16

The End of an Era

In the taxi ride over, Tom sits way over on the other side of the cool leather seat. He's so far away that I’d need a megaphone just to speak to him—quite a contrast from the last time we'd shared a cab to the Pen-Top. I consider that a girlfriend like his must have a guy on a pretty tight leash to keep him glued to the opposite window, and I wonder if she questioned him about the new suits and became angry when he said I'd picked them out.

But at the restaurant, the table is so small that it’s just the opposite setup—we’re so close that reaching for a slice of bread or the butter dish means our hands touch more than once. The first couple of times it barely fazes me, but after the third time, I notice that I allow my hand to linger just a bit—though I hadn’t planned on this. When I look up at Tom, I’m almost embarrassed. I can't read his expression at all. It is, I guess, exactly what people mean when they say "blank."

But during the elation that follows stress, a strong sense of camaraderie is not rare, and so after a momentary lapse of he's-going-to-think-I-like-him neuroses, after which I rationalize the touch was absolutely nothing at all—harmless!—I manage to shake it off.

"I'm sure you've got something fabulous in mind for an appetizer so what will it be?" he asks over the top of his menu.

I'm eying the oysters, but fear that Tom being a meat and potatoes sort (he is), this will make him feel rather how I did during my sushi date with Liam. So I suggest the most normal-sounding thing on the menu—macaroni and cheese.

"My gosh, I take you to beautiful restaurant and you order macaroni and cheese? You must be very easy to please. My kind of gal."

When he says this I remember the first time he called me a gal and think, now, that when he uses the word it doesn't sound lame at all—just charming, actually.

"What about your gal?" I mimic the word. "Is she easy to please?"

He buries his head in the menu again, avoiding the question. When he lowers it, he's resumed that blank expression, looks me right in the eye and says, "Well, I've got something to tell you, Ab Fab."

I brace myself for something awful, monumental, something.

"I would absolutely love the macaroni and cheese."

It takes me a second to realize it's a joke, but then his mouth turns up at the corners, and so does mine.

He says. "I was worried you'd want to order something like oysters, which for the life of me, I cannot stomach."

"They are so good, though!" I say.

“I know in your fab world it's all about the hottest, hippest slimy cuisine, but I'll let you in on a little secret, Lane." He leans in and lowers his voice to a whisper, "Stick with me, kid—you may not be able to tell from just looking at me, but I am so ahead of the trend that to the common eye it actually looks like I’m behind the trend. Think about it."

Is this a jab? Mark of Tom being supremely above frivolous trends? Hysterical joke? I am trying to figure this out when my train of thought is interrupted by someone approaching our table.

"Good evening,” he says in an eerily familiar voice. “Your waiter, Terry, has just ended his shift. I'm Liam. I'll be taking over for him. Are you ready to order?"

Now, I haven't looked up at him yet. As a matter of fact, I'm looking right at Tom. And our waiter, whose British accent I heard from directly behind my head, has not yet seen my face. But, I swear to God, that is MY LIAM'S voice. I know it can't be. He's in London! He's not a . . . a . . . waiter! I just spoke with him two nights ago, from his "flat." He wished he could be in New York—and that's because he's not in New York—he's in London—missing me, and wanting to do things with me and chocolate and he couldn't do any of those things because he is not in New York, he's in London. He's the owner of a publishing company, and together, we are going to make Beautiful the most successful American women's magazine. And this is his favorite restaurant!

Yet I can't bring myself to look up and prove that my paranoia has finally gotten the best of me.

"Lane?” Tom asks. "Are you ready to order?"

He's said my name. If this is my Liam, he will probably be curious at the mention and walk around to look at me. Since I can't bear to move, to enable this slight, ridiculously impossible possibility to become anything more than just that, I wait for this to happen.

But I can already smell his cologne wafting over. It is, make no mistake about it, Liam's cologne. But lots of people, I'm sure, wear that cologne. And many of them, I'm sure, can have the same name. And in one fluid movement, my confidence surges, I spin around, see him, throw my hands over my face, and drop my head to the table in a jingle of silverware against china.

"Lane? Lane? Are you alright?" Tom is asking, so sweet, but infuriatingly, not so surprised.

"Lane, I can explain." I hear Liam say from somewhere next to me. I can’t look up. I can't find words. I don't even know what the words would be. Nothing makes sense. All the insecurities I was suffering—thinking myself crazy—when, really, I was right on the mark. So stupid! The signs were all there. He is a fake, a liar, and I fell for it all. Something inside me cracks. Because I wanted someone perfect—good-looking, successful, smart, and funny. I'd said it a million times: He was too good to be true. I force open one eye and get a glimpse of his knee so nicely encased in his pants leg, alongside the table. It’s his knee.

"I just wanted to impress you," he's saying.

Finally, I heave myself up and turn to look him in the face, and he looks so stupid—that jawline, that hair—they'd both evoked so much pleasure when I'd let my eyes linger on them in the mornings in my bed, but now they just seem phony and disgusting. I can't bring myself to speak. I look to Tom and he is trying his best to find his plate interesting. Liam goes on to reveal my stupidity, my naiveté to my boss, to the entire restaurant.

“We're good together, you and me—we both just want the fairytale. You know, the Sundays reading the Times, the brunches. It doesn't matter that I'm not exactly what you thought, that I’m not a magazine magnate; it's the fantasy you’re after. Wasn’t it great? The best time of your life?”

I’m silent.

“Those are your words! Lane, you know it’s true. It is. What’s real anyway?”

A waitress wearing the same uniform as Liam—a white top and black pants, bow tie and all—appears at our table, looking furious.

"Liam, do you want to tell me what's going on here?" she says.

I'm imagining this will be his boss, and he’ll be sacked for creating such a debacle, so I’m dumbfounded at what comes out of her mouth.

"Liam? Who is this woman? Tell me!" she demands.

Liam looks from me to her and back again. Rather than look her in the face and answer her, he waits for another second, probably too scared to speak, until she can't wait any longer, and figures it out for herself.

"You have been cheating on me! Haven't you? Haven't you? I cannot believe that you would do this again! What did you tell her this time? That you're heir to the throne? A member of the House of Commons?" And then she looks at me and shakes her head, "You poor, stupid girl," she hisses, and storms off.

The words are vindictive, said out of anger, and shouldn't really hurt, but they are so accurate—and I feel water leaking from my eyes onto my hand, which is holding so firmly on to the stem of my now shaking wineglass, that I’m afraid I might crack it in half.

Poor Tom—scenes are not his thing—is really doing his best to maintain his dignity with the whole restaurant staring at us. For both of our sakes, I need to wrap this up, get out of this place, and never turn back.

Finally, the words come to me. "You know what, Liam? That’s disgusting. You're disgusting. And I've never read a fairytale that ends with the guy turning out to be a complete phony. You don't have any idea what I want. You have no idea what life or love, for that matter, is about, and I guess, neither do I. But that doesn't change the fact that you are a pathetic fucking loser, and I never want to see you again in my entire life. Never. The only thing I regret is that I now have to be ashamed of myself for being such an idiot, for believing in something that was so horribly unreal. Have a nice life. Tom, can we go now?"

Tom throws some twenties onto the table for our wine and, placing his arm around my shoulder, leads me outside. Once we’re in the cool air, I can finally breathe, but unfortunately, with the breath comes more tears. Lots of them. And it's that sort of wailing that you normally reserve for times when you’re alone, watching Steel Magnolias, and nursing a lethal case of PMS. I'm crying for Liam, but also for everything that I had ever dreamed that Mr. Right would be. If anything ever proved to me that my perceptions were totally off the mark, it’s this. I’ve been foolish. Stupid even. And I'm saying all of this out loud, although it's not exactly audible, what with the wailing and the sniffling and my inability to control my tongue properly. Tom is perfect. He's just rubbing my back and wiping tears off of my face and not saying a word.

This goes on for about ten minutes, and then I take a deep breath and look at him for the first time, really, since we've been standing outside. And the way he's looking at me, it seems like it’s his heart that's been broken rather than mine—that's how sympathetic he looks. And when I see him break into a gentle smile, I do, too. And then, like so often in the aftermath of hysterics, I start to laugh. And then he starts to laugh. Suddenly, it all seems so ludicrous.

"Did you see his face?" I ask.

“You could have caught flies in his mouth," Tom says.

“Yeah, and I can’t even imagine what’s going on in there right now.”

“Probably crying like a baby," Tom says.

“You think?” I say.

“Lane, I just want you to know, it’s his loss. It really is. You are a fabulous, wonderful woman, and anyone who tries to manipulate the things that make you so wonderful is just the lowest sort of person in the world.”

That just may be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. So I sort of want to hear it one more time. I mean, I’ll be swimming in doubt for at least the next year of my life, so it would be nice if at least this stands out in my memory.

So I ask, “Really?"

He takes my hand and says, "Please don't ever forget that.” And then he asks, "Do you want me to take you home, Lane?”

And I look at him, and he's so sweet and gentle and patient. It’s as if he knows me, not on the physical level that Liam did, but in that way of the couple in the supermarket—the way in which you know exactly what someone needs. And in the past, I might have taken this to mean something more than friendship, but if Liam has taught me anything, it’s that I’m done with presuming such frivolities, like imagining Tom would leave his girlfriend and declare his love for me and that he would be The One and then we'd live happily ever after, the end. Things just don't work out that way in real life.

Love, if it even exists, just doesn't happen to girls like me who've built their entire set of hopes for the future atop an intricate web of mystical daydreams. It happens to those who have a realistic approach and understand that the funny-enough, smart-enough, but not stereotypical heroes are sweet and gentle and able to open their hearts and minds to you. It happens to those who understand the firewall between real life and fiction-fed expectations—the line that should never be crossed. And then there are women like me, who keep holding on to the fantasy, doomed to live a life of loss and disappointment.

I nod my head to indicate that I would like to go home. The walk is short, less than a couple of blocks, and the cool breeze is sobering. I feel empty, like everything I've ever known—not just Liam, but all he stood for—is gone.

Tom will go home to his girlfriend, who, to me may seem like the worst match for him in the world, but who, is a real, veritable human being and not some lame fictional character from a book. He is practical and smart, and I am not. And that is why I am alone, going home to shelves of books harboring ridiculous M&M delusions, men who exist only in the minds of girls like me, who have nothing else to keep them company at night—not because no wonderful men exist, but because nobody could ever measure up to that perfect image we’ve created, no matter how many men we surround ourselves with every day.

My phone rings all day Saturday, but I can't bring myself to answer it. Whether it’s Liam or Tom or Joanne or Samantha or even worse, my mother, I can't face anyone. I'm in no mood for I-told-you-so's or even for things will-be-brighter-tomorrow cheers. For the first time in my life, I know that the only place I can find the answer is inside myself. Unfortunately, myself does not come up with a thing.