Every time I tried to tell Erik about Lucy, my throat would close, my heart would race, and I’d back away, thinking, Not yet, not yet, not yet. Again and again. Finally, driving home from Kopp’s the night Erik confided in me about Annabelle and Gabe, I said, “I think the only way I’m going to be able to tell you about my past is to just pick a date and do it.”
Erik glanced at me. “How about Friday? We’ll go out to dinner, then come home and talk all night if that’s what it takes. All weekend.”
I nodded, teeth chattering. I couldn’t get warm. Friday was only four days away. But he forgave Gabe, I kept thinking. One mistake does not undo an entire friendship, an entire life. He forgave Gabe. Three words. Tiny stones I turned over and over, comforted by their shape and solidity. He forgave Gabe.
Three days.
Then two.
He forgave Gabe.
Headed downtown on our way to dinner, the sun almost setting behind us, I stared from the passenger window at an autumn sky that was all fiery color and the urgency that comes with one season’s end and another’s beginning. We’d already begun talking about Thanksgiving. We’d have it at Annabelle’s. Eva and Gabe would come. Soon it would be winter. Christmas. Would we still be together? I pulled in a breath, inhaling lavender from the bath soap Annabelle had given me the week before. “One of the moms at Spencer’s school makes it,” she said, handing me the tissue-paper-filled bag. “You’re so good with my kids.” She smiled. “And you put up with me.”
Erik and I ate in a restaurant overlooking the lake. He was talking about Claggett Wilson, the famous set designer who had decorated Ten Chimneys during Alfred and Lynn’s heyday, painting the walls with fleur-de-lis to resemble wallpaper, painting a proscenium arch over the entranceway. Their entire house an elaborate stage set. I know I nodded and asked questions—I loved when Erik talked about his work; he was so animated and erudite and funny—but none of it made sense that night. I wanted to believe in the kind of world Erik was describing, one where you could orchestrate your life like a play, emphasize only the most beautiful details, but how was this possible?
Didn’t I owe Erik the truth?
I was in love with him, had fallen in love that first night outside the Y when he touched my elbow and goose bumps rose along my arm as if I’d been shocked. I loved that moment when I jerked my eyes up to see if he too had felt that spark of electricity, and he blew on his fingers as if they’d been burned.
I love you, I thought, as I regarded Erik across the table from me. Neither of us had spoken it out loud. But wasn’t this why I needed to tell him about Lucy? Because I loved him and I believed he loved me, because I wanted a life with him, because I wanted us to be able to talk about my daughter?
And because wasn’t this what love was?
Letting someone in, letting someone love you despite your mistakes?
I pushed my salad around my plate: Blue cheese, cranberries, vinaigrette—I couldn’t taste it. Adrenaline was pumping through me, my feet and hands bloodless, my heart siphoning every bit of energy. Fight or flight. I knew that once I told Erik, even if he understood and accepted what had happened, he wouldn’t see me in the same way. Which meant it wasn’t just Erik I would lose but the woman I was when he looked at me: a happy, spontaneous woman who he admired and trusted and was falling in love with; a woman his friends liked, a woman his kids—his kids!—loved and trusted too. It felt like a miracle every single time the twins hurtled themselves at my legs or grabbed my hand, or Spencer tapped my wrist to tell me something. But the minute I told Erik the truth, that woman would disappear and the person I’d see in his eyes would be the last person I wanted to be.
I looked at him across the table, this handsome, kind, good man. His shirt, a blue oxford, was missing a button in the collar, and a space opened inside me as I remembered the night nearly two months ago—our third date? Fourth?—when he stood from my sofa to leave, both of us flushed, my hair tangled. As he reached for his keys, the edge of his collar poked his face. He started to button it, then said, “Oops, I seem to have lost something.”
“Your mind?” I teased. “Your heart?”
“Oh, definitely my heart, but a button too.”
I turned to stare out at the lake, but all I could see was our reflection, the white-cloth-covered table and candlelight, Erik lifting his fork to his mouth. Why had I agreed to come here? Had I really thought I’d be able to eat? I watched Erik in the window and felt my stomach clench. Don’t, I thought. Please. But I wasn’t sure to whom the plea was addressed. To Erik? Please don’t leave, please don’t stop loving me? Or was it to myself? Please don’t say anything, Claire. Don’t ruin this. He doesn’t have to know.
Except he did.