A nudge from my boss.
"Anyway, Eric," I muttered, "we hope you'll do the honor of staying with us."
Eric cocked his head. "But why would I?"
"Gosh. I don't know," I said. "Maybe you owe me. I was the one who wiped your fevered brow, remember?" He'd had one fever. One. "I cleaned up your puke after the bad sushi... I mean, after your chemo. I wrote on your scrotum so the doctor would be sure to take out the correct testicle."
Jonathan choked.
"You were very good to me, Sunshine," Eric said, and I wanted to break my martini glass and stab a shard into his neck. He never called me Sunshine in real life. Never. "But I don't operate in a world of debt anymore. I have to do what's right for me. I know you don't want to take advice from me, Ainsley, but I think you have to try harder to-" he paused for dramatic effect "-live life large."
"Good God," muttered Jonathan.
"And you should release those toxic feelings, babe. They'll eat you alive."
The rage that had been building in me rose like a fireball. I slammed both hands on the table, rattling the glasses. "You know what, Eric? You're unrecognizable to me. To me, who's loved you for eleven years. I'd give anything to see that terrified, weepy, shaking guy who cried for three days straight after his diagnosis instead of the ridiculous, self-centered, smug asshole I see before me."
"I'm sorry you're feeling so victimized," he said. "I choose not to move through life that way. Getting cancer was the worst thing that ever happened to me, and yet it taught me so much. There's only the now, only answering the inner voice."
"Let's go," Jonathan said. "Thank you for your time, Eric."
I stood up, shaking with rage. "Getting cancer wasn't the worst thing that ever happened to you, Eric. Getting over cancer was. Admit it. You loved having cancer. It gave you permission to worship yourself, and you haven't stopped yet. You're breaking your parents' hearts, and you broke mine. I don't even know how you look at yourself in the mirror."
Eric took his phone out, clicked a button and spoke into it. "Getting over cancer was the worst thing that ever happened to you. Worshipping yourself. Breaking parents' hearts." He clicked again, then looked up at me. "Thanks for my next blog."
I lunged.
Luckily, Jonathan grabbed me around the waist, stopping me before I made contact. "We're leaving," he said, dragging me back a few paces.
"Then she attacked me," Eric said into his phone.
"Attempted to attack you," I said. "Lucky for you, someone stepped in, because God knows, I could take you."
"And threatened me, even though I'm still in the recovery phase."
"No, you're not!" I yelled, in case there weren't enough people looking at me. "You recovered six months ago, and it's driving you crazy!"
Jonathan towed me away. "Let's go before we're thrown out, shall we?" he murmured.
"Did you hear him?"
"Inside voice, and yes. Come on."
The air was cool and rich with the smell of New York-that strangely sweet tang of subway, food and exhaust. "Let's walk," Jonathan suggested, and I stomped down the street, my thoughts just an angry, pulsating red smear. Turned on Fifth Avenue and headed uptown, plowing through the crowd.
Powered by fury, my legs ate up the blocks, arms swinging, bag hitting my hip, my leopard-print shoes biting my heels, cramping my toes.
I hated him. Who the hell was that? What had happened to the gentle, funny, loyal man who hugged his parents and told me on more than one occasion that he'd be nothing without me? Where was he?
Who was that other guy, that pretentious ass who dictated my words into a phone so he could blog about me?
How the hell were we going to get over this?
I got to the edge of Central Park and jerked to a stop, unsure of where to go now.
"Here."
Jonathan. I'd almost forgotten about him. He held out a handkerchief.
Oh. I was crying.
"Come," he said, taking my arm. I sucked in a jerking breath and let him lead me.
He stopped at the first carriage, where a big brown horse stood, bottomless eyes and velvety nose, breathing its warm breath on my hand, which was shaking. Jonathan took out his wallet, handed the guy some bills and muttered something.
Then he handed me up into the carriage and got in beside me. The driver clucked to the horse, and we started, turning into the park, the horse's massive hooves clack-clacking on the pavement.
"Ainsley, I'm sorry," Jonathan said. "I should never have asked you to do that."
I wiped my eyes. I needed to blow my nose, but this was his handkerchief, and it was kind of gross-oh, screw it. I blew my nose. "It's fine."
"No. It's not. I apologize."
The rhythm of the carriage was soothing, the pull and jerk of it. I swallowed and looked off to the left.
New York City is a good place to come to forget your misery. So many people, so many ages and races and stories. Virtually everyone had had, was currently nursing or would have a broken heart. There were a thousand stories worse than mine.
It was just that I always thought Eric and I were special. That our love wasn't tainted by selfishness or jealousy or pettiness. We were truly Plato's two halves of a whole, as I'd learned in my very first philosophy class.
I was wrong. For eleven years, I'd been wrong. I blotted my eyes again. "What's your horse's name?" I asked the driver.
"Truman," he said, turning back with a grin.
"Does he like his job?"
"Oh, yes, miss. Look at his ears, how they're pointed forward. He's having a wonderful time."
"And what's your name?"
"Benicio."
"I love that name. Tell your mom she chose well."
Another smile. "I will, miss. Thank you."
Truman clip-clopped around a turn. The dogwoods were in bloom, and a light breeze ruffled my hair and dried the last of my rage-tears.
Jonathan was staring at me. "Why do you do that?" he asked.
"Do what?"
"Try to make everyone like you. Your charm offensive. Here you are, crying over your idiot of a boyfriend, but you-"
"It's called being friendly, Jonathan. Not being rude. Noticing the world around you. Would you rather have me smiting myself with ashes and tearing my clothes? And I didn't try to be friendly. I just am. Right, Benicio?"
"Sí, senorita. Very friendly." He smiled back at me.
"So take a note, Mr. Kent. This is how humans act." I was tired of him, of me, of Eric, of feeling sad.
"Would you like to have dinner?" he asked.
My mouth opened, then closed. "Is that a trick question?"
"No. It's the least I can do after putting you through that. I feel very bad about your...distress."
Dinner would mean I'd have to talk to him for an hour or two. But going back home would just have me lying in bed, revisiting every stupid word between Eric and me. "Okay."
* * *
An hour later, after our lovely ride through Central Park and a fond farewell to Benicio and Truman, Jonathan and I were seated in a typical East Side restaurant-quiet, posh, expensive. Jonathan had ordered a bottle of wine, and Carl, our waiter, poured me a generous glass. "Are you ready to order?" he asked.
"What's your favorite thing on the menu, Carl?" I asked.
"Well, everything's wonderful here," he said. "But I did have the lobster and asparagus risotto before my shift, and it was stellar."
"That's what I'll have, then."
"Any appetizers?"
"How about three Wellfleet oysters?"
He winked at me. "A wonderful choice. For you, sir?"
"I'll have the veal Oscar," Jonathan said. I winced. I had an issue with veal. "Not the veal," he amended. "The chicken. I assume it's free-range, organic, and led a happy and productive life?"
"Yes, sir."
"That and the tomato salad, then."
"Very good." Carl smiled and walked off.
"You made a joke," I observed.
"Did I?"
"I'm almost positive." I took a roll from the basket. "Oh, God, these are still warm." I was suddenly starving. Whole wheat, soft, hot with honey butter mixed with a pinch of truffle salt. "Oh, bread, I love you," I murmured, taking a bite and closing my eyes. "Jonathan, have a roll so I don't eat them all."
He obliged, breaking off a small piece of bread and buttering it with care. "So how did you meet Eric?" he asked.
"Junior year of college. One look and I thought that's the guy I'm gonna marry. He was my first boyfriend." Best not to think of happy times.
"Ainsley, why don't you reveal his exaggerations, as you suggested earlier?" Jonathan asked, leaning forward. "You could show him as the fraud he is."
There was that British lord lingo again. I dropped my eyes to the table and sighed. "Yeah, I could," I said. "But when someone hurts you, is it right to hurt them back? I could, sure, but then I'd be stooping to his level. And while that would be very satisfying... I don't know. That's not who I want to be."