Two by Two(4)

"I am being myself."

"Then you might want to change," Marge retorted, "because you're coming across as desperate."

Problem was, I didn't think twice. Did Richard Gere think twice? He  clearly knew more than my sister, and again, here's where wisdom and I  were obviously traveling in opposite directions along the highway.  Because Pretty Woman was a movie and I was living in the real world, but  the pattern I established with Melissa Anderson continued, with  variations, until it eventually became a habit I couldn't break. I  became the king of romantic gestures-flowers, notes, cards, and the  like-and in college, I was even the "secret admirer" to a girl I  happened to fancy. I opened doors and paid for dates, and I listened  whenever a girl wanted to talk, even if it was about how much she still  loved her ex-boyfriend. Most girls sincerely liked me. I mean that. To  them, I was a friend, the kind of guy who'd get invited to hang out with  a group of girlfriends whenever they went out, but I seldom succeeded  in landing the girl I'd set my sights on. I can't tell you how many  times I've heard, "You're the nicest guy I know, and I'm sure you'll  meet someone special. I have two or three friends I could probably set  you up with … "         

     



 

It wasn't easy being the guy who was perfect for someone else. It often  left me brokenhearted, and I couldn't understand why women told me that  they wanted certain traits-romance and kindness, interest and the  ability to listen-and then didn't appreciate it when it was actually  offered to them.

I wasn't altogether unlucky in love, of course. In high school, I had a  girlfriend named Angela during my sophomore year; in college, Victoria  and I were together most of my junior year. And during the summer after  graduation from college, when I was twenty-two, I met a woman named  Emily.

Emily still lives in the area, and over the years, I've seen her out and  about. She was the first woman I ever loved, and since romance and  nostalgia are often intertwined, I still think about her. Emily was a  bit of a Bohemian; she favored long flowered skirts and sandals, wore  little makeup, and had majored in fine arts with an emphasis on  painting. She was also beautiful, with chestnut hair and hazel eyes that  were flecked with gold, but beyond her physical appearance, there was  more. She was quick to laugh, kind to everyone she met, and intelligent,  a woman who most thought was perfect for me. My parents adored her,  Marge loved her, and when we were together, we were comfortable even  when silent. Our relationship was easy and relaxed; more than lovers, we  were friends. Not only could we talk about anything, she delighted in  the notes I'd place under her pillow or the flowers I'd have delivered  to her workplace for no reason whatsoever. Emily loved me as much as she  loved romantic gestures, and after dating her for a couple of years, I  made plans to propose, even putting a deposit down on an engagement  ring.

And then, I screwed it up. Don't ask me why. I could blame the booze  that night-I'd been drinking with friends at a bar-but for whatever  reason, I struck up a conversation with a woman named Carly. She was  beautiful and she knew how to flirt and she'd recently broken up with a  long-term boyfriend. One drink led to another, which led to more  flirting, and we eventually ended up in bed together. In the morning,  Carly made it clear that what had happened was simply a fling, with no  strings attached, and though she kissed me goodbye, she didn't bother  giving me her phone number.

There are a couple of very simple Guy Rules in this sort of situation,  and Rule Number One goes like this: Never ever tell. And if your  sweetheart ever suspects anything and asks directly, go immediately to  Rule Number Two: Deny, deny, deny.

All guys know these rules, but the thing was, I also felt guilty.  Horribly guilty. Even after a month, I couldn't put the experience  behind me, nor could I seem to forgive myself. Keeping it secret seemed  inconceivable; I couldn't imagine building a future with Emily knowing  it was constructed at least in part on a lie. I talked to Marge about  it, and Marge was, as always, helpful in that sisterly way of hers.

"Keep your stupid trap shut, you dimwit. You did a crappy thing and you  should feel guilty. But if you're never going to do it again, then don't  hurt Emily's feelings, too. Something like this will crush her."

I knew Marge was right, and yet …

I wanted Emily's forgiveness, because I wasn't sure I could forgive  myself without it, and so in the end, I went to Emily and said the words  that even now, I wish I could take back.

"There's something I have to tell you," I began, and proceeded to spill everything.

If forgiveness was the goal, it didn't work. If trying to build a  long-term relationship on a foundation of truth was another goal, that  didn't work either. Through angry tears, she stormed off, saying that  she needed some time to think.

I left her alone for a week, waiting for her to call while moping around  my apartment, but the phone never rang. The following week, I left two  messages-and apologized again both times-but she still wouldn't call. It  wasn't until the following week that we finally had lunch, but it was  strained, and when she left the restaurant, she told me not to walk her  to her car. The writing was on the wall and a week after that, she left a  message saying it was over for good. It crushed me for weeks.

The passage of time has lessened my guilt-time always does-and I try to  console myself with the idea that at least for Emily, my indiscretion  was a blessing in disguise. I heard from a friend of a friend a few  years after our breakup that she'd married an Australian guy and  whenever I caught a glimpse of her, it appeared as though life was  treating her well. I'd tell myself that I was happy for her. Emily, more  than anyone, deserved a wonderful life, and Marge felt exactly the same  way. Even after I'd married Vivian, my sister would sometimes turn to  me and say, "That Emily sure was something. You really messed that up,  didn't you?"         

     



 





I was born in Charlotte, North Carolina, and aside from a single year in  another city, I've lived there all my life. Even now, it strikes me as  almost impossible that Vivian and I met in the place where we did, or  even that we ever met at all. After all, she, like me, was from the  South; like mine, her job required long hours, and she seldom went out.  What are the odds, then, that I'd meet Vivian at a cocktail party in  Manhattan?

At the time, I was working at the agency's satellite office in Midtown,  which probably sounds like a bigger deal than it really was. Jesse  Peters was of the opinion that pretty much anyone who showed promise in  the Charlotte office had to serve at least a little time up north, if  only because a number of our clients are banks, and every bank has a  major presence in New York City. You've probably seen some of the  commercials I've worked on; I like to think of them as thoughtful and  serious, projecting the soul of integrity. The first of those  commercials, by the way, was conceived while I was living in a small  studio on West Seventy-Seventh between Columbus and Amsterdam and trying  to figure out whether my ATM accurately reflected my checking account,  which showed a balance with just enough funds to purchase a meal deal at  a nearby fast-food place.

In May 2006, a CEO of the one of the banks who loved my vision was  hosting a charity event to benefit MoMA. The CEO was seriously into  art-something I knew nothing about-and even though it was an exclusive,  black-tie event, I hadn't wanted to attend. But his bank was a client  and Peters was my do-what-I-tell-you-or-else boss, so what could I do?

I remember almost nothing about the first half hour, other than that I  clearly didn't belong. Well over half the people in attendance were old  enough to be my grandparents, and practically everyone was in a  different stratosphere when it came to our respective levels of wealth.  At one point, I found myself listening as two gray-haired gentlemen  debated the merits of the G IV when compared to the Falcon 2000. It took  me a while to figure out that they were comparing their private jets.

When I turned away from the conversation, I saw her boss on the other  side of the room. I recognized him from late-night television, and  Vivian would later tell me that he considered himself an art collector.  She'd wrinkled her nose when she said it, implying that he had money but  no taste, which didn't surprise me. Despite famous guests, his show's  trademark humor was best described as lowbrow.

She was standing behind him, hidden from my line of sight, but when he  stepped forward to greet someone, I saw her. With dark hair, flawless  skin, and cheekbones that supermodels dream about, I was sure she was  the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen.

At first I thought she was his date, but the longer I watched, the more  confident I was that they weren't together, that she instead worked for  him in some capacity. Nor was she wearing a ring, another good sign …  but  really, what chance did I have?