She Has Your Eyes (22 page)

Later, when I got home, I found a text message on my phone from Wylie:
Can we talk?

I thought about Janine’s warning to stay away from Wylie. But I couldn’t just leave her hanging.

I texted back:
I’m sorry, but I can’t.

About ten minutes later, my phone rang. I looked at the caller ID and saw that it was Wylie. I answered the phone. “Hello?”

“My mother says you’re not going to tutor me anymore.”

I didn’t know what Janine disclosed, or if she offered any explanation; thus I had to tread lightly. “Yes, that’s correct. I can’t right now.”

“Aren’t you at least going to look at my paper?”

“I really want to, but I just can’t. You’re going to do great on that paper. I just know it.” Tears came to my eyes.

“So, what, that’s it?”

“I’m sorry,” I choked out.

Wylie huffed. “Fine. Whatever. I gotta go.”

“Take care,” I said.

Take care?
Take care?
Ugh. I’d never want to see me again either.

After dinner, I retreated to my office with my laptop to catch up on some work while David went to the gym—I couldn’t help but notice he’d been going more frequently. As I Googled books about coping with cancer, caring for family members, et cetera, Gmail alerted me to a new chat.

Andrew:
Hey Andi. You there?

I groaned.

I could ignore it—I
should
ignore it. After all, I vowed to put a stop to this communication. Then again, this would be a good time to do so officially. Besides, I couldn’t help but feel
that somehow he would know I was here, deliberately ignoring him, and that he would be hurt.
Why the hell do you care?
A voice inside me asked.

Me:
Hey Andrew. I can’t talk for long.

Andrew:
That’s ok. Just wanted to see how you’re doing.

Me:
Busy. A lot going on right now.

Andrew:
Anything you want to talk about?

Me:
Not anything happy. I got some bad news regarding my mother’s health.

What on earth was I doing?

Andrew:
I’m really sorry to hear that.

Me:
Plus the anniversary of Sam’s death. Four years. Thank you for your message, by the way. I really appreciated it.

Andrew:
You’re welcome. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more comfort. Does it get any easier?

Me:
Yes and no. It’s not like it used to be, like the world is going to end all over again. But it’s not exactly a happy day either. I still miss him. That never totally goes away.

Andrew:
I’m just so sorry you had to go through something like that.

I was in the middle of typing a response when he beat me to it.

Andrew:
This may be an inappropriate question,
but if somehow you knew what was going to happen ahead of time, would you have done anything different?

Me:
It’s not healthy to ponder questions like that. You can get caught in a vicious undertow of if-onlys.

Andrew:
I’m sorry.

Me:
It’s ok.

Enough.
I had to put a stop to it. I ignored his next chat line and typed my own.

Me:
I’m sorry, Andrew, but I don’t think we should communicate with each other anymore.

Andrew:
Have I upset you?

Me:
No, it’s not that. I don’t mean for now. I mean for good.

I waited at least a minute for Andrew to respond. A minute was a long time under such circumstances.

Andrew:
I understand.

Me:
I’m sorry. It’s nothing personal. In fact, I’ve enjoyed our e-mails and chats, and I appreciate your wanting to listen. It’s just that I’ve got a lot of family stuff right now, and I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to be talking to my ex-fiancé while I’m currently engaged.

Andrew:
It’s ok. You don’t have to apologize. And I’m glad you’ve enjoyed our e-mails because I’ve really enjoyed them too.

I wasn’t sure what to type next. “Well, seeya” seemed beyond curt. But what else was there for me to say without my getting into specifics, which I didn’t want to do?

Andrew didn’t wait for me.

Andrew:
In that case, I have one last favor.

I sucked in a breath.

Me:
What is it?

Andrew:
Can we get together once? I swear I’ll never get in touch with you again; I just want to see you and talk to you, that’s all. Just once. I’ll even come to Northampton and meet anywhere you want.

Ohmigod,
Oh, my God!
My mind raced as I stared at the words in the little chat box, imagining him behind them, sitting at his keyboard, a cup of herbal tea beside him and Joni Mitchell playing in the background. I had the urge to get up and run laps around the block, jump into a lake, go twenty rounds with a punching bag, take your pick. I wished Maggie were here for consultation purposes. Then again, I already knew what she’d say—no,
scream
—at me.

Me:
I can’t.

Andrew:
Will you at least think about it?

I stared at the screen, unable to move my fingers. This was a no-brainer. I had the upper hand, could close the door on Andrew Clark once and for all with a simple. N-O. So why did I feel like I was the one backed into a corner?

Me:
OK.

My fingers trembled as I typed. Wrong two letters.

Andrew:
Thanks. I really appreciate it.

Me:
Don’t get your hopes up.

Andrew:
I understand. Good night.

Me:
Good night.

I logged out and shut down my laptop. Then I looked around the room, as if expecting to find someone there.

“Well. Way to end it,” I said out loud, as if speaking on behalf of the absent friends who would be telling me the same thing. Then, for good measure, I chided myself aloud with “Fuck.”

I dreaded David’s return from the gym. I was going to have to tell him everything. Tonight.

chapter twenty-eight

David is one of those guys who looks good sweaty. I don’t mean dirty-sweaty; I mean when the ends of his hair are wet and his face is shiny but not dripping, and he’s got dark, wet spots all along the front and sides of his sleeveless navy blue T-shirt clinging to him—way better than a tank top—and he walks while exhaling through his mouth interspersed with swigs from a water bottle, his sore muscles twitching as he does. Of course, it helps that David, pushing fifty years old, has a body that would make Adonis swear off beer and carbs and buy a treadmill.

He comes home this way, and were it not for the sweaty smell it would take all my restraint not to jump him the minute he walks through the door.

Tonight was no different, although I had been working off my nervous energy waiting for him—cleaning the kitchen, sorting the Tupperware, reorganizing the pantry—while I played out various versions of the conversation in my head. I was tempted to play dirty and use sex appeal to my advantage: put on a black lace teddy while he showered. But no, it was too shallow, too manipulative, and would cast even more light on my guilt. And no matter how much I rationalized my innocence, I knew I had probable cause for guilt.

I was, however, waiting in bed for him when he emerged from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. Hot damn.

“In bed already?” he asked.

“Just chillin’ out,” I replied. A book rested on my lap. “Reading.”

He changed into pajama bottoms and climbed onto the bed. Holy God, he smelled incredible, a mix of musk and almond and ylang-ylang and that one-of-a-kind David scent. I tousled his damp hair with my fingers and took a whiff, practically purring afterward.

“How was your workout?” I asked.

“Good. I gotta get a massage, though. My joints are killing me.”

“So listen, Dev, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

I waited for his usual “uh-oh” reaction, whereby he braced himself, but instead he waited patiently. It occurred to me that we’d had so many serious things to discuss lately that he was probably expecting it to be related to my mother or work or Wylie.

“What is it?” he finally asked when I didn’t speak.

I snapped out of it. “Oh. Well…” I placed the book on the end table next to me. “It’s, um… it’s my ex.”

He seemed not to compute.

I forced myself to clarify. “It’s Andrew.”

Slowly his face registered the name and its association.

“Your ex-fiancé?” And then, with a bit of an edge to his tone, added, “The one who dumped you because you didn’t—” he stopped himself. “The one who
cheated
on you?”

“Yes,” I replied, trying to insert a tone of authority.

“What about him?” He sounded wary, suspicious.

“He e-mailed me a few weeks ago to see how I was doing—” I started, but David cut me off. His irises turned into embers.

“Nice that you’re finally getting around to telling me this,” he snapped. “What are you doing talking to the guy behind my back?”

My defenses shot up. “First of all, I don’t need your permission to talk to anyone. Second of all, I’m not having some kind of clandestine affair with him. He e-mailed me a few weeks ago, I responded, we threw a few more back and forth, and tonight I said that I didn’t want to communicate with him anymore.”

“You
spoke
to him?”

“Gmail chat,” I replied.

David practically growled. “God, Andi, do you know how this sounds?” The volume of his voice had steadily increased.

Not until I said it out loud.

“Not good,” I answered. “That’s why I’m telling you. I don’t want to lose your trust.”

“Why did you want to talk to this guy in the first place?”

“Because he’s sorry for what he did all those years ago, and I wanted to patch things up as well.”

“What do
you
have to patch up? You didn’t do anything to him.”

“Dev. You know what I was like back then. I was closed up pretty tight. I’m not saying I deserved his betrayal, but I could’ve done a lot of things better.”

“You owe that guy nothing.” He peered at me, and knew I was withholding information from him. “Anything else you wanna tell me?”

I sucked in a breath. “He asked to see me.”

He shook his head, incredulous. “Of course. Of course he wants to see you. Just casual, right? Just as
friends
,” he said.

I returned his sarcasm with some of my own. “Right. Because you know nothing about being just friends. You’ve never been in that kind of relationship before.”

“Not with a woman who was engaged to someone else, no.” He paused for a few beats. “You wanna see him, don’t you.”

The way he said it made me feel like a teenager getting involved with some dirtbag. “You make it sound like I agreed to go on a date with him. I just want to talk some things out over lunch. That’s all. Nothing more. It’s not a date. Not a reunion. It’s…”
Don’t you dare use the word “closure!”
“I think it could finally heal some old wounds.”

“I don’t see what seeing him face-to-face is going to do other than stir up a lot of shit.”

This time I raised my voice. “There’s already a lot of shit being stirred up. Look, I need this. I thought it was all behind me, but I need him to tell me he’s sorry to my face. I need to look him in the eye and
see
that he’s sorry, and I need to forgive him and move on. And I think that’s what he wants and needs too. Can you try to understand that?”

“How do you know he’s not just using that to manipulate you into seeing him so he can make a move on you?”

“Come on. He’s not stupid. And neither am I.”

David’s eyes narrowed as he looked at me, dubious. And maybe for good reason. I’d thought back to all the e-mail exchanges and chats with Andrew, wondering if I led him on, or if he had indeed disguised his intentions. Things that would’ve been seemingly innocent statements, such as how hard David and I had worked to find our way back to each other following Sam’s death and my “family issues,” could be misconstrued by him.

But I refused to give David the satisfaction of possibly being right. Nor did I want to feel like a fool. “Gee, Dev, thanks
for your high opinion of me,” I said, hoping my hurt would cut into him even just a little bit.