Where We Belong (43 page)

Once safely back in the shadows of my porch, I turn and watch them get in the car and back up, waving when Conrad honks twice, one beep for each of them. Then I take a deep breath and go back inside to join my family.

34

marian

It is
impossible not to think of the past as Conrad drives me back to my hotel. We’ve just spent several hours with Kirby and her family, and I haven’t begun to process those emotions—from her moving graduation ceremony to the first strained moment I walked into her house and met her parents, to Conrad’s surreal arrival, to the end of the evening when Kirby’s sister got out all the old family albums and her mother began telling the stories only she could tell. I think of how difficult it must have been for Lynn and Art to share such an important, special day with strangers, even if we are her blood relatives.
Especially
because we are. I am happy for Kirby and excited for her future, but it is so hard to see, up close and in vivid color, all that I missed and will never be able to get back, no matter how many stories I’m told or photographs I’m shown. I meant what I said—that I made the best decision for
her
—but I cannot deny a sense of profound loss for what I gave up. For what could have been.

In this moment, though, I am thinking about Conrad and Conrad only. I have kept the memories at bay all day, even when he stood so near me that I could inhale his still familiar scent, but now they are rushing back, fast and strong and unfiltered. I have to fight the sudden urge to reach over and rest my hand on his leg like I used to whenever we drove around in his black Mustang.

“Merge onto I-44,” I say, following the directions Art scratched out for us on a napkin. I am trying to make every mile, every second, count, wishing Conrad would slow down or at least turn down the radio and talk to me.

He nods. “Got it.”

I covertly study his profile, but he glances my way, catching me staring.

“What?” he says. There is no hostility, but no warmth, either. Just blankness. For a second, I almost miss the anger.

“Nothing,” I say, looking straight out at the highway again. The view is urban but generic. We could be anywhere.

He sighs, turns the station once, twice, then obviously dissatisfied, turns the radio off altogether. We drive another few minutes in silence until I point out our exit on Vandeventer Avenue.

He veers to the right, then finally speaks. “She’s a great kid.”

“I know,” I say. “She’s awesome.”

“So’s her family,” he says. “I really like them. Art’s a character.”

“Yeah,” I say. “She really got lucky.”

“
You
got lucky, too,” he says, shooting me a pointed glance. “If she had ended up in a bad situation…”

He shakes his head, as I finish his sentence for him. “You would never have forgiven me.”

“No,” he says.

I point out our final turn onto South Kingshighway. “So you have?” I say. “Forgiven me?”

He takes a deep breath and shrugs, as if I’ve just asked an impossible, philosophical question rather than a relatively straightforward one. “I don’t know, Marian.”

I bite my lip and say nothing, having no choice but to accept this, along with his obvious reluctance to talk. About a mile later, I point to my hotel. “That’s it. Up on the right,” I say.

He nods, then pulls into the drive as a valet appears.

“There’s a bar in the lobby,” I say, feeling frantic. “Will you come in for one drink?”

He shakes his head. “I have a five-hour drive ahead of me.”

“Just one drink?” I say. “Ten minutes?”

He takes a deep breath, exhales, and says, “Okay. One drink.”

I open the door, and tell the valet I’ve already checked in but my friend will be staying for a few minutes. Then we both get out of the car, and walk through the mostly empty lobby to the Eau Bistro, finding two seats at the end of the bar. A beat later, the bartender finds us. I order a Chardonnay, he asks for a Stella. He stares straight ahead until our drinks arrive and he takes his first long sip. Then he turns to look at me, squarely in the eyes, and says, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

I tell him that I don’t know.

“That’s bullshit. You
do
know.”

“I … don’t … I just don’t think I was mature enough … I wasn’t ready to handle adult truths … and complicated choices. Keeping a secret made it all seem easier.”

“It wasn’t a secret. It was a lie,” he says.

I nod, realizing that Peter was right—there really is little difference between the two.

“Did you think I’d try to talk you into an abortion?” he asks.

“No,” I say, putting my glass down without taking a drink. “It wasn’t that. It was more … that I was afraid you’d talk me
out
of an abortion … Then, once I talked
myself
out of it, I was afraid you’d talk me into keeping her.”

“I wouldn’t have tried to talk you into
anything,
” he says. His voice is more confused and hurt than angry. “I would have let
you
choose. That’s what I told you before you took the test.”

“Okay. Well, maybe I was afraid that if I told you … I would talk
myself
into keeping her,” I say.

He gives me a look of utter exasperation, then literally throws his hands up.

“I loved you,” I say—as if this explains it all. And in a strange way, it sort of does.

“I loved you, too,” he says, staring me down again.

I hold his gaze, feeling light-headed, and in that instant, I know for sure it’s not just nostalgia making me feel so funny inside. It is Conrad himself, here in the present.

“I could have helped you,” he says, lowering his voice. “At the very least, you could have let me say good-bye.”

“I know. I should have,” I say, remembering that day. “I’m glad you got to see the photos.”

He shakes his head. “I was talking about saying good-bye to
you.
”

I catch my breath and then say, “Oh.”

“I always knew we wouldn’t stay together, Marian. That we were probably too young. And that you were definitely too good for me … But I thought I was good enough for a
good-bye
.”

I shake my head. “I wasn’t too good for you.”

“Yeah. Right.” He takes a sip of his beer and rolls his eyes. “Ms. Highfalutin producer about to marry some … damn … Hollywood bigwig.”

I give him a look of surprise.

“Kirby told me.”

“Well, did she tell you we broke up?” I say, realizing that I never told
her
that news.

Conrad shrugs, as if it makes no difference either way. And I’m sure it doesn’t.

“I’m not highfalutin,” I say, my voice quiet.

“You’re big-time,” he says. “Big fish. Big pond. Big-
time
.”

I look at him, thinking that I’d give it all away to go back and tell him the truth that day. But I know he wouldn’t believe that, so instead I say, “Yeah. Okay. I’m big-time. But you have the better, truer life. I saw you up there on stage. You’re doing what you love.”

“So are you,” he says.

I shake my head, realizing that although television and writing have always been my passions, I’ve often let my goals supersede the journey—and the love of what I’m doing. A constant battle to stay in control, get to the next level, ensure that my life stays perfectly, carefully scripted.

“It’s not the same. You seem so …
happy,
” I say.

“I’ve had some setbacks here and there. A divorce. Few too many drugs. But overall … I can’t complain. So far.” He knocks on the bar.

“Do you want kids?” I blurt out.

“I have one,” he says.

“You know what I mean,” I say. “Do you want more? A family?”

“Sure. Yeah. I always have … What about you?”

I nod and say, “Yes. If it’s right.”

Like where we just came from,
I think, picturing Kirby and her family, their home filled with love. “But if it doesn’t happen, it doesn’t happen,” I say.

“You’ll always have Kirby,” he says.

“Yeah,” I say. “So will you.”

He gives me a sideways smile and says, “Hard to believe that she is the result of one stupid summer night, huh?”

I shake my head and say, “It wasn’t a
stupid
night.”

“You know what I mean. We were just a couple of dumb kids. Fools.”

“Yeah. I guess so. But in some ways I think I was smarter then,” I say, thinking of how I followed my gut that night when I said yes to him. For years, I regretted it. Regretted him. Even regretted her. But now I can see that there is redemption and beauty in an accident emanating from love. Now I can see that she is the best thing I ever did.

He takes a long drink of his beer, then smiles to himself.

“What?” I say, expecting something profound.

He gives me a look that I remember well, the same one he gave me in Janie’s backyard. “You might have been smarter then, but you’re better lookin’ now.” He shakes his head. “
Damn.
”

I smile, taken aback—a compliment was the last thing I expected tonight. “You are, too,” I say, my insides fluttering.

He raises his eyebrows, signals the bartender for our check, and says he better go. “I remember what happens when I drink with you.”

“You were drinking Dr Pepper that night,” I say, smiling.

“Was I?” he says.

I nod.

“Well, then, I remember what happens when
you
drink. You took advantage of me.”

I can tell he is kidding, but my heart still pounds wildly. “Don’t go yet,” I whisper.

“I have to,” he says. “But maybe I’ll see you again. At Kirby’s college graduation.”

“I don’t think she’s going to college,” I say.

“Oh, she’s
going,
” he says with a wink, as if he has the inside scoop. And I bet he does. “So see you in four years?”

I nod, but say I really hope we can talk before then. He says I know where to find him; Zelda’s is open three hundred sixty-five days a year.

I look at him, hopeful. It almost sounds like an invite. “Why’s it called Zelda’s, anyway?” I ask, trying to remember his mother’s name, wishing we could talk about her tonight. Wishing we could talk about so many things.

“
The Great Gatsby’
s my favorite book,” he says. “F. Scott Fitzgerald dedicated it to Zelda.”

“His wife?” I say.

“Yeah. His crazy-ass wife who he had no business loving that much,” he says, giving me a loaded look. “You know what their joint epitaph says? It’s a quote from the book … Their kid picked it for them.”

I shake my head. “What’s it say?”

His eyes close halfway as he recites, “‘So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.’”

I stare at him and he stares right back with those intense blue-gray eyes.

“Now,” he says, sliding two bills onto the bar. “I really gotta go.”

“Okay,” I say. “But just remember—”

“What’s that?” he says, getting up from his stool, standing so near me that our legs touch and I feel his warm breath on my cheek.

I inhale deeply, then say, “You can run. But you can’t hide.”

“So I’ve heard,” he says with a small smile, and I can tell he remembers his words on that unforgettable night. I can tell he remembers
everything.

He stands, zips up his jacket, and gives me a nod good-bye. Then he walks out of the bar while I replay our conversation, the entire day, and the night we made our perfect mistake, under the ceiling fan in Janie’s parents’ room. I order one more glass of wine, feeling a wave of intense loneliness. I miss Peter for a moment—and then realize it’s not Peter I miss, but the idea of what I once thought we shared. I think about my career and what I want to write when this show eventually dies, whether because it’s canceled or because I decide to move on.

I know I have another story to tell. I can even make out the main characters—a talented musician and his spirited daughter—and the start of their journey together. I don’t know where they will end up, or exactly where they’re headed, but that’s okay. There will be plenty of time to sort that out later. Time to see where the current takes me. For now, I will sit alone in this hotel bar in St. Louis and finish my wine. It is not what I planned—this day, this moment, these unlikely relationships, both old and new. Yet I feel overcome with peace and certainty that, for once, I am exactly where I should be.

also by emily giffin

something borrowed

something blue

baby proof

love the one you’re with

heart of the matter

About the Author

EMILY GIFFIN is a graduate of Wake Forest University and the University of Virginia School of Law. After practicing litigation at a Manhattan firm for several years, she moved to London to write full time. The author of five
New York Times
bestselling novels,
Something Borrowed, Something Blue, Baby Proof, Love the One You’re With,
and
Heart of the Matter,
she now lives in Atlanta with her husband and three young children. Visit
www.emilygiffin.com
.