If You Only Knew Page 7

  So, in all honesty, I wasn't all that surprised when he came home that fateful night and told me he wasn't living the life he felt he was meant for. That though he loved me, he couldn't help feeling a little...empty...lately. It wasn't my fault, of course. It was just a feeling that his destiny lay elsewhere.

  I knew it was coming. It didn't make it any easier.

  Is there anything more humiliating than begging someone to stay with you? To keep loving you? The answer is no. I begged anyway. For five solid hours, I begged and sobbed and shouted. He couldn't leave me. He was everything to me. Please, everything should just go back to how it was when we were happy.

  But he was resolute. "You're my best friend," he said, and there were tears in his eyes. "Jenny, I'm so, so sorry. I hate doing this, but I feel like I have to. The same way I knew I had to go to medical school, even though my dad wanted so much for me to be a lawyer. It's not you. It's just... I have to."

  It's not you. The stupidest line in the history of lines.

  I moved out the next day. Of course it was me.

  Three months later, Owen proved that fact by meeting Ana-Sofia. We were having our weekly lunch, and he hadn't said anything. I just knew. I could tell, because I recognized the look on his face; he used to look at me that way. "So you've met someone," I said.

  He hesitated.

  "Please be honest, Owen."

  "Yes," he said. "I think I have."

  A month later, he introduced me to Ana-Sofia, whose first words to me were, "Owen has sung your praises for so long! I've been dying to meet you." She hugged me. I hugged her back.

  And that's how it's been. I want to get away from them. I want to be close to them. I love them. I hate them. I feel hateful that I have to love them, and I guiltily love that I hate them. I vow to be busy the next time they call.

  My phone rings as I pull up onto Magnolia Street. "Hi, it's Ana-Sofia! Jenny, I'm so distracted, I completely forgot to ask you. I have tickets for the Alexander McQueen exhibit, and you were the first person I thought of! Would you like to go?"

  That exhibit has been sold out for months. Of course she has tickets.

  "Yeah, I'd love to," I say. "Thanks, Ana!"

  "Wonderful! I'll email you details. Bye!"

  I take a deep breath and get out of the car.

  Leo is once again in the lounge chair. He seems sound asleep. I can tell he got up at some point, though, because he's wearing a dark gray suit, white shirt, a striped tie. His arms are folded tight across his chest, and there's a slight frown on his face. The wind, which has gotten nearly cold, ruffles his hair. Beside him is a bouquet of flowers.

  He looks...sad. No, not sad. Lost, as if he forgot he was supposed to go to a party and just gave up, found this chair and hunkered down for the night. A well-dressed homeless man and his mangy dog.

  I wonder if I should wake him.

  Instead, I go inside, lugging Kendall's dress with me. A second later, I come out again with the red plaid blanket Andreas gave me for Christmas--cashmere...it pays to have friends with exquisite taste--and open the gate.

  Loki growls. I ignore him; he's not terribly big, and he doesn't look as if he could spring to his master's defense without a trampoline. Indeed, his lip curls back, but the rest of him remains lying on his pillow bed.

  Trying not to indulge in too much gooey tenderness--after all, I've known Leo for all of twenty-seven hours--I spread the blanket over him, then go back up the steps to my new home, put Pandora on Kelly Clarkson and start unpacking.

  *

  A few hours later, there's a knock on the door. It's Leo, holding my blanket in one hand, the bouquet of flowers in the other. "Is this yours?" he asks, lifting the blanket.

  "Yes. You looked cold."

  "I was fine."

  "You're welcome." I give him a pointed look and take the blanket.

  "Thank you."

  We look at each other for a minute. "Come on in," I offer, and he does. "I was going to ask you to come up anyway. The living room light doesn't work." It's a gorgeous fixture, authentic Victorian, I think, ivory with a leaf pattern embossed into it.

  "What the hell are you listening to?"

  "This? This is Toby Keith." Leo stares at me like I'm an exhibit at the zoo. Right. He's a pianist or a musician or a snob. "Who are the flowers for?"

  "Oh. Uh, my mother. She didn't like them."

  "They're beautiful."

  "She decided she didn't like orange."

  "Ah." I wait for him to offer me the flowers. He doesn't. "How about fixing that light, Leo?"

  He sits on the couch, puts the flowers down and takes a bottle of beer out of his suit pocket, pops the top off with the opener on his key chain and sits back, putting his feet on the coffee table. "Have you tried changing the lightbulb?"

  "Make yourself at home. And yes. It's not the lightbulb."

  "Sounds like the switch is broken. Maybe a problem with the wiring. Good thing there's a lot of natural light in here."

  "Still, it would be even better if the super would fix my light. I believe you are the super, Leo?"

  "I am. But I'm not that good at fixing stuff. I got this job because of my looks." He smiles.

  "Well, then, since you're inept, would you call an electrician for me?" I ask.

  "I'll make it my life's new mission. Can it wait till tomorrow, or are baby sea otters dying because your light won't go on?"

  I sigh with exaggerated patience. "It can wait till tomorrow."

  He takes another drink. It's an IPA, which I quite like.

  "Bring me a beer next time," I say.

  "Buy your own beer." He smiles as he says it, and damn, he's just too adorable. "How's your sister?"

  Right. I sigh and sit down. "She's... I don't know." I grab a throw pillow and smoosh it against my stomach. Rachel had texted me a picture of the girls earlier, all of them on the slide at the park. No note. "She says she's good."

  "But she's not good?" Leo says.

  I pause. He was awfully nice last night. Caught Rachel, scooped her up in his arms and set her on this very couch. As I was saying, "Rachel? Rach? Rachel!" in a panicked voice, he got a damp dishcloth and put it on her forehead, then stuck around to see if she was okay. I guess he has a right to ask.

  "It seems her husband has no idea who sent it," I say.

  "Ah. It was all a mistake, then?"

  "That's what we're going with."

  He shrugs, a Gallic gesture that belies his very Irish name, a shrug that says, Ah, poor kid, people are stupid, whatcha gonna do. "She seems sweet."

  "She is." I pause, not wholly comfortable with the topic. "So why the suit, Leo? Do you have a date? Those flowers aren't really for your mom, are they?"

  "Yes, they were. I don't date. I'm strictly for recreational purposes."

  I feel an eye-roll coming on. "Then were you giving a performance?"

  "Nope."

  "Shall I keep guessing, or does your dog need you and you really should be leaving?"

  "I visit my mom every Sunday."

  "You sure you're not gay?"

  He laughs. "You're all right, Jane."

  "Jenny."

  "Whatever." He looks around my apartment. "So you like the apartment?"

  "Sure. It's beautiful. Bigger than what I'm used to. And Cambry's my hometown, you know."

  "No, I didn't."

  "Did you grow up around here?"

  He looks at me carefully, taking another drink from his beer bottle. "Iowa."

  "A corn-fed Midwestern boy, huh?"

  "That's me." He takes another pull of beer. "So what did you do today? You're a wedding planner?"

  "We need to work on your listening skills," I say. "I'm a wedding dress designer. I just opened Bliss here in town." This fails to elicit any reaction. "I had a fitting in the city for a very irritating bride, and then I took a walk in Central Park, and then I went to see my, uh, friends."

  He gives me an incredulous look. "Not the ex-husband and his love
ly wife?"

  "How did you-- Yes." He cocks an eyebrow. "And their beautiful new baby," I add.

  "Are you shitting me?"

  "Not that it's your business, but we've stayed friends."

  "No, you haven't."

  "Yes, we have. Your dog growled at me, by the way. While I was covering you with your blankie."

  "You put Mother Teresa to shame. Back to the ex... Why would you stay friends? Isn't that torture?"

  "Are you married, Leo?"

  "Do I look married?"

  "Divorced? Separated? Are you a therapist? In other words, do you know anything about me or Owen or Ana-Sofia or marriage and divorce? Huh? Do you?"

  "No on all fronts, and Ana-Sofia, sweet. That is a smokin' hot name. Is she beautiful?"

  "Some people find her attractive."

  He smiles. Just a little, but it works.

  "Yeah, she's gorgeous," I admit. "As for why we stayed friends, maybe he was so devastated by our breakup that he couldn't stand the thought of not seeing me anymore. Maybe we still share a very special bond and despite marriage not working out, we want to stay in each other's lives. Maybe I really admire and respect his--"

  "Stop, stop, I can't stand any more." Leo gets up and glances at the ceiling. "Call someone about that light. I just moved here myself and don't know anyone. Oh, and could you have him stop down at my place? My toaster doesn't work unless I plug it in the hallway."

  I look at him for a second. "You blew a fuse. That's probably why my light won't go on."

  "Ah. Fascinating."

  "Where's the fuse box?"

  "What's a fuse box?"

  "Are you serious? How did you get this job?"

  "I already told you. Good looks and charm."

  "I can't wait to meet the charm part. Come on, I'll show you what a fuse box is, pretty boy. Take me to your cellar. Do you know where that is?"

  We go out my front door, through the gate, where I earn another snarl from Loki. "That dog is really good-looking and charming," I say.

  "He's old. Be respectful. The cellar's through here." He lets me into his apartment, into a tiny foyer, which opens into a large living room. There's an upright piano topped with piles of paper and music books. It's too dark to see anything else.

  "This way," he says, pointing toward the small, sleek kitchen. He opens the cellar door, and we go down. It occurs to me that I'm going into a dark place with a stranger, and even as I think the thought, I know this guy is no threat to me at all.

  "You're surprisingly quiet," Leo says, clicking on a light.

  "I'm assessing the odds of you murdering me down here."

  "And?"

  "I hereby deem you harmless."

  "How emasculating," he says. "What are you looking for again?"

  "This, my son. Behold the fuse box," I say, pointing to the gray box on the wall. I flip open the panel and, sure enough, a switch is over to the right instead of the left. I push it back. "Modern technology. Show me your toaster."

  His toaster is plugged into the same outlet as the coffeepot, which is on the same circuit as the microwave. "Just move the toaster in over there and you should be fine," I tell him. "This is an old house. You might get an electrician in here to update the amperage."

  "Did you learn all this in wedding school?"

  He's tall. The kitchen light makes his hair gleam with copper, and the line of his jaw is sharp and strong.

  "The eye-fucking, Jane. It has to stop." But he smiles as he says it.

  "So you teach down here?" I ask, stepping back. Since he made himself at home upstairs, I do the same, flipping on a light and wandering through the living room. A gray couch and red chair complement the red-and-blue Oriental rug. There's a bookcase filled with tomes about the great composers. A bust of Beethoven glares at me next to a photo of a lake surrounded by pine trees.

  The place is very, very neat and, aside from Beethoven, oddly devoid of personality, which isn't what I'd expect from Leo, not that I know him well, obviously. But still. I'd expect sloppy and welcoming, not sterile and...well, sterile. It looks like a model home, aside from the sheet music.

  "So you just teach piano, or do you play anywhere?" I ask.

  "I just teach. Sometimes I compose a score for something."

  "Like a movie?"

  He smiles. "No, nothing that complicated. Audio books, mostly."

  "Neat. Did you go to school for music?"

  "Yep. Juilliard."

  "Really? Wow, Leo. Very impressive. Why don't you perform anywhere? You must be great."

  "In the world of concert pianists, I'm probably a B minus."

  "In the world of humans, I bet you're great."

  "What do you know? You listen to country music." Another smile.

  "How narrow-minded of you. Taylor Swift is a musical genius."

  "Stevie Wonder is a musical genius, Jane. Taylor Swift is a woman still bemoaning what happened to her in high school."

  "It's Jenny. My name is Jenny. So you do listen to Taylor Swift."

  "I don't. But I don't live in a cave, either."

  "No, this is a very nice place. Very tidy." I reach out to touch a key on the piano. "Can you play me something?"

  "Sure," he says. He leans over the keys and taps out a few notes. "And that was 'Lightly Row.' Any more requests?"

  "How about 'Paparazzi' by Lady Gaga?"

  "Get out," he says, leaning against the piano. There's that smile again. He slides his hands into his pockets. "Thanks for fixing my toaster."

  "I didn't touch your toaster."

  "Well, you can touch my toaster anytime you want, Jenny Tate."

  So. He does know my name. And he's flirting. And he's tall and lanky and his face is really fun to look at, all angular planes and wide smile and lovely crinkles around his eyes.

  His smile drops.

  "Don't get any ideas, missy," he says.

  "Like what?" I ask.

  "Like, 'Hey, my husband married someone else and has a new baby and I'm still single but there's an incredibly hot guy who lives downstairs, so why not?' I'm for recreation only."

  "I'm not thinking those things, but bravo on your excellent self-esteem."

  He goes to the foyer, opens the door and waits for me to follow, which I do. "You're thinking all those things. It's written all over your face."

  "You know, Leo, in the day and a half we've known each other, I don't remember pinning you to the ground and forcing myself on you--"

  "Yeah, I hope I'd remember that, too."

  "--but I'm really not interested in you. Besides, you have all those moms and thirtysomethings who are dying to learn piano, as the kids are calling it these days. So go recreate with them, pal."

  A smile tugs at his mouth. "You want to have dinner this week?"

  I open my mouth, close it, then open it again. "On a date?"

  He throws his hands in the air. "What did I just say? No, not on a date."

  "For recreation?"

  "For dinner."

  "Why?"

  "Because I have to eat, or I'll die," he says. "Never mind. It's a bad idea. The offer's been revoked. Bye, Jenny. See you around."

  He smiles as he closes the door, gently, in my face.

  It's only when I get back to my apartment that I realize he left the flowers on my coffee table.

  Rachel

  My mood over the next few days is shiny and hard and relentless. Nothing can get me down--not Charlotte putting a meatball in her diaper, not Rose's tantrum at the grocery store when I wouldn't let her swim with the lobsters, not Grace stonily telling me she loves Aunt Jenny more. I'm so, so relieved about Adam, and filled with energy. The house has never been cleaner. The girls and I weeded the flower beds--well, they played with shovels while I weeded. I baked and froze eight loaves of banana bread.

  It's only at night that my stomach aches.

  On Monday, I take the girls to nursery school for their four hours of doing exactly what we do at home--reading, singing, cr
afts, snacks--and then go over to Jenny's to help her unpack and organize and clean. She asks how I am; I tell her I'm great, and we leave it at that. I invite Mom to have lunch on Tuesday, and the girls are sweet and affectionate with her. I listen to her stories about Dad--I even encourage them, nodding and smiling as if I've never heard them before. When she leaves and the girls are still asleep, I bake so much that when the girls wake up, I put them in the minivan and drop off cupcakes for Jenny, another batch for her nice building super--though why a two-family house needs a super is a mystery--and three dozen for the homeless shelter.

  On Wednesday, we have Mommy and Me swimming, and when we're in the pool, Clarice Vanderberger tells me I sure am in a good mood. I smile and say yes, what's not to be happy about, gorgeous weather we're having. Then I slosh over to Grace, who's a little too good of a swimmer and seems to be in love with Melissa, the swimming instructor, and resentful of the fact that Melissa is helping Rose.

  "Can you believe Jared Brewster is actually going ahead and marrying that woman?" Elle Birkman asks me as her son laps pool water. God knows what kind of chemicals and germs and bodily fluids are in the pool, but she doesn't tell him to stop.

  "Mama! Mama! Mama! Watch!" Rose orders as she dips her chin in the water as Melissa holds her. "Face in, Mama!"

  "Honey, that's so good!" I say. "Oh, Charlotte, honey, don't drink the water. It's only for swimming."

  "Hunter's drinking it!" Charlotte says. Grace tugs my hand.

  "Hunter, honey, it's yucky."

  Elle doesn't chime in. "I mean, men will be men, but he doesn't have to marry her," she says instead. "Has he talked to you about it? It's hard to believe he'll go through with it."

  Jared is my oldest friend. Jenny and I have always been so close that it was hard for me to find another person I liked as much, but Jared was special. The Brewsters lived up the hill from us, so technically, we were neighbors, though his house was really posh; they even had a live-in housekeeper. He was that rarest of boys--clean, for one, and nice, the type who'd ask you if you'd read a book or seen a TV show, then listen as you answered. Riding the school bus cemented our friendship; we sat together every day from kindergarten through eighth grade. He went to Phillips Exeter Academy for high school, but even then, we stayed in touch. Mom used to ask if we were dating--and pray that we were--but we weren't. It wasn't like that. But he's kind and nice and funny and comfortable as flannel pajamas. In addition to being my oldest friend, he's Adam's coworker at Brewster, Buckley and Bowman, or Triple B, as they call it.