Heart of the Matter - Emily Giffin [95]
“I’m falling . . .” he starts. Then he swallows and takes a deep breath before continuing, his voice dropping an octave. “I’m falling for you.”
She looks at him hopefully, thinking that it all sounds so innocent, so simple. And maybe it is. Maybe this is how life works, how the story goes for a lot of people—some of whom are good people. Her heart pounds and aches at once, as she stares into his eyes and leans toward him.
What happens next she knows she will always remember, as vividly as any good or bad thing that has ever happened in her life. As much as the day she gave birth to Charlie or the night of his accident or anything in between, whether chronologically or emotionally. Their faces touch, their lips meet in a kiss that begins slowly, tentatively, but quickly becomes urgent. It is a kiss that lasts for hours, continuing as they recline on the couch, then roll to the floor, then move to her bed. It is a kiss that doesn’t end until he is inside her, whispering that it is real, this thing between them, and that he has officially, completely fallen.
31
Tessa
I regret saying anything to Dex and Rachel last night,” I tell Cate over bacon, eggs, and home fries at Cafe Luka, one of our old Upper East Side haunts. I am hoping that the grease will cure my hangover, or at least put a dent in my nausea, although I know it can’t lift my spirits.
“Why?” Cate asks, taking a sip of grapefruit juice. She makes a face to indicate its sourness, but then drains the glass, moving on to her ice water. Since getting her television gig, she has become obsessed with staying hydrated—which is hard to do given the amount of caffeine and alcohol she consumes.
“Because they’ll worry. Because Dex might leak this to my mom. Because they’ll never like Nick again . . . And because . . . I just don’t want Rachel feeling sorry for me,” I say, catching a glimpse of my puffy, bloodshot eyes in the mirrored wall next to the booth. I look away, thinking, I’d cheat on me, too.
“She’s worried about you,” Cate says. “But I don’t think she pities you.”
“I don’t know. I hated the way she looked at me last night. The way she hugged me when they got in the cab. Like she’d rather be homeless than facing what I’m potentially facing . . .”
Cate reaches out and squeezes my hand, as I realize that I never resent her sympathy, and that I’m always willing to candidly confess any vulnerability, shortcoming, or fear, without ever wishing that I could take it back or revise my story later. As such, my self-image squares neatly with her image of me, no disparity between the two—which makes being in her company sheer comfort and luxury, especially when things are falling apart.
“But aren’t you glad you told your brother?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say. “I guess I just wish I had waited until I knew exactly what was going on. I could have called him next week—and had a sober conversation with him . . . I’m sure he’d tell Rachel anyway but at least I wouldn’t have had to see that look on her face.”
Cate rips open a packet of Equal, then changes her mind, pouring white sugar from the table canister directly into her coffee. She stirs, then looks up and says, “Rachel is really nice—but she’s such a little Polly Perfect, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” I say, nodding emphatically. “Do you know, I’ve never heard her swear? Never heard her bad-mouth Dex in anything other than a generic ‘you know how men can be’ way. . . Never really heard her complain about her children . . . Not even when Julia had colic.”
“You think it’s fake?” Cate asks. “Or is she really that happy?”
“I don’t know. I think she’s guarded, for sure . . . I think she has a big filter,” I say. “But I also think she and Dex just have one of those lofty marriages. Those perfect relationships.”
Cate gives me a look that conveys hope. Hope that such a thing is out there for her. It occurs to me that she once felt this way about my marriage.
“Look. Don’t get me wrong,” I say. “I want my brother to be happy. I want Rachel to be happy . . . But I can’t help being a little sickened by them.