“My apartment is too small!” he’d insisted to me when he’d floated the idea.
“Then call a spade a spade, Raffi. This is just a party.”
“No, no,” he’d said. “I want people to bring me houseplants and colanders. Ithasto be a housewarming.”
Thus this jade plant balanced inside a vegetable steamer that I carry into Bar Samantha. Which is a romance-novel-themed bar, complete with pink velvet barstools, stacks of books for anyone who comes here to have a drink and read, and, of course, women in reading glasses seemingly confused by the hive of men buzzing in the back corner.
Raff’s friends are cleanly cleaved into two groups. There are his work friends—fellow engineers in button-downs, drinking neurotoxic IPAs and following Phish around the country during their PTO. And then there are his nonwork friends—every age and gender, tongue-pierced poets and musicians, the couples who live in Brooklyn Heights and ask Raff to spice up their marriages, the broke college kids he meets when he thrifts on the NYU campus, family friends he kisses on the lips, his former neighbor whose dog he walks because her arthritis has been acting up, and yes many of them also follow Phish around the country with their PTO.
I march straight up to Raff—where he’s being petted by a woman in a five-thousand-dollar necklace while her husband watches—and shove my gift into his free hand. “Hi, I love you.”
“Hi!” He takes his other hand out of the woman’s back pocket and gives me a big hug. “Laurel, meet my best friend Roz. Roz, meet Laurel.”
“Hi,” I say, and shake her hand. And then I quickly point toward the bar and head in that direction because if you start letting Raff introduce you to people, pretty soon that’s the only thing you do for the next hour.
I detour on the way to the bar, distracted by the presents table. It’s overflowing with gifts. I spot one in particular that makes me smile.
The bar is getting crowded with Raff’s associates. An ex-girlfriend of his is clearing some armchairs back, I think she works here. She’s turning up the music, doing some nonsubtle ass-shaking in Raff’s direction.
Once again, I’m doing a hell of an impression of myself.
Yes, technically, I’m standing here in this bar, nodding and smiling at a few of Raff’s friends. But mentally…I’m still here,my husband says.
I don’t know what you’ve been thinking about since yesterday, but that phrase has been on constant repeat for me. And tonight, apparently he means it literally. Because after one more scan of the room, my gaze catches on Vin’s gaze where he leans his back against the bar, hands in his pockets. He is one hundred percent green eyes and dark hair and calmly watching me pretend to breathe.
He wore a collared shirt and his nice jeans to his brother’s party because he’s a respectful and thoughtful son of a bitch.
I’m still here.
Something in me snaps.
I narrow my eyes at him from ten paces. He narrows his right back at me.
I put one hand on my hip. He raises his eyebrows.
I’m still here,I mouth at him from across the room.
What?he mouths back.
And so I know it’s safe to go ahead and ask him the question.Thequestion. The only question.
I’m still here, for now?I mouth at him.Or I’m still here, no matter what?
He cocks his head to one side, his brow furrowed. He’s staring at my mouth.What?he mouths at me again.
Look, a new life has started whether I’ve realized it or not. I draw on Friday nights. I ask my coworkers about PTSD. The terrible truth is that I don’t actually need him to answer that question. I need to know what I would evendowith either answer.
If you leave,I mouth at him, warning him.It’ll tear my heart out. But I’m going to keep on living.
He’s still staring at my mouth, trying to parse out the words I’m mouthing at him. Now his hands are out of his pockets, and he’s straightening up.
One of Raff’s coworkers leans over and says something to him, but Vin outright ignores him. He can’t take his eyes offme.
I’m calling this a new life but…I feel a swell of something familiar. It feels…like me. Me pre-accident. Like the old me. Like the person who didn’t used to sit around wondering if her husband still loves her.
He’s right. I used to just know. But these days, I have to ask.
And look at me go. I’ve just said exactly what I meant to Vin. Across the room, granted. Where he definitely couldn’t hear me, sure. But staring into his eyes, nonetheless.
