I smile. 'I can do that.'
After all, that is pretty much what I have been doing lately.
An hour later, I leave my office for home, not caring if I run into Les. I take the elevator down to the lobby, then two escalators down to Grand Central Station. I pause to admire the gorgeous main terminal, so familiar and so associated with work that I somehow miss its beauty on a daily basis. I study the marble staircases at either end of the concourse, the arched windows, the dramatic white columns, and the soaring turquoise ceiling painted with constellations. I watch the people, mostly in business attire, moving in every direction toward trains bound for the suburbs, subways reaching every corner of New York, and a multitude of exits to the busy city streets. I glance at the clock in the center of the terminal, take in its intricate face. Six o'clock exactly. Early.
I walk slowly toward Grand Central Market, a food hall comprised of individual stalls selling gourmet treats, located on the east end of the concourse. I have often passed through this corridor with Hillary, buying the occasional chocolate truffle to go with our Starbucks coffee. But this evening, I am on a greater mission. I move from stall to stall, filling my arms with delicacies: hard and soft cheeses, freshly baked breads, Sicilian green olives, Italian parsley, fresh oregano, a perfect Vidalia onion, garlic, oils and spices, pasta, red, green, and yellow produce, an expensive chardonnay, and two exquisite, restaurant-perfect pastries. I exit the corridor on Lexington, passing by a makeshift cab line and throngs of harried Midtown commuters. I decide to walk home. My bags are heavy, but I don't mind. I'm not carrying a briefcase full of law books and cases; I'm carrying dinner for Dex and me.
When I get back to my apartment, I tell Jose to let Dex up when he arrives. 'No need to buzz for him anymore.'
He winks and hits the elevator door for me. 'Aww. So it's serious! That's good stuff.'
'Good stuff,' I echo, smiling.
A moment later, I am arranging groceries on my counter-more food than my apartment has ever seen at one time. I put the chardonnay in the refrigerator, play some classical music, and search for the recipe book that my mother gave me at least four Christmases ago, a book I have never before used. I flip through the glossy, pristine pages, finding a salad and pasta recipe that contains my approximate ingredients. Then I find an apron-another virginal gift-and set about peeling, chopping, and sauteing. I glance at the book for guidance, but I do not follow every instruction precisely. I substitute parsley for basil, skip the drained capers.
Dinner will not be perfect, but I am learning that perfection isn't what matters. In fact, it's the very thing that can destroy you if you let it.
I change my clothes, selecting a white sundress with pink embroidered flowers. Then I set the table, begin to boil water for our pasta, light candles, and open the bottle of chardonnay, filling two glasses, sipping mine. I glance at my watch. Ten minutes to spare. Ten minutes to sit and reflect on my new life, on how it feels to be Dex's legitimate, only love. I settle into my couch, close my eyes, inhale deeply. Good smells and beautiful, clear notes fill my apartment. Peace and calm rush over me as I process the lack of any bad feelings: I'm not jealous, I'm not worried, I'm not scared, I'm not lonely.
Only then do I acknowledge that what I am feeling might actually be true happiness. Even joy. Over the past several days, when I have felt the beginning of this emotion tugging at my heart, it has crossed my mind that the key to happiness should not be found in a man. That an independent, strong woman should feel fulfilled and whole on her own. Those things might be true. And without Dex in my life, I like to think I could have somehow found contentment. But the truth is, I feel freer with Dex than I ever did when I was single. I feel more myself with him than without. Maybe true love does that.
And I do love Dex. I have loved him from the very beginning, back in law school, when I pretended to myself that he wasn't my type. I love him for his intelligence, his sensitivity, his courage. I love him wholly and unconditionally and without reservation. I love him enough to take risks. I love him enough to sacrifice a friendship. I love him enough to accept my own happiness and use it, in turn, to make him happy back.
There is a knock at my door. I stand to open it. I am ready.
Chapter 25
It is Saturday, what would have been Darcy and Dexter's wedding night. I am with Dex at 7B, the bar where it all began, back on the eve of my thirtieth birthday. We are sitting in our same booth. It was my idea to come back here. I suggested it in a playful way, but in truth I felt a strong need to return and revisit the way I felt before it all began. I want to ask Dex if he feels at all wistful on this night, but instead I tell him a Les story-how he blasted me in the hall for not using jump cites in a draft brief.
'That guy sounds like a miserable human being… Can't you work with someone else?'
'No. I'm his personal slave. He monopolizes my time, and now other partners won't ask me to work on their matters because Les inevitably pulls rank and leaves them high and dry. I'm trapped.'
'Do you ever think about changing firms?'
'Sometimes. I just started revising my resume today, in fact. Maybe I'll leave the law altogether, although I have no idea what I would do.'
'You'd be good at so many things,' Dex says, with a loyal nod.
I add 'supportive' to the growing list of things I love about him.
I consider telling him about my idea of temporarily moving to London, wondering if he'd come with me. But tonight isn't the time for that conversation. We have enough going on right below the surface. He has to be thinking about her, thinking, What if? How could he not be?
'I'm going to play some songs on the jukebox,' I say.
'Want me to come with you?'
'No. I'll be right back.'
'Pick some good ones, all right?'
I give him a 'have some faith in me' look. I walk over to the jukebox, past a couple smoking in silence. I slip a nappy five into the slot. The machine spits the bill back out at me three times, but I am patient, smoothing out the edges on my thigh before it finally takes. I flip through the songs, considering each one carefully. I choose songs that Dex likes, and songs that remind me of our first summer together. And of course I play 'Thunder Road.' I glance over at Dex, who appears to be deep in thought. He suddenly looks over at me and waves, a silly smile on his face. I go sit back down, sliding in beside him. As he drapes his arm around me, a wave of emotion leaves me breathless.
'Hi there,' he says, in a way that tells me he knows exactly how I'm feeling.
'Hi,' I say back, in the same tone.
We are one of those couples I used to watch, thinking to myself that I'd never be on the inside of something so special. I remember reassuring myself that it probably looked nicer than it actually was. I am happy to be wrong about that.
I smile up at Dex, my gaze resting on a tiny patch in his left eyebrow, a blank space where perhaps three or four hairs should be.
'What happened there?' I ask, reaching to touch his brow. My fingertips rest lightly on the spot.
'Oh, that. It's a scar. I fell playing hockey when I was a kid. Hair never grew back there.'
I wonder why I never noticed it before and realize that I never knew he played hockey. There is so much that I still don't know about Dex. But now we have time. Endless time stretches before us. I study his face for other discoveries until he laughs self-consciously. I laugh too, and then our smiles fade away in unison. We drink our Newcastles in easy silence.
'Dex?' I say, after a long while.
'Yeah?'
'Do you miss her?'
'No,' he says firmly. His breath is warm in my ear. 'I'm with you. No.'
I can tell that it is the truth.
'You aren't at all sad tonight?'
'Not one bit.' He kisses the side of my head. 'I'm a lot of things right now. But sad isn't one of them.'
'Good,' I say. 'I'm glad.'
