Heart of the Matter - Emily Giffin [67]
Staring at the tiny photo of Ryan wearing Ray-Bans, a shimmering lake in the background, I call Cate and give her the news.
“I knew he would contact you eventually,” she says, referring to our debate some time ago in which I insisted that we would never speak again. For one, I had a scorched-earth letter promising that to be the case. For another, nobody in our circle of friends had heard a peep from him since our five-year reunion.
“Should I accept the add?” I ask.
“Hell, yeah,” Cate says. “Don’t you want to see what he’s doing? If he’s married?”
“I guess so,” I say.
“Besides, you can’t ignore a friend request—it’s rude,” Cate continues. “Especially when you were the dumper . . .”
“So if he had broken up with me, I could deny his request?”
“Absolutely. It would still be a little rude, but you’d be well within your rights,” Cate says definitively, the master of social networking nuances and scorned-lover tactics.
“Okay. Here goes,” I say, my stomach churning with curiosity and anticipation as I click the confirm button, go directly to his page, and read his update, posted last night: Ryan is taking the ferryboat home, all set to reread Middlesex.
I pause, thinking how odd it is to have such a vivid glimpse into someone’s life after having no clue what they’ve been doing for the last decade.
“What? What do you see?” Cate says.
“Hold on a sec,” I say as I scan his page, quickly discovering that he lives on Bainbridge Island but works in Seattle—hence the ferry. He still teaches high school English. He’s married to a woman named Anna Cordeiro, has one dog—a husky named Bernie. No children. His interests include politics, hiking, biking, photography, and Shakespeare. His favorite music: Radiohead, Sigur Rós, Modest Mouse, Neutral Milk Hotel, and Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. Books: too many to name. His favorite quote is from Margaret Mead: “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world.” No real surprises. I summarize for Cate, who says, “What’s he look like?”
“The same. Except he got contacts,” I say, remembering how blind he was without his thick glasses. “Or laser surgery.” “Does he still have his hair?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“And his wife? Is she cute or not so much?” Cate clamors, as if it is her ex we’re cyberstalking.
“I don’t know. Cute enough. Short. Good teeth.”
“Blond?” Cate guesses.
“No. She looks Latino—or very tan ... Here. I’ll copy and paste.”
I send three photos to Cate—one of Ryan and Anna arm in arm on a pier, wearing red Patagonia fleeces, the dog standing alert at their feet. Another of Anna, grinning triumphantly on an ice-capped mountain. The third, a close-up of her with dramatic red lips, her hair in a smooth, low chignon.
A nanosecond later, Cate opens my e-mail and exclaims, “Shit. She’s young. Rob the cradle, Ryan”
“I guess she does look young,” I say, realizing that I never seem to notice age, at least not when someone is younger than I am. It’s as if I’m mentally frozen at about thirty-one.
“Does it bother you?” she asks. “Are you jealous? Do you feel anything?”
I smile at her frenetic questioning and tell her she needs to consider switching to decaf.
“I have,” she says.
“Maybe you should get a fish?” I suggest teasingly. “Supposed to calm you down.”
She laughs and asks again if I’m at all jealous.
“No. I’m not jealous,” I answer truthfully, as I continue to click through eighty-seven photos of Ryan, Anna, and their dog, most in idyllic, outdoor settings. In fact, I tell her, it’s almost as if I’m looking at photos of strangers, rather than the man I almost married. “He looks really happy. I’m glad for him,” I say.
“Are you going to write him?” she asks.
“Should I?”
“Technically he should first since he added you . . . But go ahead and be the bigger person.”
“What should I write?”
“Something generic.”
“Like?”
“Like . . . um . . . ‘Good to see you’re doing well, still teaching, enjoying the outdoors. Take care, Tess.