irrational, not to mention kind of old-fashioned.
A deep vertical furrow formed between Marcel’s thick black brows.
“What? Of course not. Your private life is none of my affair, princess. Just promise me that, if you get back together, you’ll post it on Twitter so that the #Sioblack fans leave me in peace once and for all.”
Your private life is none of my affair ? Seriously? After the week they spent together?
That had been a low blow. And, like all low blows, it hurt double.
“Don’t worry, I’ll post every detail of the night,” she countered.
“Perfect. I can hardly wait.”
“So, are you going to let me use your shower or not?”
“Go ahead. Use it all you need. Would you like me to lend you a tie as well? In case you feel like strangling your boyfriend in the middle of dinner.”
“He’s not my boyfriend. And I don’t think I’ll need to strangle him.”
“Pity. It would be a great plot for a crime novel.”
Siobhan stood up with all the dignity she could muster and left the study, unsure how she was supposed to feel.
After her shower, she dried her hair and decided to leave it loose. From her backpack, she took out a set of black underwear, a tight strappy dress, and a matching pair of peep-toe shoes. She had picked them out the night before, after receiving an overly enthusiastic message from Buckley: Thanks for replying, Shiv. Glad we can still work things out. I’ll meet you tomorrow at nine at Pete’s Tavern. Can’t wait to see you. Buck. She dressed slowly, as though wanting to delay her departure for as long as possible, and made up her face: mascara, matte powder, red lipstick, and a few drops of perfume. The girl looking back at her in the mirror seemed more confused than ever. What was she doing? She didn’t know. She sighed. When she was ready, she went downstairs. Marcel was in the living room, pacing as he typed something into his phone. As soon as he raised his eyes and saw her, he stopped. Open-mouthed, he looked her up and down.
She got so nervous that the only thing she could think to say was:
“Do you mind if I leave my backpack here? I don’t think it goes with the dress.”
Marcel shook his head in silence and returned his attention to his phone, which made her feel stupid, frustrated, and terribly disappointed. As though she had been expecting something that would never arrive.
Aren’t you going to say anything, Marcel? We’ve slept, danced, laughed, and cried together and ... now you’re going to let me leave, just like that. Are you really going to push me into another man’s arms?
“Siobhan, are you listening to me?”
“What? Sorry, I got distracted.”
“I was saying I’ve hired a Blacklane car for you. You can use it all night.”
A nice gesture on his part. But still, it annoyed her. It hurt, to tell the truth. Why did it hurt?
“Thanks, but you didn’t have to.”
“Oh, it’s nothing. Do you want a drink while you wait? To calm your nerves.”
“I’m not nervous,” she replied brusquely.
“Well, you look it.”
“Well, I’m not,” she insisted. She exhaled slowly and suddenly blurted out randomly: “I miss New Orleans. I miss the breakfasts in the backyard, the jazz, the ridiculously rich food, the sticky heat, the rain, Chaz.”
I miss being with you the way we were in New Orleans.
Marcel smiled.
“How is that possible when we’ve only been back four days? You didn’t get bewitched in one of those voodoo stores in the Vieux, did you?”
Siobhan gave him a gentle punch on the biceps.
“You’re an idiot,” she said, shooting him an annoyed look.
His smile widened.
“I know.”
“And you don’t deserve a temporary colleague like me.”
“I know that too.”
They looked at each other for a moment, protected by a bubble in which only the two of them existed, along with everything that united them: their jokes, New Orleans, Coney Island, “Summertime,” their routine of writing together in that Upper East Side penthouse, Two Ways .
It was magical.
Unfortunately, his phone pinged and burst their small bubble. The magic vanished. Marcel pressed his lips together, closed his eyes, and looked pained for a moment.
“The car’s here. Go now, or you’ll be late.”
“Okay.”
Then he said her name in such a strange way.
“Siobhan.”
There was something contained in it, something that couldn’t quite reach the surface. A feeling of depth.
Of possibility, perhaps.
“Yes?”
Marcel took a breath. His shoulders rose and fell with her own heartbeat.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he said. “Really. And if that guy can’t see it, he’s a jerk and a coward.”
There was sincerity in the low pitch of his voice.
Desperation.
And something else that Siobhan couldn’t or didn’t want to identify that threatened to destroy her from within.
She nodded, opened the door slowly, and left with a lump in her throat. In the elevator she fought to keep the tears stinging her eyes at bay. Why did she feel as though someone was using a knife to cut the rope that was keeping her from falling into the abyss?
As if Marcel himself was cutting it.
A Mercedes A-Class with tinted windows was waiting on the street. The driver greeted her and invited her to make herself comfortable inside, before setting off. Siobhan leaned her head against the window and let her gaze roam along Fifth Avenue. Eight months ago, if Buckley had come back, she would have forgiven him without a second thought. They would probably have ended up eating popcorn on the sofa watching Jeopardy . They would have fallen asleep, without even a reconciliatory screw, but it wouldn’t have mattered because at least they were together. The problem was that none of that felt right anymore. Her heart remained cold and unchanged at the thought of seeing him again. She took out her phone and scrolled through the image gallery looking for something, a memory, to make her feel something. But what she found was a blurry photo of her and Marcel in the Blue Nile the night she got drunk. He must have taken it, because she hadn’t seen it before. Marcel was smiling at her while she stuck her tongue out. She enlarged the image and studied his face, that perfect, angular face that she had caressed with her own fingers. She observed the crow’s feet forming around his eyes, the white teeth beneath those lips whose taste she couldn’t remember, the spark in his gaze, the confident posture, the natural laugh, the closeness of their two bodies ...
Then something clicked in her brain.
She remembered all the times Marcel had been there for her, all the times he had helped her, all the times he had been concerned about her well-being, even if he hid it with sarcasm. She recalled all the gestures, the looks, the touches, and the veiled insinuations. She remembered how desperate he had sounded when he called to apologize, the day they argued at Coney Island. She remembered the first night in New Orleans. The second. The third. She remembered how he had protected her from the drunks on Bourbon Street. She remembered their long embrace in the rain, their long embrace in bed, the contained and latent desire. And she remembered how he had poured his heart out to her when he told her about his past.
You’re important to me.
Marcel felt the same way she did; she could only see it clearly now.
Siobhan knew what she had to do, and going to dinner with Buckley wasn’t it.
“I’ve changed my mind. Could you turn around, please?” she asked the driver.