Chapter Thirty-Six
Present
“This is not how I saw this playing out,” Quinn admits, eyebrows knit, shifting uncomfortably from heel to heel.
Mustering up some enthusiasm after my beatdown, Thomas extends his hand for a hearty introduction to Quinn’s friend and asks, “Quinn, are you finally dating someone?”
Quinn and I both yelp, “No!”
“Happy New Year, Cal-lee.” Not taking his eyes off me, Porter dips his head with a provocative smile.
“You are one hard woman to get ahold of.” I choke down my awe at how handsome Porter is in a traditional tux, right down to his shined dress shoes.
His cuff links, sterling silver mini tigers, catch my eye.
“You certainly know how to keep surprising a girl,” I return with a sly smile.
“I hate to interrupt whatever this is, but Callie and I were in the middle of something,” Thomas cuts in.
“No, we were at the end of it,” I correct Thomas, so there is no mistaking who I am done talking to.
“Can you excuse us for a minute,” I tell more than ask both Porter and Thomas, and grab Quinn by her bare upper arm to pull her over to a potted ficus plant.
Behind our backs, I hear Porter introduce himself to Thomas.
Thomas then turns to the bartender to order himself another drink after he quickly puts two and two together.
As hard as Thomas tried, when we were dating, there was very little he could do to break through the wall of acquaintanceship to create a real friendship with Charles.
Thomas would scenario-play how he could get Charles to bring him into his fold of friends, an amalgamation of Princeton classmates and work colleagues.
Securing Yankees tickets, Knicks tickets, Pearl Jam at Madison Square Garden—it didn’t matter.
Charles kept Thomas at arm’s length for the single reason we all knew but never said: Thomas was not Porter.
“Quinn, do you want to explain to me exactly what your plan was when you invited Porter to Alice’s wedding after you invited Thomas? In what universe does any of this make sense?”
“Let’s keep in mind it was Alice who invited Thomas to her wedding, not me.”
“Irrelevant,” I counter.
“You have to admit, I just delivered some good writing material for you. Elizabeth and Leslie will love it.”
“True, but also not relevant.”
“Fine. But I want it noted: Don’t blame me that both Thomas and Porter are standing twenty feet away from us.” Quinn quickly turns her head to catch a glimpse of the two, legs spread, hands gripping drinks, standing stiff as statues.
“Ehh,” I eke out. “Then who or what is to blame, because I want names,” I demand, not budging an inch on Quinn’s discombobulation of what could have been a lovely night for me celebrating young love and fresh starts.
It seems I’m the only one who understood the assignment: Today was supposed to be all about Alice and Jack.
“Menopause.”
“Menopause, what?”
“Menopause is to blame. Memory loss is a real symptom, Callie. Don’t ask me what I had for breakfast. And check WebMD. Along with all the other world-rocking shit we deal with on a daily basis, memory? Gone. Also, have you noticed how thin my hair has gotten? This bun is fake!”
“Quinn!”
“Right.” Quinn releases the grip on her bun.
“My hair is also not the point right now. What can I say? When you told me you had dinner with Porter and then you let me listen to one of his voicemails, I was left to deal with all the feels from college in the middle of the night, between overheating and having to pee,” Quinn whines like a preteen attempting to circumvent a sound grounding.
“Just hearing Porter’s voice, all the memories I repressed with Charles gone and you across the country came flooding back.
And you of all people know when I don’t sleep, I make poor choices.
So yesterday morning after your run, I snuck your phone off the dresser when you were in the shower, and I called Porter and told him to get on a plane immediately and come to New York to get his girl.
I want the two most important women in my life to have happily ever afters. If not me, why not you?”
Beads of sweat are forming at Quinn’s hairline, and the last thing we need is for the mother of the bride to go into a full-on meltdown.
Literally. I dab her forehead with my cocktail napkin and take my voice down a few octaves from hysteria to humble.
“Quinn. How many times do I have to tell you to stop rewatching the final season of Sex in the City? I am not Carrie Bradshaw, and there is no such thing as a Hollywood ending.”
“I can see that now.” Quinn jerks her thumb in the direction of Thomas and Porter. “I admit this all may have been a little irrational.”
“It didn’t cross your mind that it would make for a terrible party atmosphere to have both my exes here, in the same room, with me?”
“Again, to be fair to me, that’s where the memory loss comes in. I really wanted to get Porter here. I didn’t think about Thomas until I saw him in the church, and by then it was too late. Porter was already in town.”
“So what’s the plan, then, Quinn? What am I supposed to do?”
Quinn shrugs with a Don’t-shoot-the-messenger grimace. “I have no idea. I didn’t think past getting Alice down the aisle and Porter to the reception. The rest is up to you.”
“Would you like to dance?” Porter steps in front of Thomas, hand out to me as Quinn and I approach the two men.
Before Thomas can say a word, Quinn responds, “She’d love to,” and places my hand in Porter’s. She’s right. I would love to dance with Porter so I can get away from Thomas.
“You didn’t return any of my calls,” Porter murmurs into my ear as big-band melodies move guests around the dance floor. His fingers are spread wide between my shoulders, firm pressure holding me tight. Ignoring Porter’s confessions while in his embrace is no longer an option.
“I didn’t know what you wanted me to say.” I pause. “No, that’s not right. I just hadn’t found the words that I wanted to say to you. But you sure shared some direct sentiments in your voicemails.”
“You know I don’t waste words, Callie. I meant everything I said.
Otherwise, I wouldn’t have called. And continued to call.
” I believe him. The stark difference between Porter disappearing on graduation day without a word and his recent, thoughtfully curated sentiments from years of self-inquiry are not lost on me.
“There has never been anyone other than you. And I thought I would have to take that to the grave with me, that you were long gone because I had let you go. But then . . .”
“But then there I was.”
“There you were.”
“And so you thought what, Porter?” A moment lingers between us.
“I thought, I’ve been pushing Chap to take the second chance he’s been given and get his life back on track.
To be better. To do better. And then I thought to myself, How can I advise him to take a chance on himself when I’m not doing the same?
What kind of example is that for Chap? What kind of life is that for me? ”
“Is that what you think I am, Porter, your next adventure? Your second chance?” There’s a waver in my voice that I can’t gain control of. Porter deftly moves us to the farthest side of the dance floor to escape the blare of the horn section.
I peel myself off Porter’s chest so we are facing one another, not a word to be missed between the two of us, on this evening of past reckonings I am in no way prepared for, but here it is.
“I hope it’s my second chance.”
Hope. It’s such a loaded word. I used to be overflowing with it.
In the dark of dorm-room nights when Quinn shared all the reasons why she feared trying to make it as an artist, I refuted her arguments with possible avenues to creative success.
When my father diminished my mother’s business plan to start an after-school program, I left her Post-it notes of encouragement on her medicine-cabinet mirror.
And during my summer internships at local New York television stations, when I collected letters of recommendation before returning to college, I didn’t just thank my bosses for writing them, I agreed with their assessment of my potential.
I was once radiant and full of hope, and now I am clawing my way back to that.
“Remember at The Firehouse Restaurant, when you told me one of the things you loved most about me was my optimistic outlook on the world?”
“I do.”
“You broke that in me, Porter.” I let my finally chosen words hang in the air.
“Cal-lee, I . . .” Porter stutters and steps back with my blow.
“No. Now I have the floor.” I have waited for this comeuppance, and I am not going to get it wrong, or soften my words to save Porter’s feelings.
“My best trait is the one you took away. You took your gift for football, and you built a career, but my greatest talent, seeing the best in people, in situations, and in myself . . . you shattered. You injured not just my heart, but more importantly and indelibly, my essence.”
“Cal-lee. I don’t know what to say.” Porter’s moist, pleading eyes match mine. “Let’s go somewhere more private to talk about this.”
“No. I don’t want to.” I have to keep my nerve.
“For too long after you disappeared, I tortured myself with all the questions of what I did wrong, where we went wrong. That turned into doubting myself when I should have been my biggest cheerleader. Instead, and I’m not proud of this, because I got you so wrong, I lost confidence that I’d get anything right.
I think I married Thomas because being with a doctor had worked out for my mother, so maybe it would work out for me.
I gave up on my company, Milk, at the first hiccup.
I leaned into my sons’ lives rather than into my own because theirs seemed more promising than mine.
” I blink twice to hold back an escaping tear.
Head bowed, Porter whispers, “You weren’t wrong about me.”
“Well, you made sure there was no way for me to know that. When Thomas left me, it was hard, but at least when he left, he left me with reasons. When you disappeared without even a goodbye, you left me with this agonizing self-speculation, which is way worse. I don’t think I was truly able to get myself together and have faith in my instincts until John was born.
He brought back all that is amazing and possible in the world.
John gave me that second chance, but the problem still was that I only saw possibilities in my boys. Not in me. Until recently.”
“Callie, I am sorry. I never meant to hurt you like that. You have to know that wasn’t my intention.”
Even with all the years that have passed and the reasons he shared, I’m not letting Porter off the hook. “I know you didn’t. But you did.”
Porter drops his hand clasped with mine and steps away from me on the dance floor. Maybe I’ve said too much and he’s ready to walk away, but I feel free of the thoughts that have rattled around in the recesses of my mind, so whatever Porter needs to do is fine. I’ve said what I’ve needed to say.
“I flew here to ask one question.”
“You can have more than one, Porter.”
“Don’t need it.” Of course he doesn’t.
“Callie, when we get home, is there any way you would be open to giving us a second chance?”
“Porter, I’m already home.”