He’s very good at steering the conversation back to her. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the current disarray of her life, or maybe it’s him, but she’s talking a lot this dinner. Much more so than she normally does. She even tells him about her mom’s illness. But she quickly realizes it’s impossible to convey to Peter who her mother—let alone Kat—really was, and then she feels almost disloyal for trying. As if cherry-picked details could possibly encapsulate, or even intimate, their spirits. This might be the reason Vivian’s going through these drinks like they’re water. Peter makes her feel reckless, a little untethered. Like he’s capable of uncorking the emotions she’s so carefully bottled up over the years.
“Antiques suit you,” he remarks at one point.
“What do you mean, they suit me?”
He gives a subtle shake of his head. “I don’t know. They just do.” When he stares intensely at her, it feels all-consuming. As if he’s pulling little bits out of her, sticky notes of information, to piece together a narrative. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”
“You barely know me,” she says.
“I think I do.” His leg presses more firmly against hers, and her body awakens. “You know, I saw you, a few years ago. And I’ve never been able to forget you.”
She laughs. “Peter, that’s a bad pickup line. I think you could do better.”
“It’s true.” It was the month of April, he says. We were both at a fundraiser for the Institute of Contemporary Art, in the Seaport. “You were wearing a long pale pink dress, that had these strappy black ties.”
Vivian stares at him. How could he know this? But then, she realizes. “Very funny. You googled me. You saw my picture. I was inBoston Magazinefrom that event.”
He shook his head slowly. “I wish I’d seen that photo. I would have printed it out and carried it around with me. I was there, at the event.”
“No.”
“Why is that so hard to believe?”
“How…Why would you remember me?” But even as she’s saying it, something stirs inside her.
“You were looking at the silent-auction items. You were alone.”
This was true. She was using Rachel’s ticket; her friend had come down with a cold and had urged Vivian to attend in her place. After grabbing a drink at the bar, Vivian busied herself by walking over to the table of auction items lining the far wall of the event space.
“You were drinking a cosmopolitan. You almost backed up into me.”
Vivian had been standing there, considering what, if any, items to bid on, when a person suddenly shoved past her. She stepped back reflexively. And felt someone else’s hands on her shoulders, steadying her.
“Whoa,” a man whispered in her ear. His hands lingered on top of her arms for a moment too long. His touch felt oddly familiar, she remembers. But when she turned around, the man was gone.
Staring at Peter now, Vivian wonders:Is it possible this story is true?
“I went to get you another cosmopolitan, because I thought you’d spilled your drink. But when I returned from the bar, I couldn’t find you. I thought maybe I’d imagined you, conjured up the perfect woman. But here’s the crazy part,” he continues. “I swear I saw you again, six months after that. It was at a Celtics game; the Celtics were playing the Golden State Warriors. And Isaw you, on the Jumbotron. It was a just a second or two, but it was you.I think it was you.Was it?”
She’s wordless; therewasone time that she and Rachel were at a Celtics game when the camera apparently turned to them. “Look! We’re on the screen!” Rachel had squealed, but by the time Vivian glanced up, it was already featuring another person.
“Your hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and you were wearing these large gold hoop earrings.” He reaches over and touches one of her earlobes, sending a shiver through her. Then he sits back and looks at her earnestly. “Was it you?” he asks again.
“Maybe,” she admits. Inside she thinks,Careful, Vivian. You could fall in love with this one.
“I knew it. And then you walked into the Knox, into my life. I think I’ve just been waiting for you, all these years.” He smiles, and it fills every inch of her.
“What did you mean in your note when you said you’re ‘new to this’?” she asks. The question suddenly seems important.
“If I tell you, then you have to come home with me.”
A heat flares inside her. “Oh?” she manages.
“But by home, I don’t mean my Back Bay apartment. A pipe burst, and I wasn’t around to realize. Apparently even penthouse apartments can flood. Who knew.”
Penthouse apartments.“Oh, that’s terrible, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay; that’s what insurance is for. Besides, things are things. They’re not people.”
