Die For You

them bend.”

“Shh,” said my sister as he walked into the room. “You’ll wake them up.” The kids: Emily and Trevor.

“Did you bend?” I asked Erik.

“Hell, yes, I bent. I’m still bending.” He flopped his lean form onto the low suede chaise across from us, inviting himself into the sister talk session. He rolled his head back for maximum drama.

“Oh, please.” My sister smiled at him, eyes glittering, reaching out with her bare foot to knock him on the knee. The way she looked at him embarrassed me sometimes-naked adoration. They adored each other. There was none of that insidious bickering or sarcasm, none of the whispered comments or veiled insults so common in my friends’ marriages. Not that they never fought. Oh, they fought. But it was always so aboveboard, so earnest, and over quickly. Healthy; they were very healthy. Sometimes it made me sick.

I remember thinking that night, I’ll never have this. It’s just not going to happen. With this thought, instead of despair, my system flooded with a strange relief. I’d given up at twenty-eight years old. It felt good, a justified surrender.

“What about Jack?” She’d asked the question and I had answered it so many times that I just got up to refill my glass without comment.

AND THEN THERE was Marcus.

His first words to me: “I’m a big fan.”

I smiled and thanked him for his kindness, took the book he held out to me. The first thing I noticed about him were his hands, how large and strong they were. I’d just finished a reading from my recent novel in a small bookstore to a small crowd who had, with the exception of this gentleman, all promptly left without buying a single copy. Outside, the wind pushed at the door, causing the little entry bell to jingle. Snow fell in fat, wet flakes that didn’t bother to stick to the ground and make themselves pretty. I signed his book with a black Sharpie, thinking about my pajamas and down comforter, Seinfeld reruns. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the clerk at the counter issue a yawn. Other than the three of us, the store was empty; it was nearly nine o’clock.

I handed the book back to the stranger and then he just stood there for a moment, awkward. He was working up the nerve to say something. I expected him to start talking about the book he was writing, ask about getting an agent or publisher. But he didn’t.

“Thanks again,” I said. “I appreciate your coming out on such a terrible night.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it,” he said.

I stood up then and took my coat off the back of my chair, barely registering the tinkling of the bell over the door. By the time I turned around, he was gone. I was so tired that night, so wanting to go home that, other than his hands, I hadn’t really noticed much about him, wouldn’t have been able to pick him out of a lineup. This was unusual for me. I absorbed details, energies, like a sponge, couldn’t even stop it if I wanted to. The curse of the writer. But not that night. Fatigue, maybe, or just a single-minded focus on trying to get home? Or was it something about him, his energy, that allowed him to be overlooked, go unnoticed? Whatever the reason, I didn’t think about him again as I said my farewells to the clerk and headed out onto the street.

He was waiting for me outside the door under a large black umbrella. I felt a little jolt of fear.

“I’m not a stalker,” he said quickly, lifting a hand. He must have seen the alarm on my face, how I quickly turned back toward the shop door. He released an uncomfortable laugh, glanced up at the falling snow, maybe embarrassed that he’d frightened me.

“Is it crazy to ask you to have dinner with me?” he said after an uncomfortable beat.

“A little,” I said, appraising him, looking into his eyes, assessing his body language. He was tall, powerful looking. His shoulders square, hand tense, gripping his umbrella. He didn’t look like a nutcase, with his expensive leather laptop bag and good shoes. He wore a dark wool pea coat, with a gray cashmere scarf. His eyes were stunning in the lamplight, a wide, earnest light blue. An amused smile played at the corner of his mouth; his jaw looked as if it belonged on a mountain somewhere. I realized I was shivering, all exposed flesh starting to tingle.

“Well,” he said, “go a little crazy with me, then. A public place, somewhere crowded.” His smile broadened. I could see that he was laughing at himself inside, at the situation. I found myself smiling, too, at his boldness, at his allure.

“When’s the last time you took a chance?” he asked, undaunted by my silence, by the way I must have been staring at him.

I might have just walked away, hopped a cab, and headed home. This is what I wanted to do, even started to move to the curb. But I had a rare moment of self-clarity: My sister was right about me. She’d said: You’re not willing to bend or shift anything to let someone into your life. Or something like that. I suddenly, passionately, wanted to prove her wrong.

I looked at him with fresh eyes; he was still waiting, still smiling. Most men would have already walked away, embarrassed, angry. But not Marcus. What he wanted, he got. He’d wait, if that’s what it took. Even then.

“Seriously,” he started, and it was in that word that I first heard the lilt of his very slight accent. “If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it already.”

I found myself laughing with him at that, and the next thing I knew, we were in a cab together, racing through the wet, cold night.

* * *

WE WOUND UP at Cafe Orlin, a dark and cozy spot, one of my favorite East Village haunts, and stayed there until the early hours, losing our sense of time and any self-consciousness either of us had, exploring the landscapes of each other’s past, talking about books-mine, mostly (his interest and knowledge were beyond flattering)-and art, and travel. It was effortless, comfortable. When we finally left, workdays looming, the snow had stopped and the frigid night lay out before us slick and crystalline as he walked me home. He reached for my hand and I let him take it. His skin was smooth and dry, his grip so hard and strong it felt as though his bones were made from metal. Heat flooded my body as our fingers entwined.

At the door to my building, I turned to face him. I’ll call you, I expected him to say. Or, Thanks for a nice evening. Something vague, something that left it all up in the air, something that later would have me wondering if the night had really been as special as I thought.

“Can I see you tonight?” he said. What? There were games to be played, protective walls to be erected, nonchalance to be feigned. He’d clearly misplaced his rulebook.

He must have registered my surprise. “Honestly, Isabel, I don’t have time for games.” Did he sound weary, in spite of his kind eyes, his gentle hand on my arm? “If you don’t want to see me again, in your heart you already know that. So just say it now. No hard feelings. But if you do-just say yes.”

I had to laugh. “Yes,” I said. “I want to see you again. Tonight.” I had plans-just dinner with Jack. I’d cancel them. I would bend and shift and let this man into my life. Why not?

“I’ll pick you up at eight,” he said, taking my hand and pressing it to his mouth. “I can’t wait.”

He left me swooning in the soft glow of street lamps as he walked quickly up my street and then turned the corner without looking back. I halfway didn’t expect to see him again. As I entered my building, I was already steeling myself for the disappointment that surely lay ahead.

RICK HAD BEEN taken into an inner office in handcuffs; he hadn’t even turned to look at me. He hadn’t even said one word, though I’d yelled after him, desperate, pathetic.

“Rick, please tell me what’s going on!” I watched until he’d passed through the doorway with two agents and was gone.

“We have questions, Mrs. Raine,” said the female agent. “So you will need you to wait here.” She took me firmly by the arm and led me back to Marcus’s desk.

I think it’s fair to say I lost it a little. I ranted, demanded answers, raged about Marcus’s disappearance. All the while, the tall blonde just looked at me like I was the most pitiable sight she’d ever seen. I eventually wound down, ran out of juice.

“Just have a seat, Mrs. Raine. There’s a lot to talk about,” she’d said, long on condescension, short on illumination. There was something strange about her. And she didn’t seem quite official. She seemed more like a