The Truth Is a Theory Page 6

  “Some guy from school, I forget his name.” Megan licked her suddenly parched lips. “Do you want a beer?” she asked, and without waiting for an answer, she opened the fridge to steal herself a moment. Then she handed him a bottle and started talking, this time with a mission. She had to keep him in the kitchen until whatever was going on with Allie and Kyle ended. As much as she liked Dana, it was Allie who she was going to protect at all costs. And at times, Megan knew, Allie needed protection from herself.

  ————

  Out in the living room, Allie was panicked. She hadn’t known Kyle would be at this party and was completely unprepared to have both him and Dana in the same place at the same time. From the moment Kyle had slinked through the door with his smoldering Italian good looks, Allie had steered clear of him. Now however, she was trapped. Kyle had literally backed her into a corner and he was both drunk and pissed off, a dangerous combination. Allie, drunk herself, spied Dana out of the corner of her eye and wished that she and Kyle were in a more private place to have this out.

  Their relationship, as it was, had started out innocently enough. Kyle was not subtle about his interest in Allie—enthusiasm skipped in his eyes whenever he saw her—and over time his obvious desire ratcheted up the night’s verve. It was an extraordinary booster shot to walk into a fraternity and know that someone was watching for her, hoping for her, and she soon found herself searching the dark rooms for him too.

  She loved Dana, that was concrete. She knew he loved her too; but she often felt like an afterthought. In the frat party, in the dark, in the adrenaline of Kyle looking at her like she was the only person that he wanted, she was not an afterthought. She knew it was wrong. And she was magnetized.

  She told herself it was harmless, and she had staved off guilt by penciling rules around their drunken hookups—no real dates, no sex. She had not paused to consider that someone, any of the three of them, might get hurt. Tonight was sobering however; someone was going to get hurt. Although the jury was still out on who.

  And it suddenly seemed monstrous, and frightening, that she could box up her feelings for Dana so easily and be with someone else.

  “Does he know about me?” Kyle’s eyes bore into hers, his rage oozed through his growl.

  “No, he doesn’t. And he can’t.” Allie held his eyes and tried to keep her face from registering alarm. The pleading in her voice however, betrayed her.

  “Well, this sucks. I haven’t seen you in weeks, and you want me to sit here and watch you with him?” His face was red; she smelled tequila.

  Oh my God, oh my God. She had assumed that Kyle understood the situation because it was so clear to her. Obviously not. There was no way she could explain it now; his eyes were wild, his muscles clenched. She tried to think. If she could just placate him, get him to back off tonight, she could deal with the whole thing back at school.

  “Kyle, you know how I feel about you.” She willed her voice to mellow, her eyes to soften. She put her hand on his arm; his bicep relaxed slightly. “But I’ve been with Dana a long time; it’s just not that easy.” She stole a glance at Megan and Dana. Tess had joined them, and the two girls were keeping his back to the living room. “I don’t want to hurt him.”

  Kyle leaned in to kiss her.

  She tried not to recoil, but there was no way she was going to let him kiss her here. In one fluid movement, she grabbed his hand and pulled him down the hall.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, the small words an envelope for the whole predicament. “I never meant this to be such a mess. Don’t be mad, and don’t do anything that will make it worse than it is. Let me deal with it my own way. Please?” She gazed up at him, her green eyes welling up with tears.

  He stared at her for a long moment, and then exhaled. “Okay.” He leaned in to kiss her again, and although her stomach shriveled, she let him. Her only goal right now was to untangle herself from him as quickly as possible.

  After he walked away, she sagged against the wall, fighting waves of nausea. What am I doing? Shame and relief flooded through her.

  This was all so unreal, a soap opera; although the heroine (or villain as it were) never heaved into a toilet after the dramatic scene. She stumbled further down the hall in search of a safe place to pull herself together. She opened a bedroom door and jumped back. She had interrupted Gavin and Zoe. Gavin and Zoe, always together, the perfect couple. They were lying on the bed, fully clothed, but Allie didn’t stay to find out whether they were involved in an intimate conversation or foreplay.

  She slipped into a bathroom. Closing the cover on the toilet, she sank down, trying to lower her blood pressure and call up her earlier lightness with a cigarette. She smoked it down to the butt. When she stood, she caught herself in the mirror; the fluorescent light accentuated the circles under her eyes. Ghoulish. Serves you right. She half-heartedly shook out her hair, applied fresh lipstick, and as she emerged from her tiled sanctuary, hoped that the light was more forgiving in the kitchen.

  She joined Dana, Megan, Tess, and Ted, who had finally made his way over.

  Megan raised her eyebrows slightly. Is everything okay? she asked with her eyes.

  Allie opened her eyes wide. Oh my God.

  From across the circle, Tess handed her a cold beer and she gulped it gratefully. Dana’s brown eyes were dark, perplexed, but he was involved in a conversation with Ted and so luckily couldn’t ask her any questions. She nuzzled up to him, and he cast his arm around her, hopefully stifling any uneasy feelings he may have had.

  Allie tried to join in the easy banter of the circle, but she felt disoriented, the trauma of the past half hour still writhing in her mind. She was hyper-conscious of Kyle lurking somewhere behind her, and the hair on the back of her neck prickled with the thought that he might be watching her. Not wanting to incite additional fireworks, she fought the impulse to turn around and see where he was. All she wanted was to be alone with Dana, to curl up into his broad chest and feel his strong arms encircling her. If they could just be alone and shut out the world, she was convinced her shame could be shut out as well.

  She tensed as someone came up behind her and grabbed her butt. Terrified, she whipped around to see Zoe’s grinning face.

  Zoe leaned over and whispered, “You okay?”

  Allie smiled wanly as adrenaline coursed through her.

  “He just left,” Zoe added.

  Allie’s whole body sighed.

  Zoe then sang out to the group, “Just getting some beers,” and she grabbed a six-pack out of the refrigerator and started back towards the bedroom.

  “Are you guys ever going to make an appearance at the party, or are you going to stay holed up in the bedroom all night?” Dana teased.

  “You guys seem like you have it all under control,” Zoe said over her shoulder as she breezed away. “So I’m going to go with the latter.”

  Allie knew that if Zoe had her way, she and Gavin would never come out.

  Chapter 3

  Journal Entry #3

  August 11, 2000

  I’m never sure how to start these entries. The whole Dear Diary thing seems so prepubescent, as if I’m writing in a pink vinyl journal dressed with a tiny faux-gold lock. But without a greeting, I’m an overbearing stranger breaking into a private conversation. No good morning, just here’s what I think. It doesn’t seem very Emily Post.

  The kids and I just got back from a week on Nantucket. I wasn’t sure how it would feel to be there without Dana; the island is stuffed with memories of the two of us walking the beaches and cobblestone streets, first holding hands and enjoying five-star restaurants (when the food and the hand-holding was just a prelude to electric sex), then strolling pregnant (when the hand-holding was more of a seat belt and eating anything was a highlight), and more recently, toting kids’ sand toys and sippy cups (when handholding was impossible because we were juggling, juggling,
and if we had 10 minutes to inhale a burger we were lucky). In all those times there was shared happiness; we melted together on that sandy oasis in a way that carpools and to-do lists on the mainland prohibited. Any ghosts from the past or demons of the present were swept away in the damp, textured breeze off the Atlantic.

  Of course this year, our family has been radically sheared, and Dana’s absence was a dark, brooding shadow hovering just to the side of every ice cream, every bike ride. It was Sarah’s suggestion, sort of, to go on vacation; she said that the kids and I should do the things we’d normally do, not just hole up in the house, within myself, which is how I’ve handled this separation so far. We agreed it would be good for us to get away, but also, I think she wanted me to really experience how it felt to be on my own. Without Dana, going about life-as-usual.

  What we didn’t discuss however, was that my usual has always been Dana.

  I had cheated on Dana before we got married, but never after. No, instead of acting out my loneliness in the arms of someone else, I acted it out in the arms of our relationship. It was on my face, in my attitude, part of my posture. And underneath that, I was screaming at him—silently—to see me.

  Help! Can’t you see my flailing arms?

  Of course he didn’t hear, couldn’t possibly hear. But he noticed. And he must have interpreted my expressive S.O.S. as distance, as coldness, as dissatisfaction. He became defended, poured himself into work, and the stones between us piled up. The answer seems so simple: talk to each other. But in imaginary conversations, I heard myself whining, pleading, for what, attention? If he loved me, shouldn’t that come naturally? To beg for it made me needy, clawing, the original ball and chain. Not something you strive for.

  As a result, I did become distant and cold.

  Dana is a good man. He loves me, loves the kids, he takes good care of us. And he loves being a lawyer. He thrives on the challenge of each case, the camaraderie of his colleagues, the accolades he has won. He suits up early in the morning, earlier than necessary, to shoot the shit with his co-workers and begin his day with an un-frazzled mind. He then stays late to ensure each exquisite detail has been honed to perfection. He is a star.

  And I was invisible. A ghost who did laundry.

  I blamed Dana for that.

  “Get a job! Volunteer! Do something about it!” I can hear Zoe stomp her polished black boot. But I couldn’t abandon the kids when they were young, and once Gillian was in kindergarten I felt like I had missed the boat. I went on one interview, for an entry-level position, and passed a girl who had clearly just traded in her red-and-white pom-poms for a jaunty navy suit. My wedding ring, the kids that I had just put on the bus, my stretched-out stomach all made me feel like a dazed tourist in a foreign country. My friends, who had been working for years, were at least halfway up the rungs of success, if not farther. Starting as a receptionist or gopher at 30 or 31…

  See, I am whining. What a cliché, the hard-working man and the bitter housewife.

  My mother’s life.

  This was not what I believed love and marriage were all about. And I had the best role models—Walt Disney, must-see TV, Pretty Woman. So where was my life’s soundtrack of catchy top-40 tunes?

  When I was young, the TV was my mother, my babysitter, my constant companion. Instead of soothing warm milk and a cuddle before bed, I was served True Love and Happily-Ever-After with technicolor frosting and a witty-banter candy rose. And I devoured it. I would curl up on the rug, my face aglow with the fluorescent reflection and the company of men embracing women in adoring looks, all-forgiving hugs, heart-soaring reunions.

  In those days, TV dramas didn’t progress week to week; each episode stood alone, its own unit. The best episodes (during Sweeps Week) had the hero falling hard for someone, head over heels. But alas, this soulmate always met an unfortunate end (as the hero had to be single and fantasy-ready again for the next week). The final minutes of the hour would be a real tearjerker as the devastated tough guy would lean over his love’s deathbed and spill his heart out, the few tears he shed hard evidence of his heartbreak.

  Nothing warmed me or made me want to pirouette around my bedroom like these snippets of true love, and in the dark I would imagine hearing those words, feeling that power, seeing see my hero bowed to his knees by emotion. By me.

  As I got older and graduated to the big screen, love could take another hour to bloom and there were often obstacles to overcome, but it was always electric and absolute, and it was understood by all in that dark theater that when the lovers finally got there, that was it. Happily ever after. Without dirty dishes and misunderstandings.

  I guess it’s no surprise that the fairy tale became branded into my expectations, a blueprint for my own love life.

  I don’t have to go farther than my living room to witness the silver screen’s power on the psyche. Moments after watching any kind of fight scene on TV, Matthew is karate-chopping Gillian or sword-fighting with the dog, his cardboard paper towel tube slicing through the air with rabid machismo. And to this day, I cannot swim in the ocean without visualizing my legs dangling, baiting the vacant pair of eyes and razor sharp teeth that I am coldly certain lurk just underneath me.

  I can live without riding the ocean waves, but it’s hard to avoid romantic movies and love songs. Hell, even during some commercials I get a disbelieving “Are you crying Mom?” It’s everywhere, the idea of being swept off your feet, perhaps against all odds, and falling into a passionate love…

  Big sigh. And fade to black.

  Obviously, the trick is not to let it fade to black, to instead define your own happily ever after. But the definition is hard to create in the bright light of day, when you’ve misplaced the magic under piles of bills and dirty diapers. It flickers in the beat of each other’s hearts during a stolen embrace amongst the chaos of dinnertime, in a moment of real affinity while the water on the stove next to you bubbles and boils. But inevitably the demands of the uncooked pasta, the whines of the hungry dog, the shouts of more milk!, and the burdens of homework and lifework nose its way back in between you and force you to let go. And the curtain closes again.

  And so, against the backdrop of dramatic, cinematic romance, I hold up my life. Is this it?

  April 1989: Junior Year

  New York City

  It was a cloudless April Saturday and New Yorkers—finally stripped of their heavy coats and winter blues—were nodding, smiling even, as they jostled past each other. The whole city was out strolling on the street, running in the park, or spilling into sidewalk cafes, something only city-dwellers find indulgent. Crammed into a space the size of someone’s dining room, your chicken salad an arm’s length from toxic exhaust and giant, swinging shopping bags, intentionally dressed New Yorkers slip on their sunglasses and snub the lines at TKTS for a more entertaining matinee: people watching.

  Ready for the show, Zoe had planned to meet Gavin at their favorite Saturday afternoon rendezvous, Carmichaels. Gavin arrived first, and after a brilliant smile and a deep-bass hello that wrapped around the hostess’ shoulders, he was ushered to a coveted corner table outside. He ordered a Heineken and sat down to wait for Zoe. The sun warmed his back, interesting people wandered by, a cold beer was on the way. And so was Zoe. His foot jiggled under the table.

  The whole restaurant sat up straight when she arrived, late as usual, and he watched her from afar, mesmerized as always by her long stride and by the way her clothes—dark jeans and a snow white sweater—hugged her in all the right places, as if they were tailor-made, which Gavin knew might not be far from the truth. She sailed right by the hostess, who opened her mouth to utter a canned greeting and quickly found herself staring at Zoe’s cashmere back. Gavin leaned back in his chair, his foot momentarily lulled into stillness, and enjoyed Zoe’s approach with the first sip of his beer.

  She navigated the tables as if she was on roller skates, gliding
fluidly through the busy restaurant and out onto the cordoned-off cement; her creamy neck provided a full ruler of separation between her head and shoulders, her high-heeled black boots added a sexy sway to her hips. The hostess, hot on her heels, had to trot to keep up.

  “Can I help you?” the hostess said to Zoe’s back.

  Zoe spun around, her eyes flicking from the hostess’ shoes to her hair. “A glass of chardonnay.” The hostess was left teetering in her wake.

  Zoe marched right up to Gavin and kissed him hard on the lips. “Hey handsome.” She flashed a full, red-lipstick smile and dropped her overnight bag at her feet.

  “Hey yourself. You look great.”

  Zoe slid into a chair.

  The hostess put Zoe’s glass of wine down and then put her hand lightly on Gavin’s shoulder. “Another beer?”

  “That’d be great, thanks.”

  Zoe said, “I had to walk from Penn Station, couldn’t get a cab.” She shook her head; her diamond studs sparkled in the sun. “It’s such a beautiful day, you’d think there would be plenty of cabs, that people would want to walk.”

  Gavin was about to tease that clearly she hadn’t wanted to walk, but he stopped himself. He shouldn’t get pulled into their banter, their rhythm. He had a different agenda.

  “Zoe.”

  She lowered her chin. Something in his voice had scared off her smile and the muscles in her face tightened.

  Gavin’s shoulders rolled in and his fingers opened and closed around his beer bottle. He bumbled through several false starts, and then launched into a breathless monologue, his words tripping over each other in a race to get through it.

  He tried to keep his eyes on Zoe’s face as he talked, but as her eyes grew wide and her mouth fell open, he feigned fascination with his green bottle. When he looked up again, her eyes were narrowed, her mouth was clamped into a tight thin line.

  He stopped talking and exhaled. There. They sat in an eggshell of silence among the clatter of the tables and the bustling street beyond. His fingers picked at his beer label while he waited for her to say something.