David and I were introduced through my old colleague, Adam. We both worked as clerks at the same time in the DA’s office. The hours were long and the pay was shitty and neither one of us was particularly suited for that kind of environment.
For about six months, I remember having a crush on Adam. He was from New Jersey, liked sitcoms from the seventies, and knew how to get the temperamental coffee maker to deliver a cappuccino. We spent a lot of time together at work, bent over our desks eating five-dollar ramen from the food truck downstairs. He threw a party for his birthday at this bar I’d never been to—Ten Bells on the Lower East Side. It was dark and candlelit. With wood tables and barstools. We ate cheese and drank wine and split bills we could not afford on credit cards we hoped we could one day pay off.
David was there—cute and a little bit quiet—and he asked to buy me a drink. He worked at a bank, and had gone to school with Adam. They had even been roommates their first year in New York.
We talked about the insane prices of rent, how it was impossible to find good Mexican food in New York, and our mutual love ofDie Hard.
But I was still focused on Adam. I had hoped that his birthday might be the night. I had on tight jeans and a black top. I thought we’d flirt—scratch that, I thought wehadbeen flirting—and that maybe we’d go home together.
Before closing, Adam sauntered over to us and slung an arm over David’s shoulders. “You guys should get each other’s numbers,” he said. “Could be a match here.”
I remember feeling devastated. That stabbing sensation you feel when the curtain is pulled back and what stands before you on the stage is the wide expanse of nothing. Adam was not into me. He had just made that very, very clear.
David laughed nervously. He stuck his hands in his pockets. Then he said: “How about it?”
I gave him my number. He called the next day, and we went out the following week. Our relationship built slowly, bit by bit. We went for a drink, then a dinner, then a lunch, then a Broadway show he had been gifted tickets to. We slept together on that date, the fourth. We dated for two and a half years before we moved in together. When we did, we kept all of my bedroom furniture and half of his living room furniture and opened a joint bank account for household expenses. He went to Trader Joe’s because I thought—and think—the lines are too long, and I bought the paper goods off Amazon. We RSVP’d to weddings, threw dinner parties with catered spreads, and climbed the ladders of our careers, an arm’s length away from each other. We were, weren’t we? An arm’s length away? If you can reach out and hold the other person’s hand, does the distance matter? Is simply being able to see someone valuable?
“A pipe burst on the corner of Twelfth Street,” I say. I take off my coat and sit down, letting the warmth of the restaurant begin to thaw out my bones. We’re well into November, now. And the weather has turned with us.
“I ordered a bottle of Brunello,” he says. “We liked it the last time we were here.”
David keeps a spreadsheet of really great meals we’ve had—what we drank and what we ate—for future reference. He keeps it accessible on his phone for such situations.
“David—” I start. I exhale. “The florist ordered us three thousand gardenias.”
“What for?”
“The wedding,” I say.
“I’m aware of that,” he tells me. “But why?”
“I don’t know. Some mix-up at the florist. They’re all going to be brown by the time we take any photos. They last for like two hours.”
“Well if it’s their mistake, they should cover the cost. Did you speak with them?”
I take my napkin and fold it over my pants. “I was on the phone with them but had to hang up to deal with work.”
David takes a sip of water. “I’ll handle it,” he says.
“Thanks.” I clear my throat. “David,” I say. “Before I say this, you can’t get mad at me.”
“That’s impossible to guarantee, but okay.”
“I’m serious.”
“Just say it,” he says.
I exhale. “Maybe we should postpone the wedding.”
He looks at me in confusion but something else, too. In the back of his eyes, behind the pupils and the firing optic nerve, is relief. Confirmation. Because he’s known, hasn’t he? He’s suspected that I’d let him down.
“Why do you say that?” he asks, measured.
“Bella is sick,” I say. “I don’t think she’ll be able to make it. I don’t want to get married without her.”
David nods. “So what are you saying? You want more time?” He shakes his head.
“That we postpone till the summer. Maybe even get the venue we want.”
