If You Only Knew
Page 75

Outside, the air is damp and coppery from a shower. The omnipresent song of the city—cab horns and fire sirens, air brakes and subway rumbling, plays around us. Leo gives me a look. “Ready to go, or do you want to genuflect a minute or two?”
“You know, Leo, you were a pretty shitty date tonight. I have to say, I thought you’d do better.”
“Didn’t I kiss enough ass? I’m sorry,” he says.
“No ass-kissing required, Leo. Polite conversation would’ve been nice, though.”
“Oh. So I should exploit Evander for dinner conversation? So those people can go back and say ‘We know a little black child who’s being taught piano for free! Isn’t the world a wonderful place?’”
“No! We were talking about music, and Evander is interesting, that’s all. Jeesh.”
“Yeah, well, he’s also a child.”
“A child with great musical talent. What was the problem, Leo?”
“You! Trying to impress those jackasses, and I definitely include your ex-husband in that group.”
Loki barks as a scruffy white dog is led past. The owner gives us a dirty look. “Fine, let’s go,” I say, fishing in my cute little bag for my keys. By the grace of the gods, we’d found parking just two blocks down. Leo’s long legs outpace mine, hobbled in heels as I am, and I don’t try to keep up.
Besides, I miss this neighborhood. The Upper West Side has all the glory when it comes to town houses and prewar buildings, but the Upper East has its jewels, too. I take my time, stopping to look up at a beautiful window or admire a doorway. The buildings are all like old friends, the old brownstones and oak doors, and even if I didn’t know a lot of neighbors, I knew a few. This had been my home. Sort of.
On the drive down, Leo asked me if I’d seen any signs that my marriage was in trouble. One thing I could’ve mentioned was that throughout the entire course of my married life, I felt like I was playing grown-ups. Look at this great apartment! Look at my husband, the doctor! We’re going out with friends! I know Tim Gunn! No, I’m serious!
That feeling was present tonight, too...this cool dinner party where I was a guest, where I talked with those sophisticated, educated people. The elegant food, the lovely wine, the intelligent—and sure, sometimes pretentious—conversation. So what if they like documentaries and Swedish films? Someone has to.
And I can hold my own. I’m not some hick with nothing going for her.
I get in the car in what I hope is frosty silence. Leo gets his smelly dog settled in the backseat, then buckles in. Neither of us says anything as I negotiate my way up to Ninety-Seventh, across the Park and over to the West Side Highway.
“What I don’t understand,” Leo finally says, “is why you still want your ex to like you. He rejected you, he burned rubber finding someone else and he popped out a baby with her in record time, and you just can’t get enough punishment.”
“What I don’t understand is why you want so much for Owen to be the bad guy here. He’s not. He’s a very nice man.”
“Fuck him.”
“Leo, you’re a little drunk, I think.”
“Not drunk enough.”
“Well, you should stop talking, at any rate.”
“You wanna know what I think?”
“No, I do not.”
“I think your ex-husband and his wife keep you close because then they don’t have to admit what they did.”
“And what did they do, Leo? Huh?”
“He dumped you. He told you he didn’t want kids, and within a year, he’s a daddy. Why aren’t you mad about that?”
“What would that serve? He didn’t mean to fall out of love with me.”
“Maybe he was never in love with you to begin with.”
“Thanks. I feel better now.”
“Why don’t you tell him how you really feel? Say, ‘Hey, Owen, I deserve more than the scraps you throw me, and I won’t soothe your guilty conscience by coming to your pretentious fucking dinner parties. You broke my heart. Fuck you and your perfect wife, too.’ That’s what you should say. You can write that down if you want.”
“I’ll pass.”
“I think he’s an idiot. Love is a decision. It’s not just a feeling.”
“How profound,” I snap. “And this coming from the man whose hobbies include lying on a lawn chair from 1975 and drinking too much. A commitment-phobic Juilliard grad who barely scrapes by because his ego is too fragile to play in front of anyone above the age of fourteen and literally cannot change a lightbulb in the building where he’s allegedly the super.”
“You don’t know anything about me, Jenny.”
“Yeah, you’ve made sure of that, haven’t you?”
Loki contributes to the conversation by throwing up. Leo turns around. “You okay, boy?” he asks, petting him.
I sigh. “Leo, how much longer are you going to keep this dog around? Don’t you think it’s getting selfish?”
Shit.
Leo looks at me as if I’ve just ripped his heart out and taken a bite.
“I’m sorry,” I say, looking back at the road. “That was uncalled-for. I’m really sorry.”
He doesn’t say anything back. Which doesn’t seem fair; I said something unkind and apologized for it. He also said some unkind things, but he hasn’t apologized.