Ordinary World (37 page)

I could let go of that now, too.

***

Living alone did not have to be the purgatory I’d always believed it to be. I now went by myself to all the places I went with Sam or David—The Coop in

Harvard Square

; the North End of Boston; the lake at NorthamptonUniversity, to name a few. I took myself to the movie theatre. I took myself to dinner. I took myself to Cape Cod for a weekend. I sat in Perch with a book or my laptop, perfectly content. I strolled down

Main Street

in Amherst and basked in the sunlight. Indeed, I kept myself good company, and it didn’t take long for me to realize that I was actually courting myself.

Miranda noticed that the sadness in my eyes had all but disappeared lately. Melody was happy to hear me talk about the future with hope rather than hollowness. I told her that I was going to end our sessions. Didn’t need them anymore.

She agreed. “You’ve arrived,” she said.

We embraced in her office, and my heart was filled with gratitude for her.

Maggie said I sounded like “the old Andi,” but better. “You’ve learned how to be your own best friend,” she said. “Magnificent.” Even Donny Most curled up in my lap and brushed up against my ankles affectionately.

The ache for Sam never went away, but it became a part of me that I chose to accept and live with. And oftentimes, especially when I wrote, Sam was with me. He kept good company too. Still.

I fell in love again, too—with novel-writing, that is. Not long after the first one went to print, I started writing a new novel about a woman who meets several people while hiking the Appalachian Trail; its working title was
Walking
. And, like most hikers on the Trail, I wasn’t sure where it was going, or what else there was to do besides walk. I had discovered that hiking the Appalachian Trail was something else Sam had wanted to do. I contemplated trying the Trail myself, but the idea of not being able to plug in a blow-dryer anywhere was unappealing.

The dialogue between these characters was interesting, however. It was an exploration, albeit too soon to tell of what. A lot of it seemed to stem from conversations and relationships I had or wanted to have with all the men in my life. With each new person the protagonist encountered, I felt as if I was walking with a different person as well.

It was about moving forward, really.

***

In the fall I went back to teaching at NU. Jeff gave me one course called Autobiographical Writing. The class consisted of fifteen students, all upper level, and I conducted it workshop style. I assigned both Sam’s and my collections of creative nonfiction prose, and began a new series of essays—I was finally writing about Sam, and not to eulogize him. It occurred to me one day that I was writing love stories. Everyone, including myself, contributed writing on a weekly basis.

It was nice to be back in the classroom again, especially in this way. Maggie and I were even thinking about a compilation of texts for a graduate level class on the rhetoric of life, death, and regeneration. Jeff said, “Welcome back, kid.”

I refused to date anyone, but had started spending time with Julian the Spanish professor again. We’d meet after class for coffee or attend Foreign Film Fridays at NU. One night afterwards, he walked me to my car and kissed me goodnight. I never saw it coming.

“That’s cute,” I said afterwards. He looked at me, puzzled, and I grinned. “Thanks,” I said. I liked him.

But I missed David. Not a day went by when I didn’t think of him.

I found out through one of NU’s textbook reps that the art history book with the chapter he wrote had been released, and she got me a desk copy. I read every word of his chapter. Since we’d broken up, I read every word of every one of his columns as well.

I wondered if he was seeing anyone. I only hoped that if he was, it was serious and not some fling, even though I was contemplating a fling with Julian. He and I went out on one more date, and I kissed him one more time. He smelled like eucalyptus. He was also a good kisser.

But I decided not to have a fling with Julian. I’m not fling material. Never was. And that was the last time he and I went out.

***

In November, as the last of the fall foliage piqued and slipped off the trees, I treated myself to the Boston Museum of Art exhibit
Monet in Normandy
.
Dressed in new blue jeans (I was fitting into size six again), suede boots, and a soft, v-neck pink sweater that Maggie sent me from one of the New York boutiques, I graced the Boston sidewalks as if they were fashion runways. My hair grew long and fell in natural ringlets. I felt free. Alive. Bellisima.

Because it was a Friday night, Monet aficionados filled the exhibition galleries. However, this was not the most ideal way to look at the paintings, since, like David, I preferred to view the works from various angles and distance points around the gallery. In the second gallery, I backed up, only to turn around and spot the tall figure, in his black leather jacket and Gap blue jeans, trying to get a good look at one of the cathedral paintings.

I beamed.

Of course he was here—where else would he be? And I was pretty sure that I had wanted to find him.

At first, I watched him with delight. Watched him for a good five minutes, maybe more.

Then, as patrons sauntered from one painting to the next, I sidled next to him and looked ahead. Totally absorbed, as always, he never even noticed me.

“Don’t you just
adore
Monet?”

Chapter Forty-one

H
E WHISKED HIS HEAD AND HIS SIENNA EYES WENT ablaze for a split second upon seeing me, only to return to the painting. He said nothing.

Staring ahead, I leaned toward him and spoke again, very softly. “He’s good at painting clouds, don’t you think? It’s hard to make clouds look real. Yep, that’s what Monet is. A good cloud painter.”

He feigned frustration and pretended to ignore me.

“How hard to you think it would be to do a paint-by-numbers of
Water Lilies
?”

He put his head down, as if disgusted, but I could tell he was trying hard to keep from cracking up.

“Would you please shut up? You’re bothering the paintings,” he said, gesturing in their direction.

“Do you think he called them ‘happy water lilies’ when he painted them?”

He covered his mouth and laughed. I pumped my fist in victory for breaking him.

Finally, he turned to scan me up and down. “You look real good,” he said.

I was still beaming. “So do you.”

We moved to the next painting.

“Well, you’re speaking to me; that’s a good sign,” I said.

“Shhhhhh,” he said. “It’s
Monet
, dammit.”

I gasped. “How dare you curse in front of Monet!”

We giggled as surrounding patrons glared at us. 

We moved to the next painting. David backed up, then moved to the left, then went on his knees. My cheeks were actually starting to hurt from smiling so much.

He stood next to me again, and again I spoke after a beat of silence, the two of us still staring straight ahead.

“I was wondering if you’re doing anything next Saturday night.”

“Committing suicide,” he replied.

“How about Friday night?”

Again we giggled.

Something occurred to me at that moment. “You know which Woody Allen movie that’s from, don’t you,” I remarked.

He nodded. “
Play it Again, Sam
.”

At that point, we turned to one another, and our eyes locked in their own embrace. We’d embraced each other in this look before—it was a look among friends, a look of love, of familiarity, of comfort. And it was our own.

 “Can we finish this exhibit and then get into the banter?” he asked.

I conceded. We finished the exhibit together, falling into our rhythm as if a day of separation had never passed. Afterwards, we ordered espresso and a piece of cake at the museum café.

“Happy Anniversary,” he said.

My heart leapt into my throat. “You remembered.”

“I thought about calling you that week. Chickened out, I guess.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“Congratulations on the novel, too. I saw it at the Coop.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t go to your reading, either. I really, really wanted to, but—”

I held up my hand to cut him off. “It’s okay. I have a copy for you, though.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I already bought one.”

Of course he did.

“Congrats on
your
book, too. The chapter, I mean. I thought it was great.”

This time he beamed.

“You read it?” He sounded like a child looking for approval from a parent.

“Every word.”

One would have thought the sparks between us could’ve shorted out the lights.

“How are you?” he asked.

“I’m doing really well.”

“You look it—you look like you’ve found some peace.”

“I have.”

“I’m so glad to hear that.”

“How are
you
?” I asked.

“I’m doing pretty well.”

“Are you seeing anyone?”

“No,” he replied. “Are you?”

“No.”

I think we were both secretly relieved to hear this. I knew I was.

“Were you seeing someone?” he asked.

“No.”

“I saw you at Perch one day with Granola Guy.”

“What were you doing in Amherst?” I asked.

“What were you doing with Granola Guy?”

“I’m not allowed to just hang out with guys?”

“You didn’t look like you were hanging out.”

“No?”

“You looked like you were flirting with each other.”

“Where were you—hiding in the bathroom or something?”

“I passed by the window. You were sitting at the corner table.”

“That’s impressive—could you see his Birkenstocks from the window?”

“You didn’t even see me.”

“Well then, that proves it. I mean, if I didn’t even see you, I must have been so engrossed in him. In fact, maybe that wasn’t really us. Maybe we were off fucking each other and those were just our holograms.”

“It’s possible—there was a glare on the window.”

“How do you know it was me at all?”

David cocked an eyebrow and gave me a look of
I know
.

“Did you fuck him?” he asked. “I thought about it, actually.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

I entertained the notion of a fling with Julian one last time.

“He wears a pooka-shell necklace. I can’t fuck a guy who wears a pooka-shell necklace. And he listens to Neil Diamond. That’s a deal breaker right there.”