Heart of the Matter - Emily Giffin [110]
She waits for him, rearranging her expression several times, then making it as blank as possible. She has no idea what to expect—yet she knows exactly what to expect.
“Hi, Val,” he says when he is standing before her. His eyes are bright—as bright as brown eyes can be—but something in them tells her that he is here to break her heart. Still, when he reaches out to hug her, she does not resist. Her cheek rests against his broad shoulder as she says hello, her voice lost in a sudden gust of wind.
As they separate, he looks into her eyes and says, “It’s great to see you.
“You, too,” she says, her chest knotted with anticipation approaching fear.
He presses his lips together, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a lone cigarette and a pack of matches. She has never known him to smoke—would have bet all odds against it—but does not ask him about it, whether it’s a new habit or an old one returning. He inverts the pack’s cover, striking a match with one gloveless hand, reminding her of just how skillful they are.
“You have one of those for me?” she asks as they begin to walk.
“Sorry. That was my last one,” he says, his voice tight, uneven. He reaches out and offers it to her.
“That’s okay,” she says, shaking her head in refusal. “I was sort of kidding. I don’t smoke . . . unless I’m drinking.”
“Should we go drink?” he asks with a small, nervous laugh.
When she doesn’t reply, he tries again with another question. “How’s Charlie?”
“He’s fine,” she says, bristling, refraining from telling him anything more.
He nods and raises his cigarette to his lips. Closing his eyes, he inhales, then turns his head to the side. He does not exhale, but simply opens his mouth, the smoke swirling above his head and quickly vanishing. Then he glances around, mumbling something about a bench. She shakes her head and says she’d rather walk, that it’s too cold for sitting.
So they move forward, encircling the pond, their eyes on the mirthful skaters moving counterclockwise across the ice in a blur of bright colors.
“Can you skate?” he says, their elbows occasionally touching.
She readjusts her stride, moving away from him, and says, “Yes.” Then she sighs, signaling that she is not here to chat. After a full lap around the ice, he speaks again.
“Val,” he says. “Our night together . . . it was amazing.”
She nods her agreement—there is no way to deny this, no way she could ever deny this.
“You are amazing.”
She feels herself tense, her throat constrict. She does not want compliments, whether real or consolatory. She can tell where this is going, and only wants the bottom line.
“Thanks,” she says again—and then as flatly as she can, “You are, too.
He stops walking suddenly and grabs her arm, “Can we go somewhere to talk? Somewhere inside?” he says.
She can no longer feel her feet, and her nose is beginning to run so she nods reluctantly and then follows him to 75 Chestnut, a restaurant on the street with the same name. They find a table in the back and when the waitress comes to take their order, she says, “Nothing for me,” with a gesture toward Nick.
He shakes his head, overriding her decision, ordering two spiced ciders.
“Just tell me, Nick,” she says when the waitress is gone. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking a lot of things,” he says, scratching his jaw, covered with several days of growth.
“ Like?”
“I’m thinking that