Two

I’d never seen Michael as animated as he was on the short ride home. It was a little unnerving. Typically he was a relaxed and steady guy, not emotional or showy but calm, quietly intelligent and reliable. But I could only describe what he was doing now as chattering like a kid instead of a fifty-nine-year-old man. Had his sushi been laced with magic mushrooms?

“So I Googled ‘best jewelers Chicago’ and picked five or six and then I read all the reviews and then I Googled ‘diamonds’ and found out about the four Cs of diamond buying”—he looked over at me—“cut, clarity, color, carat,” he finished proudly.

I didn’t want to encourage him, but I couldn’t resist. “So how many carats?”

“Three.” He smiled. “I would have gone bigger,” he said, “but the jeweler convinced me that since your hands are small, a larger diamond would overwhelm them.”

Maybe my hands weren’t overwhelmed but the rest of me sure was.

He continued the chatter. I would have been amused if I didn’t hate the whole situation so much. I sat silent, cowed by his enthusiasm, feeling backed into a corner. How could I tell him I didn’t want to marry him, that I didn’t want to get married at all? I’d already been married, twice, and it hadn’t worked for me. Michael had always said he understood, that he was fine with it. What the hell had happened here? Now, amazingly, he was under the impression I’d said I would marry him and he was excited, as excited as I’d ever seen him. How could I break it to him? It felt cruel to throw cold water on such unbridled enthusiasm.

At my house he pulled me into his arms and told me again how happy I’d made him.

“Michael…” I began, feeling the walls closing in.

“I know, I know,” he said, laughing. “I’m acting like a schoolboy, aren’t I? But I can’t help myself, Lib, I’m so happy.”

Oh god. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t bring myself to be the dasher of his dreams. I couldn’t bear the thought of his disappointment. I’ll tell him tomorrow, I thought, in the light of a new day, when he’s back to his normal, rational, sensible self.

*   *   *

Once I woke from a dream in complete and utter panic. Holy shit, I had thought, and grabbed my head because I’d dreamed that someone shaved me bald. Well, that’s how I felt when I woke the next morning, like I’d had a bad dream. I was ready to evacuate the whole thing from my mind but then I rolled over and there was that small velvet box, like a cockroach on my nightstand. Crap.

So I waited, whether for a feeling of euphoria or a modicum of enthusiasm I didn’t know. But neither came. What did come was dismay. I didn’t want to turn over for fear I would see Michael’s face, all eager and elated, wanting to talk about a wedding: who we’d invite, what we’d serve, how much an open bar would cost. I didn’t want to discuss any of that. In my mind I could see a room full of smiling friends and relatives, and then I saw my middle-aged self in a tea-length dress trying to remember to keep my stomach sucked in as I picked up reading glasses from a chain around my neck to read my vows.

When I finally worked up the courage to look, I was relieved to find the bed empty except for Rufus, my cat, who ambled over and plopped his considerable mass next to me for his morning scratch. I lay for a moment lavishing attention on Rufus before getting out of bed to see what Michael was up to. But he wasn’t there. He’d left a note on the kitchen counter.

To my fiancée,

He’d drawn a smiley face here. A smiley face.

I went to play racquetball, then I have a couple of showings, then a meeting this afternoon at the office. I might be a little late—might have to meet you at your parents’ house as close to six as I can. I’ll call you later.

I love you.

I did what I always do in times of crisis: called Sophie, who’d been my best friend since we were fourteen.

“I was just going to call you,” she said. “Happy birthday. I’m so glad you’re older than me. So how does it feel to be fifty?”

“You’ll find out for yourself in three months, and you’re not going to like it.”

“Three long months,” she said. “And I’m going to lord that over you every second.”

“I know you will. You live for those pitiful months,” I said. “Hey, you know how Michael and I always say how much we like our arrangement; having our own places but spending half the week together, being committed but happily unmarried?”

“Okay, are you trying to make me jealous just because I’m younger than you?”

I laughed. “Well, get this: Michael proposed last night and gave me a three-carat diamond.”

Silence. “Soph?” I said.

“Holy shit,” she said. “Well, that’s great. I’m excited. Just don’t make me wear a pink dress with puffy sleeves again.”

She’d been my maid of honor twice, but only once in pink. Both times in puffy sleeves, though.

“I don’t think I want to get married.”

“You said no to three carats?”

“Not exactly.” I told her about the evening, how I’d felt railroaded into saying yes.

“Well, give it some more thought before you do anything. Don’t get hung up on the way he did it. He was just being romantic.”

“Michael’s not exactly a romantic guy.”

“I always thought he had it in him. Think about it a little, Lib. Maybe third time’s the charm.”

“Or not. Maybe three strikes and you’re out.”

“You can’t count the first two,” she said. “You married Jeremy when you were twenty, too young to know what you were doing.”

“You were twenty-one when you married Pete and you’re still married,” I pointed out.

“I was always more mature,” she said. “Besides, we’re not talking about me. So, scratch Jeremy. Then you married Wally on the rebound, so he doesn’t count either. Michael counts. He’s not like either of them. He’ll be a great husband.”

“How so?”

“He’s solid, responsible, nice looking, kind. Should I go on?” She didn’t wait for my reply. “Generous, sweet, smart, everyone loves him…”

“Okay, so I’ll manage his political campaign.”

“He’s a good guy and he’d do anything for you and you get along great. What more could you wish for?”

“Shining armor? A white horse?”

“Oh, hon, that’s for kids. And that stuff doesn’t last anyway.”

“So now I don’t get passion, I get peace instead, is that the idea? Security instead of excitement? Comfort instead of romance?”

“Something like that.”

“Is that what happens when you’re fifty?”

“It’s what happens, period. It’s what you end up with anyway, if you’re lucky. It’s nice, Lib.”

“Nice? Seems pretty boring to me.”

“This doesn’t sound like you. What’s this all about? You’re crazy about Michael.”

“I am,” I said. “Michael’s great. We have a nice relationship and it’s nice the way it is. But marriage? I don’t know. I don’t exactly have that can’t-live-without-him kind of feeling.”

I’d never had that with Michael, not even when we first met. It wasn’t that I didn’t like being with him or didn’t look forward to seeing him. I did, of course, but I never had that frantic will-he-call-me-does-he-like-me kind of craziness. And I liked that. It made things so much simpler.

*   *   *

I met Michael at a 5K race. The weather had been warm that day, but a soft drizzle was coming down and the skies looked like they might open up any minute. Since the race was only three miles, the runners seemed pretty motivated to clock a fast time before the downpour. The gun went off and we started the scenic course through the park and around the lake. I went out too fast as I usually do when I race, getting caught up in the excitement and competition. My legs and lungs were feeling the stress of my effort by the second mile and I slowed a bit to take in more air. A few people passed me, which always annoyed me, especially toward the end of a race, but I didn’t have it in me to kick it up. Then two women passed, one much younger than I but the other a woman in my age group, someone I often saw at various races and who always finished ahead of me. She wore a red baseball cap and her ponytail waved like a hand through the vent in the back. If I increase my pace just a little, I thought, I can beat this woman for once, place in my age group and win a medal. The last half mile was a straightaway and when I saw the banner across the finish line far in front of me I knew I could do it, so I set my sights on that banner and kicked into gear.

There was one last water stop on my right, a long table with volunteers wearing blue Windbreakers handing out plastic cups of water. Discarded cups littered the ground. I did a little dance step to avoid a bouquet of them in front of me and landed wrong, twisting my ankle as I went down.

I crumpled to my knees in pain, people running past me, a blur of colorful racing clothes and bib numbers. Red Cap’s ponytail waved goodbye as she moved confidently toward the finish line.

“Shit.”

Several people from the water stop ran over to help, one a wiry guy with thin, gray hair and a mustache, a take-charge kind of guy, older than the others. “I’ve got it covered,” he told them and sent everyone back to man the table. He checked my ankle expertly, his manner no-nonsense and professional.

“It doesn’t feel like you broke anything,” he said. “Probably just a sprain. But you might want to have it X-rayed in any case.”

“I’m fine,” I said brusquely, then nearly collapsed again as I put weight on the foot. That’s when the skies opened up. Big time. Like someone had turned on a spigot. Within seconds we were drenched.

“Let me help you,” he said, and supported me as I hobbled to the finish line, where a tent was set up with Gatorade and bagels. Once we were under cover, he deposited me in a corner away from the stomping feet of the finishers and went to get some dry towels and an ACE bandage. Nice-looking man, I thought, as I watched him rummage efficiently through the boxes. I liked his competence.

“Here,” he said, handing me a plastic bag filled with ice. “You need to keep that on your ankle for about half an hour and then we’ll wrap it in the ACE bandage. You should elevate it, too, if we can find something to prop your leg on.” He looked around the tent, grabbed a plastic milk crate and positioned it under my leg with the ice pack.

“Are you a doctor?” I asked.

“No, no. But I’ve sprained my share of ankles.” He smiled and put out his hand. “Michael Dean,” he said.

“Elizabeth Carson.” I shook his hand.

“If it hurts a lot or the swelling gets intense, it could be a fracture.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fine. I appreciate your help. Glad you were there.”

“Well, I’m glad you were there. Not glad you sprained your ankle, but you did save me from standing out in that downpour.”

I laughed, conscious now of how I looked with my dripping hair plastered to my head like seaweed. “Well, glad to be of assistance.” I was starting to come down from my frustration and disappointment. It was only a race after all, and there were races every weekend. “You look like a runner,” I said. “How come you’re not running in this?”

“My running days are behind me. Bad knees. Now I just volunteer. Trying to get a contact runner’s high, I guess.”

He was gentle as he wrapped my ankle, winding the bandage tightly and fastening it with that little silver gizmo. Then he helped me to my feet.

“How does it feel?” he asked as I put a little weight on it.

“Not too bad.” I looked up at him. “Thanks again for your help.”

“Do you need a lift home?”

“No. I appreciate it but I’ve got my car here.”

“Okay,” he said. “I guess since it’s your left ankle I have to let you drive.”

“Well, thanks for your help, Doc,” I said.

He laughed and put out his hand. “It was nice meeting you, Elizabeth.”

“Libby,” I said. His grasp was firm but gentle, his hand warm. “It was nice meeting you, too.” I started to go but he held on to my hand, and I turned to look at him questioningly, at his friendly eyes and warm, kind smile.

He hesitated, just the briefest moment, and then asked, “Would you like to have dinner sometime, Libby? Or are you married?”

“Not married,” I said, and happiness floated over his expression. “I’d love to have dinner sometime.”

So we did—sushi, it turned out—and Michael was charming. He was great company; easy to talk to and attentive, with lovely manners and a quick laugh. My heart didn’t palpitate when I looked into his brown eyes, but I felt safe and relaxed with him. I was enormously attracted by his affability and thoughtfulness, and our life together ever since had had a comforting orderliness to it.

My friends and family loved Michael and thought he was the perfect guy for me, which normally would have sent me running in the other direction, but this time I thought perhaps they were right. Our relationship seemed adult to me. I guess I thought that was what happened when you were older, and I liked it.

Then.

“Well, think about it,” Sophie said now. “Is there anything you can’t live without at this stage in your life? Or anyone? We’re not kids anymore. Think about your future. Think about what it would be like if you didn’t have someone to share your life and grow old with.”

“I do think about that.” I pictured me and Rufus sitting in a rocking chair in a dim room that smelled of peppermint and cat food. “I haven’t said no,” I told her. “You’re right, I do need to give it more thought. I will. Just don’t tell anyone yet, okay? Not even Pete.”

“I won’t,” she said.

Yeah, right.