Chapter 7 #2
The party’s at Hans and Mike’s place in Chelsea.
I’m not sure what to expect — a super high-end condo with fine finishings, maybe.
Hans opens the door to usher us inside, and I gasp.
It’s a super cool, quintessential New York loft, with a vast footprint, soaring ceilings, and exposed brick, pipes and ductwork.
There are rows of massive windows and distressed, painted plasterwork.
A few glass-brick room dividers and clusters of furniture create room-type spaces.
A pair of leather sofas here, a contemporary dining table and chrome chairs there, a big desk in the corner.
There’s a DJ on decks at the far end of the room.
Hans catches me examining the huge windows. “You don’t remember being here, my dear?” I shake my head. “Last time, you were surprised we didn’t have an elaborate apartment with opulent trimmings and marble everywhere. Like yours, only with more gold.”
I laugh. “You’ve got me.”
“Well, it would have been,” Hans whispers conspiratorially, “but Mike was the driving force in these design choices. Between you and me, he’s just not as gay as I am.” He nudges me with a wink, and I laugh again.
“Such interesting couples we have in our lives,” I observe later to Rob as we pile our plates with food from the buffet. “So complementary. Your parents, Hans and Mike. Suzie and Donald, of course. I must go over to Brooklyn and see the twins.”
I have a moment’s panic. Do the twins even exist here? If they do, should I not remember them? They’re only two years old.
Rob interrupts my thoughts. “What did you tell Suzie, about how you’re feeling?”
“Same thing I’ve been telling everyone — amnesia mixed with confusion, not believing I’m married to you, believing David’s alive.”
“Sure. And yeah, you should visit the twins. They’re adorable.”
I relax at the news. “I will.”
A couple of hours later, the loft is packed with scantily clad partygoers, pop music pumping. I steal a moment alone, helping myself to a gin and tonic in Hans and Mike’s divided-off kitchen. Andrew appears.
“There’s our girl.” He leans up against the concrete counter. “How is the evening going? I’ve been meeting some . . .” he peers around in a comic fashion, “pretty fascinating types. They all seem to love Kim. She’s having a ball.”
I grin. “I’m good. Taking a quiet moment, before midnight hits.”
“Ah, New Year. Time to take stock. Lemme ask you something.” Andrew hesitates.
“Kim would kill me for asking but, with you still sleeping in the art room . . . Obviously you feel like you only met Rob recently, so it’s gotta be weird.
But how’s it going? Since your memories haven’t returned, is the relationship developing anyways?
From where I’m standing, it seems like it is, but that you’re holding back .
. . It’s none of my business, of course. ”
I sip my drink, unsure of what to say. “It is weird for me. Rob is a wonderful man; he’s been taking care of me.
Not pushing at all. I know when we met, everyone says we fell hard for each other, very quickly.
But it’s not the same this time. There’s so much more at stake.
We’re already married and living together, so there’s much more to lose by rushing things.
I have to be sure. Not only of loving him, but also of wanting to spend the rest of my life with him, as his wife. Because that’s what it would mean.”
I’ve never put this into words before or even admitted it to myself. But it feels good to say it. I turn back to Andrew.
“It’s not that I’m not falling for him. I’m still me, so of course I’m bound to. But I have to be sure of never wanting to go back.”
“Of course.” Andrew pulls me into a hug. It’s comforting. “You’ll get there.”
I squeeze him back. “Don’t tell him, okay? This is between us.”
“You got it, kiddo. Come on. It’s nearly midnight.”
In the living area, the party is in full swing with Hans now sporting a flapper dress, singing “Young Hearts Run Free,” complete with a dance routine.
“That guy can sing. I should recruit him for the choir,” I half-shout in Rob’s ear when I find him.
“Yeah, he’d bring quite the flavor to your shows,” Rob agrees. “Where’ve you been?”
“A paternal talk with your dad in the kitchen,” I reply, with an air of mystery.
“Ah, the Papa pep talk.” He smiles. “I can’t hear a thing. Come here.”
We weave through dancing guests to the far end of the loft, away from the DJ. It’s a little quieter here, and a few people are lounging about on the sofas. Out of the tall window, I can just make out Chelsea’s patchwork of rooftops in the dark night. I turn to Rob.
“I need you to know—”
“Raise your glasses, the balls are dropping!” Hans’s voice bellows through the speaker system, interrupting the moment. “We are go in . . . TEN, NINE, EIGHT, SEVEN, SIX, FIVE, FOUR, THREE, TWO, ONE . . . Happy New Year!!”
“Happy New Year!”
Dozens of silver 2018 balloons are released from a net across the high ceiling. Everyone’s laughing, cheering, hugging, kissing, as the music starts up again.
I turn back to Rob and shrug, raising my glass to him with a shy smile. “Happy New Year.”
Slowly, he takes my glass and sets it down on the window ledge.
He takes my face in both of his hands and puts his mouth against mine.
But gently — he’s waiting for me to kiss him back.
I ache to do so, to push through that soft beard and press hard against his lips.
But an image forces its way into my mind, pushing everything else out.
Other Me at midnight on New Year’s Eve, out at a bar, or maybe drinking Prosecco on Suzie and Donald’s. She’s thinking about me, in this moment, being with her husband. Wondering where we are, and whether I’m kissing him, right now. And this woman is me. I can’t betray her. I can’t betray myself.
So instead of kissing Rob, I pull back, although every fiber in my being screams against it. I look at him helplessly.
He pushes his lips together, looking as crushed as I feel.
“Happy New Year.”
He walks away.