Heart of the Matter - Emily Giffin [68]
I type the sentences verbatim and hit post before I can agonize over the wording. Instantly, my own posed photo appears on his wall. In comparison to his artsy shots, the stiff picture of me with the kids next to our Christmas tree looks utterly staged, lacking any of the sparkle or spontaneity captured in so many of Ryan’s photos.
“Okay. Done,” I say, thinking I really need to change my profile picture. Unfortunately, I don’t have any majestic, mountaintop options. “It’s posted.”
“You posted it? On his wall?” Cate asks, horrified.
“You told me to!” I say, panicked and wondering what I just missed.
“No! No! I did not!” she says. “You should’ve just sent an e-mail. Privately. Not on his wall! He might not want his wife to see it! She might despise you. She might be totally bitter.”
“I doubt that. She looks perfectly happy.”
“You don’t know what her issues are.”
“Well, should I delete it?” I ask.
“Yes! Immediately. . . Oh, shit. I gotta go into hair and makeup . . . but keep me posted . . . No pun intended.”
I laugh and hang up, now transfixed by the last shot—a black-and-white photo of Anna, wrapped in a big blanket by the fire, staring adoringly at the camera. I tell myself once again that I’m not jealous, but can’t deny the tiniest, unidentified pang in my chest that returns several times over the course of the day, prompting me to sign back on to Facebook and check Ryan’s page, again and again. By five o’clock, he has yet to respond to my post but has changed his update to: Ryan thanks his wife for her foresight.
Wondering what Anna’s foresight involved, I return to the photo of her by the fire, finally pinpointing my earlier pang. It isn’t jealousy, at least not any associated with Ryan or his marriage, but rather wistfulness over Nick, my own marriage, memories of how we met, how things used to be. If there is any jealousy at all, it is envy over the look of utter contentment on Anna’s face. The fact that Ryan likely inspired her smile, then snapped the photo, then converted it to an evocative black-and-white image, then posted it on Facebook—all things that would never happen in my house. Not these days.
Later that night, after Ryan has finally e-mailed me back (Good to see you, too. Beautiful kids. Are you still teaching?), I tell Nick about the exchange, hoping for a satisfying, territorial reaction. Or perhaps a little nostalgia over our relationship lore; after all, it was Ryan who brought us together.
Instead, he shakes his head and says, “Figures that guy has a Facebook page.” Then he picks up the remote control and flips on CNN. Anderson Cooper is doing a retrospective on the tsunami, horrifying images of destruction flashing on the screen.
“What’s wrong with Facebook?” I ask defensively—more for my sake than Ryan’s.
“Well, for starters, it’s a complete waste of time,” he says, turning the volume up slightly for a British tourist’s account of the tragedy.
I bristle at his implication that I have time to waste—whereas he is the busy surgeon with better things to do.
“No it’s not,” I say. “It’s a great way to reconnect with old friends.”
“Uh-huh. Tell yourself that. . . Better yet, tell what’s-his-name that.” Then he gives me a playful wink, before returning his gaze to the television, secure as he was in the very beginning, back when I broke off my engagement with another man for the mere chance to I be with him. It was once the thing I liked most about him—his unwavering confidence—but now, it feels like a brand of indifference. And as I pretend to be as engrossed in the documentary as he is, my mind is racing, remembering how things used to be, remembering how they began.
***
Hi, Nick. It’s Tessa Thaler. From the subway.
I remember writing the words down, working up the courage to call him, practicing for Cate, changing my tone from somber to sultry to sprightly.
“Do it again,” Cate demanded from her favorite perch on my futon—and really the only place to sit since Ryan had moved out with our couch six weeks before. “And no up-talk this time.”
“What?” I asked her, my palms sweaty.