Chapter 22

The sight of them together was like a slap in the face.

Two days after the blowup at Donato’s, shortly after noon, I was in Harvard Square walking down Holyoke Street when I saw—across the way and seated at a window table at Delphine’s—Irina and Greg.

From the way they were leaning toward each other, their conversation seemed earnest indeed.

Had Irina decided to take up with Greg? Having known him all these years, I guess I just took him for granted as a buddy and never had given a thought to how he might appear to women. In a way, he was an attractive guy—his golden retriever eyes gave him a soft, trusting look that Irina might find restful and reassuring after the sturm und drang she’d been enduring with me.

Hoping not to be spotted, I ducked into the corner doorway of a health food shop across the way, from where I could glance over at Delphine’s and try to size up what was going on. I could see Greg reach across the table and take hold of Irina’s hand. She let it be held.

I pretended to scan the array of homeopathic remedies featured in the window display. Regret and jealousy resonated through me. The dull ache of a memory sent my mind back to a hot July afternoon in Charlestown when I was eleven and forlornly, inarticulately in love with a classmate named Connie, and how I’d circled endlessly on my bike around the block where she lived hoping to catch a glimpse of her—yet fearing that I would—only to see her coming down the street with Greg, both struggling to manage dripping ice cream cones…

I couldn’t stay where I was, half-hidden in this doorway. It had been by a store doorway in Harvard Square I’d first met Irina. Was I seeing her slip away from me from another Harvard Square doorway?

I glanced both ways. The best escape route looked to be back up Holyoke Street. I pulled my hat down, flipped the lapels of my raincoat up, and set off.

Having gone a few paces, I wheeled about, stepped back, and—cursing my curiosity—again stole a glance across to the window at Delphine’s. What was I looking for? Confirmation that I was losing—had lost—Irina?

Her hand was still in his, their faces conspiratorial in their closeness.

I wheeled about and plunged determinedly back up the street. If she’s had enough of me, I told myself, well, so be it.

But I couldn’t believe a word I was telling myself…