On Second Thought
Page 52

Who was that other guy, that pretentious ass who dictated my words into a phone so he could blog about me?
How the hell were we going to get over this?
I got to the edge of Central Park and jerked to a stop, unsure of where to go now.
“Here.”
Jonathan. I’d almost forgotten about him. He held out a handkerchief.
Oh. I was crying.
“Come,” he said, taking my arm. I sucked in a jerking breath and let him lead me.
He stopped at the first carriage, where a big brown horse stood, bottomless eyes and velvety nose, breathing its warm breath on my hand, which was shaking. Jonathan took out his wallet, handed the guy some bills and muttered something.
Then he handed me up into the carriage and got in beside me. The driver clucked to the horse, and we started, turning into the park, the horse’s massive hooves clack-clacking on the pavement.
“Ainsley, I’m sorry,” Jonathan said. “I should never have asked you to do that.”
I wiped my eyes. I needed to blow my nose, but this was his handkerchief, and it was kind of gross—oh, screw it. I blew my nose. “It’s fine.”
“No. It’s not. I apologize.”
The rhythm of the carriage was soothing, the pull and jerk of it. I swallowed and looked off to the left.
New York City is a good place to come to forget your misery. So many people, so many ages and races and stories. Virtually everyone had had, was currently nursing or would have a broken heart. There were a thousand stories worse than mine.
It was just that I always thought Eric and I were special. That our love wasn’t tainted by selfishness or jealousy or pettiness. We were truly Plato’s two halves of a whole, as I’d learned in my very first philosophy class.
I was wrong. For eleven years, I’d been wrong. I blotted my eyes again. “What’s your horse’s name?” I asked the driver.
“Truman,” he said, turning back with a grin.
“Does he like his job?”
“Oh, yes, miss. Look at his ears, how they’re pointed forward. He’s having a wonderful time.”
“And what’s your name?”
“Benicio.”
“I love that name. Tell your mom she chose well.”
Another smile. “I will, miss. Thank you.”
Truman clip-clopped around a turn. The dogwoods were in bloom, and a light breeze ruffled my hair and dried the last of my rage-tears.
Jonathan was staring at me. “Why do you do that?” he asked.
“Do what?”
“Try to make everyone like you. Your charm offensive. Here you are, crying over your idiot of a boyfriend, but you—”
“It’s called being friendly, Jonathan. Not being rude. Noticing the world around you. Would you rather have me smiting myself with ashes and tearing my clothes? And I didn’t try to be friendly. I just am. Right, Benicio?”
“Sí, senorita. Very friendly.” He smiled back at me.
“So take a note, Mr. Kent. This is how humans act.” I was tired of him, of me, of Eric, of feeling sad.
“Would you like to have dinner?” he asked.
My mouth opened, then closed. “Is that a trick question?”
“No. It’s the least I can do after putting you through that. I feel very bad about your...distress.”
Dinner would mean I’d have to talk to him for an hour or two. But going back home would just have me lying in bed, revisiting every stupid word between Eric and me. “Okay.”
* * *
An hour later, after our lovely ride through Central Park and a fond farewell to Benicio and Truman, Jonathan and I were seated in a typical East Side restaurant—quiet, posh, expensive. Jonathan had ordered a bottle of wine, and Carl, our waiter, poured me a generous glass. “Are you ready to order?” he asked.
“What’s your favorite thing on the menu, Carl?” I asked.
“Well, everything’s wonderful here,” he said. “But I did have the lobster and asparagus risotto before my shift, and it was stellar.”
“That’s what I’ll have, then.”
“Any appetizers?”
“How about three Wellfleet oysters?”
He winked at me. “A wonderful choice. For you, sir?”
“I’ll have the veal Oscar,” Jonathan said. I winced. I had an issue with veal. “Not the veal,” he amended. “The chicken. I assume it’s free-range, organic, and led a happy and productive life?”
“Yes, sir.”
“That and the tomato salad, then.”
“Very good.” Carl smiled and walked off.
“You made a joke,” I observed.
“Did I?”
“I’m almost positive.” I took a roll from the basket. “Oh, God, these are still warm.” I was suddenly starving. Whole wheat, soft, hot with honey butter mixed with a pinch of truffle salt. “Oh, bread, I love you,” I murmured, taking a bite and closing my eyes. “Jonathan, have a roll so I don’t eat them all.”
He obliged, breaking off a small piece of bread and buttering it with care. “So how did you meet Eric?” he asked.
“Junior year of college. One look and I thought that’s the guy I’m gonna marry. He was my first boyfriend.” Best not to think of happy times.
“Ainsley, why don’t you reveal his exaggerations, as you suggested earlier?” Jonathan asked, leaning forward. “You could show him as the fraud he is.”
There was that British lord lingo again. I dropped my eyes to the table and sighed. “Yeah, I could,” I said. “But when someone hurts you, is it right to hurt them back? I could, sure, but then I’d be stooping to his level. And while that would be very satisfying... I don’t know. That’s not who I want to be.”
His eyes flickered. “Good answer.”
I suddenly got the strong impression Jonathan knew exactly what I was talking about. “Let’s change the subject. How did you meet your wife?”
He looked up, then back down at his roll. “We were childhood friends.”
“Did you take her to the prom?”
“No,” he said. I waited for more. More stayed put.
“Let’s have a conversation, Jonathan. You did ask me to dinner, remember? You wanted to make up for that debacle, which I correctly predicted. Hate to say I told you so, but I did.”
“True,” he said. “I didn’t quite imagine you trying to assault him, but I can’t say he didn’t deserve it, either.”
“So let’s pretend we’re friends and talk.”
“Sure.” He took a sip of wine and said nothing.
Carl returned with our appetizers, and I slurped down an oyster, which tasted perfectly of the sea and had a nice, buttery after-flavor. “Oh, that was amazing.” I sighed happily. Took a sip of wine. “Want one?” I offered my boss.
He hesitated.
“Have you ever had one before?”
“No, actually.”
“Oh, fun! Give it a try! Smell it first. It should smell like the ocean. Then just slurp it in. You’ll taste the brine, and then give it a few chews. Don’t make it into paste, though. Just let it ride.”
He did as instructed. “What do you think?” I asked.
“Very good.” He smiled.
That smile was... It was kind of...adorable.
That’s the wine talking, I told myself. I ate the last oyster. “So you and your ex...you were childhood friends and then what?”