The Hazards of Hunting While Heartbroken (26 page)

“Look what I got.” He holds up a tasteful ecru envelope with the words “Mr. Kevin O’Connor and Guest” brandished across it in the thick black ink of an expensive calligrapher.

“You’re not actually going to go.” It comes out before I can stop it. Maybe we’re fighting. But still. He can’t possibly be angry enough to go to Brendan’s wedding.

“Of course I’m not going. Are you talking to me again?”

“I’m sorry, I’m late for work. Excuse me.”

“Bullshit.”

“What?”

“It’s not even 7:30 and you’re wearing your Nikes.” He motions at my feet. I loathe the working girl look, and Carol doesn’t like her people coming in with sneakers where their pumps should be, but I prefer looking like a dork to wrecking my real shoes when I decide to get some refreshing Manhattan air by walking the commute.

“I have an early meeting,” I lie.

“Fine.” He shoves the unwieldy bundle of mail back into his post box and slams the door shut. An avalanche of third class junk will cascade down onto the mailman if Kevin doesn’t empty it before they deliver today’s batch. “I’m walking with you.”

This throws me for a second, but obviously I can’t stop him from following me onto a public sidewalk. And I doubt he’ll keep it up for more than a block. Two at the most.

We walk out the doors of our building in preposterous silence and I set off up 37th Street at a good clip. He falls into step beside me. At the intersection of 37th and Lex, he says, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” I know I should be pleased to hear any apology, especially a straightforward one, but part of me suspects that Kevin’s male brain, perceptive as it is, hasn’t figured out exactly how pissed I am.

“For tearing into you lately. About your job and Oscar and everything.”

Wow.

“Did Angela put you up to this?”

“No, but I’m sure she would have, if I’d allowed her to venture an opinion.”

We walk the next long block in silence, which is surprisingly not nearly as awkward at it should be. When we come to Madison, a taxi careens through a red light at high-speed chase sequence speed. We retreat onto the sidewalk with a dozen other pedestrians. A mustachioed construction worker behind me yells obscenities after the driver.

Maybe I should take the high road, accept Kevin’s apology and move forward. For so long, I’ve assumed he knows me almost as well as I know myself, and now his crazy reaction to Oscar’s existence has put that in doubt. I wish I didn’t care, but I can’t help myself. I have to ask what’s going on in his head. “Why have you been such a jerk?”

“It’s complicated.” Kevin runs his hand through his hair and tousles it inadvertently. A renegade lock skims down his forehead. I will not forgive him because he’s adorable.

“Not to me.” I focus straight ahead.

“Alright. I’m just going to say it. I think you’ve lost your mind over this new guy and I’m kind of worried about you.”

“Oscar makes me happy.” Kevin doesn’t need to know my fleeting misgivings.

“I don’t think you’re ready.”

“That’s none of your business.” I think I feel my blood actually starting to simmer. I can’t believe his audacity. He’s managed to nullify his apology in under three minutes. “I know Oscar doesn’t fit into our happy little post-collegiate family like you wish he would, but I’m planning on keeping him around, so you need to get over yourself and deal. And if you care about me at all, you should be happy I’m so happy.”

“You went from sweat-pant-wearing, bad-candy-devouring, spinsterhood-dreading despair, to utter elation, in under two weeks. Most people don’t make that leap without the help of prescription medication,” Kevin says, more cautiously. “I think some friendly concern is warranted.”

“Right. I forgot. Your concern has seemed so friendly lately. If you can’t muster any enthusiasm for me, then maybe you ought to leave me alone. It seems to me you have enough on your plate with the transition, and the future mayor’s sex-capades still in the news, and whatever girl is in your bed on any given night.”

I’m almost certain Kevin will say something snide, then shake his head, shrug and turn towards home. Instead he grabs my arm and pulls me to the edge of the sidewalk, so others can pass. We’re halfway down the block from my building, next to a popular coffee cart. I see Marvin rushing in early, consulting his watch at every other stride like the White Rabbit. He must be late for someone somewhat important, because he doesn’t usually move that fast. He nearly trips over his untied wingtips on the way through the revolving doors.

“Zoë,” Kevin says, in a more serious tone than he deployed before. “Please,
please
, be careful with this guy. If something or someone seems too good to be true, it usually means there’s something off. And with his ex back in the picture, a little caution seems warranted.”

“She’s back in New York, not back
in the picture
,” I snap.

“Defensive, aren’t we?”

My gut says he’s spewing melodramatic nonsense, but my brain argues that Kevin has no reason to create more waves, so I try to soften my tone. “You honestly sound like my father, when I was in the ninth grade and I brought home a perfectly nice guy, whose parents happened to live on the wrong side of the tracks. My dad couldn’t find anything wrong with him, but he forbade me to see him outside of school because he just ‘seemed wrong for me.’” I consult my watch. “I have a meeting. I have to go.”

“So are we okay?”

“You tell me.” I spin on my sneakers and speed-walk the last few paces into the sanctuary of our lobby.

I spend the half hour I meant to use clearing my inbox hunched in the ladies’ room, trying not to hyperventilate. I have every right to be furious with Kevin, but the insistent little voice in my head won’t stop buzzing. Am I so head over heels about Oscar that I’m setting myself up for a gigantic hurt that will make the Brendan debacle feel like a minor bruising? Or maybe I should take a leap of faith and trust my guy, because most of the time, I think he’s the best thing that ever happened to me. We’re so drawn to each other. And then there’s the offbeat romantic comedy circumstances of our meeting. It makes me believe we must have crossed paths for a reason.

When I force myself to emerge from the lavatory, Angela’s on my voicemail, with a full report on Brendan’s wedding invitations. “Please don’t freak out,” she says. “But I think he used the same ones you and your mom picked out. They have the same tiny splashes of hand-painted color.”

Surprisingly, I’m not freaking out at all. While I felt a fleeting stab when faced with the evidence this morning, there’s something reassuring about the finality of Brendan’s wedding. It closes that chapter of my life and allows me to move forward unburdened. I feel a sudden surge of empathy for Brendan. This has to have been gut-wrenching for him, too. He lashed out because he felt powerless and overwhelmed by what should have been a liberating experience—calling off our engagement to be his true self.

Since things seem to be working for both of us on our separate paths, maybe I should let the bitterness go and wish him well. I feel the muscles in my neck and jaw start to relax as this realization takes root. I’m logging onto the Williams Sonoma website to buy Brendan and Steven a wedding gift when Marvin interrupts me to ask about a client visit we’re doing later today. By the time we’re done talking about actual work, I’ve decided that forgiveness is healthy, psychologically speaking, but gift-giving probably constitutes overkill.

At nine in the evening, I step out of a cab in front of Oscar’s building and pull my long winter coat more tightly around me. There’s a bitterness to the chill this evening and it feels so raw that it might even snow overnight. I hope not, because I’m teetering on my highest black heels and I didn’t pack anything more sensible.

I stand at the desk feeling less certain about my decision to drop in as the concierge rings up to Oscar’s apartment to announce my arrival. What if he’s dead asleep after the long flight? What if he’s not even here? Or worse, here but not alone? The little voice in my head reminds me that the whole point of showing up unannounced is to ease my fears without going through the icky exercise of snooping.

It feels like forever before the concierge says I can head on up. I hold the elevator doors for an old woman in a wheelchair and catch her looking me up and down. I hope it’s not obvious I have nothing but lingerie under my coat. Because if it is, and it turns out to be a bad time, or worse, he’s not alone, I think I’ll die of humiliation. I shouldn’t have gotten so carried away with my make-up either. I study my reflection in the elevator mirrors and wonder whether I overshot sultry and achieved slutty instead. My heart starts racing. This was a phenomenally lousy idea.

I think my sigh of relief is audible all the way down the hall when I step off the elevator and Oscar’s standing in his open doorway, obviously fresh out of the shower in his bathrobe. He’s grinning at me like he’s won the lottery.

“Wow. Look at you.” He kisses me and then pulls away, looks at me with raised eyebrows and a mischievous grin and peers under my coat. “Very nice.” He takes my arm, pulls me through the doorway and leads me towards his bedroom. “How was your trip?” I ask, as I teeter down the hall half a step behind him.

“Long and busy, but productive.” He undoes my coat, pushes it off my shoulders and looks at me appreciatively. I’ve abandoned my usual undergarments for a risqué black lace teddy that made the salesgirl blush, and the tiniest matching thong they had in the store. I’ve completed my sex kitten look with silk stockings held in place by actual garters. He spins me around to get the full effect before leading me down the hall. We tumble onto his bed, groping like frenzied teenagers. I start to slide under the covers, but he stops me and says, “Not so fast. You went through all this effort and I want to see you.” He guides me on top of him. “This is the best surprise. I missed you, you know.” He reaches up to play with my breasts through the lacy fabric.

“I missed you, too.” He’s looking up at me lustily and the little voice in my head is telling me to enjoy the perfect moment, but I can’t help myself. And it’s not the call girl thing, because I’ve decided that’s bullshit. All I can think about is Olivia. Instead of feeling like the sensual seductress I was in the cab over here, I feel like a pathetic imposter. Why would he want to settle for me when he could presumably have her?

And what if Olivia came to New York because she wants Oscar back? That would give her a motive to scare me off with the stupid call girl story. Maybe they’ve already discussed getting back together, and her besotted behavior towards Jean-Luc was merely theater. Maybe I should ask Oscar, casually, if he’s run into her again. The little voice in my head screeches at me to refrain from mentioning his former spouse while straddling him in bed.

I’m so engrossed in this new nightmare scenario that it takes me a second to realize that Oscar’s stopped touching me and he’s waving his hand slowly in front of my face, asking “Hello? Are you still with me?”

“Totally,” I murmur, and lean down to kiss his neck, thinking that I’ve ruined the moment, but Oscar smiles devilishly and says, “Good, because I’ve never wanted you so badly.” He rolls me over and slides on top of me and we have mind blowing sex that far exceeds any expectations I had when I decided to drop in. The whole time he seems so into me, so present, so singularly focused on making me happy, that by the time we’re both lying breathless, tangled in the sheets, I’m convinced that my insecurity over Olivia is just my imagination running amok.

On Saturday night, Angela puts on a slinky red and pink Cavalli dress, throws down her Amex, and celebrates her thirty-third birthday in style with a party for thirty-three friends. She makes her entrance at Cipriani’s with her new Roman lover, Claudio, on her arm. Because Angela said it was all she wanted for her birthday, Kevin and I have temporarily put aside our differences to toast the start of her thirty-fourth year on the planet together. We’re flanked by Oscar, who’s jetlagged and trying his gentlemanly best to pretend he’s not slightly smitten by my glittery, infectiously bubbly best friend, and by Lily, who eats nothing but a single boiled shrimp all night. Without any cocktail sauce.

It’s Oscar’s big debut with my friends, except for that night when he clocked Reiner, of course, and I’m nervous about him talking to Kevin. I so badly want it go well, so Kevin can quit criticizing. I told both of them that I bet they’ll like each other. Advertising and politics have some overlap, after all.

When the waiter asks if he can offer us an aperitif, Kevin wonders aloud why Angela’s spending this kind of money.

“She says it’s because, on the other 364 days of the year, men buy her food and drink. She’s giving back.” I laugh.

“Except none of her benefactors made the invite list.”

“So she’s paying it forward. Which is her prerogative.” I raise my glass. “Drink up, O’Connor.”

“Cheers.” Big, genuine smile. Maybe whatever disturbance was in our force has passed.

Kevin empties his glass and gets up to go to the men’s room. I snuggle closer to Oscar in my chair, stroke his arm and ask playfully, “Can you do something for me?”