Heart of the Matter - Emily Giffin [76]
“I’ll get them,” he offers.
“No. I’ll get them,” I say, feeling sure that he has no idea where we keep such accoutrements. Besides, I know how Connie feels about her men getting up from the table during the meal, for any reason.
I return to the kitchen, standing on a stepstool to reach into a high cabinet for a pair of pewter candlesticks, two barely burned candles from last Valentine’s Day still stuck inside. Then I open the drawer next to the stove where we normally house matches. None to be found—which is par for the course these days in our disorganized house. I close my eyes, trying to visualize where I last saw a book of matches, one of those things, like safety pins or paper clips, that you find strewn everywhere unless you need them, and remember that I lit a candle in our bedroom one night last week. I run upstairs, open the drawer of my nightstand, and find a matchbox right where I left it. Out of breath from the biggest burst of exercise I’ve had in days, I sit on the edge of the bed and run my hand over the matchbox cover, reading the pink, distinctive-font inscription: Amanda & Steve: Love Rules.
Steve was one of Nick’s better friends in medical school, now a dermatologist in L.A., and Amanda the model he met in his office when she came in for laser hair removal. Love Rules was the theme of their Hawaiian wedding, the three-day extravaganza Nick and I attended when I was a few months pregnant with Frank. The tagline was written everywhere—on their save-the-date cards, invitations, and Web site, as well as the canvas boat bags, water bottles, and beach towels given to all guests upon our arrival at the resort. The hip declaration was even scrawled across a banner, pulled by an airplane flying overhead on the beach just after the couple exchanged vows. I remember Nick, looking skyward, shading his eyes with amused cynicism, whispering, “Yo. Love rules, dude.”
I had smiled back at him, feeling slightly foolish for being momentarily impressed by the spectacle he was clearly mocking, and simultaneously proud that our wedding had been the opposite of a production. Nick had deferred to me in our plans, but had lodged a strong request for a low-key affair, one that I obliged, in part, because of my embarrassment over my canceled wedding and all the costs our guests accrued; in part because I had seen the light, come to believe that a wedding should be about a feeling between two people, not a show for the masses. As a result, we had a small ceremony at the New York Public Library, followed by an elegant dinner at an Italian restaurant in Gramercy with only our family and closest friends. It was a magical, romantic evening, and although I occasionally wish I had worn a slightly fancier dress, and that Nick and I had danced on our wedding night, I have no real regrets about the way we chose to do things.
Love Rules, I think now, as I slowly stand, gathering strength for my return trip downstairs, reminding myself of all that I have to be grateful for. Then, just as I’m leaving our room, I spot Nick’s BlackBerry on the top of his dresser and feel seized by the temptation to do something I have always said I would never do.
I tell myself that I’m being ridiculous, that I do not want to be a snooping, paranoid wife, that I have no reason to be suspicious. Then I hear the little voice in my head say, No reason other than his withdrawn behavior, his long hours, our lack of intimacy. I shake my head, dispelling the doubts. Nick isn’t perfect, but he is not a liar. He is not a cheater.
And yet, I continue to walk toward his phone, strangely compelled to reach out and touch it. I take it in my hand, scroll through to the mail icon, and see that there is a new text message from a 617 area code, a Boston cell phone number. It is undoubtedly a colleague, I tell myself. A male colleague. A work situation that can’t wait until tomorrow—at least not in the estimation of a fellow obsessed surgeon.
I click on it with equal parts guilt and fear and read:
Thinking of you,