Amy gazed adoringly at the ring on her finger.
Three hours into her engagement, and she felt married already. They’d lived together for two years in a dream apartment in TriBeCa, they worked together, and now with Jeffrey and Eileen telling her, “Call us Mom and Dad!” the wedding seemed like just a formality. But what a great formality it would be! Her cheeks hurt from grinning so much.
It all felt exactly right, exactly as it should be. The duration of her relationship with Andy was unheard of among their friends.
They’d had only one “break”—junior year, when Amy went abroad to Spain and Andy went to Italy. It had been painful—the break had been Andy’s idea. But it was probably the thing that helped them go the distance. They both realized they weren’t missing out on anything, except time together.
“Ame, come look at these mock-ups for the new ads,” Andy called from the bedroom.
She moved reluctantly from the couch, not wanting to think about work just then. It was the night of their engagement. She wanted to revel in that.
Sometimes it was hard to find time for romance. It was so easy to fall into being best friends, and coworkers, and family, in a way. It was important to take time away from all that to be a couple.
* * *
Amy padded into the bedroom, closing the curtains on the oversized windows overlooking Greenwich Street.
“What do you think?” he asked.
She climbed onto the king-sized bed and glanced at the images on his laptop screen. “It’s very … rustic.”
“Yeah. I know. Dad loves it. You’re going to the shoot, right?”
“Stella said she didn’t need me.”
“It’s not about whether or not Stella needs you. If you want to go, go. You’re into the shoots, right?”
“Yes, but—”
“So it’s a done deal. Dad will tell her.”
“I don’t think we should, you know, go over her head on this one.”
Andy squinted at his MacBook, scrolling through images of catalog models wearing various combinations of the latest higher end of Jeffrey Bruce menswear—the top-of-the-line pieces that sold only in places like Barneys and the Jeffrey Bruce flagship stores. The looks would be finalized before the print shoot next week, when the “real” models—agency models who costs thousands of dollars an hour—would wear the clothes for ads that would run in GQ, Vogue, Esquire. Everywhere, basically.
“Do you think your dad was upset I didn’t ask him before proposing to you?”
Amy shook her head. “My dad isn’t like that—that whole ‘standing on ceremony’ thing.”
“So can we go ahead and tell my parents we’ll have the wedding at Stonehill?”
Stonehill was the Bruces’ hundred-acre East Hampton estate, which rivaled something out of one of her father’s beloved novels set among the British aristocracy.
“Yeah. Sure.”
“And, Ame, I didn’t talk about this with my dad or anything. And I don’t want to tell you what to do, but—”
“Of course I want to wear a Jeffrey Bruce dress,” she reassured him; she had decided that long ago. Andy was visibly relieved. “Did you doubt that?”
“Well, I know you love Monique Lhuillier.”
Actually, it was Meg who was obsessed with Monique Lhuillier. It had been her sister’s first and only Pinterest board. Wearing a Monique Lhuillier dress was the only context in which Meg had ever discussed getting married. And, following Meg’s lead, Amy had quickly found herself enamored with the gowns by the superstar designer.
“I love you,” she said, leaning forward and kissing him.
“Love you too,” he said, giving her a peck and immediately turning back to his computer.
She sighed inwardly. When was the last time they’d had sex? She was pretty sure it had been at Stonehill, over a long weekend. Labor Day? But no—that would make it six weeks! And yet … possible.
A few months ago, Amy had almost asked one of her friends how often she and her boyfriend had sex. But she was too embarrassed to go through with it. More recently, walking to the subway with Jo after a dinner a few Sunday nights ago, she had almost asked her. But judging from the way she still mooned over Caroline, it was obvious they probably still banged every day.
The thing was, she and Andy had been together longer than any couple she knew. Longer than some marriages lasted. It was normal to hit a sexual plateau—wasn’t it?
Unfortunately, it was definitely not normal how, during these lulls, her thoughts always drifted back to her one and only one-night stand.
How was it that a guy who hadn’t known her at all had known so absolutely how to touch her?
It had happened that summer in Spain. She would never cheat on Andy, and—given their “break” status at the time of this insane, unforgettable sex—had never cheated on him. Technically speaking.
Afterwards, she probably wouldn’t even have thought about Chris at all—that was his name, Chris. It wasn’t Juan or Pablo or any of the foreign-to-the-tongue kind of names he would have if they had met in a Woody Allen film. He wasn’t even Spanish. Chris was an exchange student from Skidmore. He was as Midwestern as they came, with sandy blond hair and blue eyes. He was a lacrosse player.
When he had fingered her, she hit the moon.
Lying side by side in the twin bed she slept in at her host family’s house—a family that went out for dinner at ten at night and usually returned after she was already asleep—she’d already had an orgasm by the time he moved on top of her.
Amy shook her head, scattering the unwelcome thoughts.
Her eyes fell to the ring on her finger—her gorgeous, cushion-cut, three-carat Tiffany engagement ring. A ring that was bigger than Meg’s. But then, Meg didn’t want a big ring. Meg was nothing if not understated. But Amy did want a big ring, damn it.
And, at that moment, she wanted to be fucked. By her fiancé.
She pulled the laptop from his hands.
“Hey, babe,” he said when she kissed him on the mouth.
“Hey.” She pulled off her T-shirt. Andy, finally getting with the program, kissed her more ardently. He took off his boxers, and she was gratified to see he was already hard. She closed her eyes, her lips curling into a smile, and when he slipped his fingers between her legs, she willed herself to feel excited.
She didn’t.
Andy was lost in the woods down there. Even when she showed him—touch me here, touch me like that—he went about it in such a literal and rote way, she couldn’t help but think she was better off masturbating.
Then he moved on top of her and it felt … good. It always did. After a few minutes of practiced, rhythmic motion, she finally felt a climax within reach. Amy always tried to prolong that sensation of building pleasure, trying to time it so that she and Andy could come together. She rarely could, because Andy tended to go on and on. By the time he climaxed, her own orgasm had come and gone and she felt as detached from his orgasm as a casual bystander.
Her phone chirped. Who was calling at this hour?
“I should probably get it,” she groaned when she saw her mom’s face pop up on the screen.
“Hey—everything all right?” she asked, trying not to sound breathless and finding it pathetically easy.
“Hi, honey. I just wanted to say congratulations again. Your father and I are just so thrilled. And I can’t wait to start planning with you. But,” Meryl paused, “I also wanted to give you a heads-up. Jo and Caroline broke up. She’s devastated.”
“Oh no! Is that why she didn’t show up tonight?”
“Apparently. I’m hearing this all secondhand from Meg.”
Amy frowned. Of course Jo called Meg first. Jo had always idolized her eldest sister, and Meg—despite her impatience with Amy—always had time for the beautiful baby of the family.
“I’ll call her in the morning. I promise,” Amy said. “Love you.”
She hung up and set her phone to Do Not Disturb except for Jo’s mobile number. Just in case.
“Jo and Caroline broke up,” she said to Andy.
He nodded sympathetically. “That sucks.”
“She’s devastated,” Amy said.
He pulled her close. “We’re very lucky to have each other.”
“I know,” she said, pulling on her T-shirt and rolling away from him.
* * *
Jo woke, dry-mouthed and overheated, under a heavy down comforter. Groggily she pushed herself up and reached for the water glass on her bedside table. It took her a few seconds to remember where she was and why, and then it all came rushing back to her. She moaned, quickly blinking away the tears that threatened to start falling again.
She glanced at the other side of the bed. Toby wasn’t there. She groped around in the dark for her handbag and retrieved her phone.
Finally, in a darkness broken only by the glow of her phone, she dialed Caroline’s number. It went straight to voice mail. She imagined Caroline’s phone in its purple plastic case, sitting on some strange nightstand in some strange guy’s apartment.
“I can’t go through this alone,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I can’t do this without you. What am I supposed to do, Caroline?” Starting to cry, she hung up.
She quickly gulped down her water and stepped shakily out of bed. Tears blurring everything, she stumbled over her shoes as she wandered into the living room. Toby was asleep on one of the couches. She crouched in front of him, willing him to wake up.
When he didn’t, she touched his arm. “Tobe?” she said.
He stirred. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t want to be alone,” she said, voice wavering.
He sat up, running his hand through his mop of blond hair. “Aw, Jo. It’s going to be okay.”
“Will you keep me company?” she asked.
“Yeah, all right. God, my head hurts.”
He followed her into the bedroom.
Jo crawled back under the covers on her side, and Toby fell under heavily on his side. She lay flat on her back, staring into the darkness of the ceiling. “I just left her a message,” Jo said.
“Not a good move,” Toby sighed. “Though, I blame myself.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Friends don’t let friends drunk dial.”
“I’m sober.”
“Then there’s no excuse.”
She groaned, turning her back to him.
“I’m trying to bring some levity to the situation,” he said.
Her crying grew louder.
“Oh, Jo—come here.”
She didn’t move, her body shaking with sobs.
Toby rolled closer, draping an arm over her, spooning her, pulling her in tight. “I know you’re hating life right now. But it’s going to be okay, Jo. Look, how many people end up with the person they dated in college? It doesn’t happen—not in New York, at least.” He kissed the back of her head. “Try to get some sleep.”
He moved away, and she turned, grabbing his arm. “No, don’t. Stay like this, like you were,” she said, her voice hoarse.
“Okay,” he said, pulling her close again, mumbling into her hair. “Whatever you need.”
What she needed … what she so desperately needed right now was to feel wanted. She had lost the woman she loved. Was it her fault?
“Tell me again—what you said earlier,” Jo whispered.
“I said a lot of things earlier.”
“How you feel about me.”
He sighed. “Jo … why?”
“Because. I need to hear it.”
“I’m in love with you. Okay? Does that make you feel better?”
“It does. I know it doesn’t make sense, but it does.”
But barely. Every part of her hurt, as if her broken heart had infected everything. The pain was unstoppable. She reached for her phone again.
Toby wrested it from her hand, holding it behind his back. “Jo, don’t. Go back to sleep. Okay? You’ll feel better in the morning.”
The phone glowed, and she moved on top of him, reaching for it. “Give it back,” she begged. She grabbed his wrist, shaking his hand like a maraca.
He laughed. “You are your own worst enemy right now, do you know that?”
She was so frustrated, she wanted to scream. She did scream. “Fuck!”
He put the phone down and held her by the shoulders. “It’s okay. You’ll be okay,” he said.
His face was inches from hers. She felt his caring, his love, his safety. And she wanted more of it. Fuck it. She kissed him hungrily. His mouth opened to her, and her body flooded with endorphins. It was better than the alcohol.
“Jo … wait…,” he said, pulling back, sitting up.
She kissed him again, pulling off her T-shirt. She knew she had great breasts, perfect breasts.
He touched them longingly and gave a pained sigh. “You’re killing me, Becker,” he said.
“Don’t talk.” She straddled him. He was hard. How long had it been since she’d had a guy inside her? Not since freshman year, spring break. A party, someone she knew from Yardley. She was drunk, she was missing Caroline, who was with Derek Ebernoff at that point. It was an utterly forgettable encounter.
She tugged off her underwear. Toby flipped her over, so she was on her back. He touched her between her legs. His hands felt big—different. He went down on her, and his stubble was an odd sensation. But he knew what he was doing, and the pleasure was such a staggering contrast to the tension and pain she was in, she gasped.
“Yes,” she said.
He moved on top of her. “Are you drunk?” he asked.
“No. Are you?”
“I don’t know.”
He moved inside her, and it felt good and so alien that she could hardly think to miss the softness of Caroline’s flesh. This was something else entirely. No thoughts, no tears, no pain … just a satisfying hum deep in that gnawing, greedy part of herself.
He cried out when he came, and afterwards he held her close, his lips pressed to her damp forehead.
“Toby?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re a good friend,” she said.
Maybe she should be satisfied with that. Maybe friendship was more important than love. You couldn’t trust love. Love hurt.