“No,” she said, firmly this time. “Nick, we’re very different people. The kind of woman you’ll end up with, she… she won’t be me.”
He responded to her punch in his gut in the only way he knew how: he got up and left. They didn’t talk to each other all through the break, even though he missed her so much it was as though someone had ripped his heart into tiny pieces. She had become as vital to him as a sense: like touch or sight or taste. He spent Christmas checking his phone, hoping she’d text or call. When she didn’t, he doubled his drinking, in the hopes of forgetting about her. Of erasing his feelings. He told himself he wasn’t really in love with Gina. She had merely been the first female who hadn’t melted under his spell, and so she became a challenge. His feelings were fabricated, imaginary. He didn’t believe this, not even for a second.
January came and he returned to campus. He resisted the urge to pop by her dorm and counted the days (four) until their Women’s Studies class would meet. He was surprised when she came to his off-campus apartment, knocking on his door and hugging him as soon as he opened it. He felt the familiar inkling of hope creep up—could she have changed her mind? Had she missed him as much as he missed her?
But it was not to be. Gina unilaterally resolved to resume their friendship as if nothing had happened. She wished him a Happy New Year and began chatting about the usual things: New York City in the winter, the unrealistic expectations of their professors, the characters that had walked into Mud and St. Alp’s Teahouse during the break.
Part of him—an awful, petty part—wanted to express that they couldn’t be friends anymore. Not to punish her, not exactly. But to preserve his own heart: being friends with Gina was wonderful, but it was also torturous. But he didn’t last two minutes before he laughed at a joke she made and moved on to chatting about the US Airways flight that crashed in North Carolina, sending ripples of fear across the country about a possible terrorist threat. “It made me realize how scared I still am of a second 9/11,” Nick had said. Gina had squeezed his hand and confessed she’d been just as fearful. The gesture felt so intimate, so perfect, that Nick almost kissed her again. But he didn’t. Instead, he reached inside his backpack.
“What’s this?” she asked, when he handed her the rectangular black velvet box. Most women—hell, all women—smiled when getting what was clearly jewelry, but Gina frowned. Nick had anticipated this. He knew she wouldn’t be impressed by diamonds. She seemed to think about money about as often as Nick thought about lipstick.
Inside the box was a necklace. The chain was long and fine and golden. Hanging from the chain was a white, kidney-shaped stone the size of penny. The necklace had been made in a commune in South America, one that served as a shelter for women fleeing some sort of troubled past. In the commune, women found a safe space with food and friends—and a chance to earn a living. Their hands had sewn fine pieces of wheat together and then it had been dipped in gold.
Nick explained this to Gina. “The cooperative is owned by a friend of mine. The women get to keep all the proceeds. It’s a tax write-off for her.”
“It’s beautiful.” Her eyes shone with delight. Her fingers grazed the stone.
“It’s a baroque pearl.” He’d paid a lot more than it was worth, not that he was about to disclose that. It had been a chance to donate to a good cause. “It’s different from a regular pearl because it isn’t a perfect sphere. It’s unique. Like you.”
“I love it.” She put it on and grinned. “I’m never taking it off.”
She threw her arms around him in a hug. It had been the best feeling in the world, seeing her happy like that.
In the months that followed, Nick actually convinced himself that their platonic relationship was for the best—at least for now. They would remain friends for another few years, and when he was safely into his thirties, they’d finally begin a love story. Gina never dated, so there wasn’t any real risk of her meeting someone else. He still slept with a revolving door of women, but none of them were Gina. They never would be. Their story would be a modern-day version of When Harry Met Sally.
Nick and Gina continued being the best of friends. He spent as much time with her as her busy schedule allowed. He went as far as to spend summer in the city—an objectively disgusting choice by any normal person’s standards—just to be able see her every day. It had required him to lie to Tish, spinning a tale about how he couldn’t make it to the Sag Harbor house because he had to attend summer school. Nick and Gina spent the hottest months of 2003 having picnics in Central Park, visiting every museum in the city, and walking the Brooklyn Bridge together. They even took a day trip to Coney Island, which would’ve given Tish a heart attack if she ever found out. She wore the necklace he’d given her every single day. Spending time with Gina was infinitely better than summering in the Hamptons. It was better than anything Nick had ever experienced.
Nick continued to keep his feelings for Gina private. Maybe if Bobby hadn’t been so busy with his studies at Harvard, Nick would’ve come clean to his brother, but their conversations were mostly about their parents and the family business—and when Bobby did ask him about girls it was more in a way that made Nick seem like a hip-hop star bragging about his conquests.
And then, in the fall of 2003, Bobby came to NYU and, in a cruel twist of fate, met Gina at a bookstore.
