“So you’re OK?”
“Yeah, I mean. The day has been shit, but yeah.”
“I didn’t hear from you last night. I stayed up until two, worried.”
The words are concerned but her tone is sharp. So what she means is:Why didn’t you call because I hate it when you don’t call and I feel forgotten.We argue about this sometimes now: that I grow absentminded when I’m in the middle of a project, that the world I’m inhabiting on set or in my mind takes me from the world in which I’m actually living. I’ll unlatch the door late at night, and she’ll be sitting on the couch with folded arms, or I’ll get three voicemails, each with increasing annoyance.Hey, where are you? Hey, can you call me so I know if you’re home for dinner? Hey, did you die on the 405 on the way to work, and if not can you please call me back to reassure me that you haven’t?
“I’m sorry,” I say, a little bit because I am, a little bit because we’ve had this conversation before, and there’s no point in doing anything other than smoothing the waters. Tatum is independent to a fault until she’s not, until she’s territorial and a little bit clingy, which is part of the bass note of who she is, and I don’t mind all that much unless she escalates it into something it doesn’t need to be. “Leo and I went out drinking ... I lost track of time.”
“It’s OK,” she says, because she knows I mean it sincerely. “I was just worried. How was today?”
“Horrible.” I tug the knot of my tie looser. “But over.”
“Your mom?”
“We’re brunching,” I say. “So I guess as well as I’d expect, better, maybe?”
“And Leo?” She asks right before she shouts: “Monster, get down! Shit, hang on, Ben. Monster,get off the counter.” There’s a clatter behind her, and she yelps. “Goddamn it! Ben, can I call you back in a second?”
She clicks off before I can tell her that I wish she were here, that I don’t know what I would do without her, which is why I was calling in the first place.I should have led with that,I think.I need to lead with that more often.
I splash water on my face, pat it dry, then readjust my tie. I meet my eyes in the mirror and remind myself to tell Tatum this as soon as she calls back. My stomach growls, and I spin back toward the dining room. As I turn the corner from the restroom, I collide with a woman emerging from the ladies’ room.
My brain does this thing where it takes a minute to catch up with my breath, with my adrenaline, which is flying through my limbs.
She gapes. “Oh my gosh!”
“Oh my God,” I say. Then manage: “Hey.”
“I didn’t ... what are you doing here? I mean, this is so random.” She blinks quickly, which she always used to do when she was frazzled.
Her red hair falls atop her shoulders like it always did; her cheeks are pink and spotted with freckles, like they always were. She looks exactly the same as the last time I saw her seven years ago. I broke up with her in the kitchenette of her Greenwich Village apartment when she was leaving for San Francisco, when she made it clear that she could dive intohernew reality without me.
I lean in and kiss Amanda’s cheek. She smells like that honey perfume that she wore way back when too.
“I’m in for a conference,” she says, swatting her bangs, which are new, from her eyes. “I didn’t ... I mean ...” She laughs, then exhales deeply. “Let’s start over. Hey.”
“Hey. You look great,” I say. Because she does. My phone buzzes in my palm. Tatum calling me back. I start to raise it to my ear, but then, without thinking, drop it into my pocket. I’ll call her back in a minute.
“You need to get that?” she asks. I shake my head. “Well you look great too. God, it’s been forever. You’re married now.”
I nod, wave my ring finger. “Off the market for good.”
I say it in this deep superhero voice, which I don’t think I’ve ever used before. I don’t know why I do. Maybe because I’m standing in front of the last woman I loved before Tatum, and even though I’d never betray Tate, I still want Amanda to find me fuckable; I still want her to consider what she could have had if she hadn’t accepted her residency in Palo Alto and left me behind. It’s not that I want Amanda—I don’t. But it’s not as if I don’t want her to wantme. Those are two separate things, after all. Like my dad said when I was applying to college: you want them tooffer; that doesn’t mean that you have to accept. (He was, however, deeply disappointed in me when I got waitlisted at Yale.)
“Married to an actress, right?” Amanda says. “I mean, I’m not keeping tabs.” She laughs self-consciously. “Maybe a little.”
“Yep,” I affirm and feel my shoulders relax back, my chin raise higher.She keeps tabs. She might kind of want me.I make a note to mentally record this to tell Leo as soon as I get back to the table. “She’s about to audition for Jane Austen. She’s amazing.”Tell Tatum this more often,I remind myself.
“I get that. You always needed someone who could keep up with you creatively.”
My forehead furrows. “I don’t know about that. I think I just needed someone who didn’t ditch me for a residency in San Francisco.”
She laughs again, this time with genuine humor. “Touché. Well.” She shrugs. “You know you broke my heart.”
“I find that impossible to believe.” And I do, though the signals she is sending—and the words she is using—tell me otherwise.
“I work too much now to meet someone.” She blinks again rapid-fire. Then, as if just realizing: “Oh my God, your dad. Today ...” She trails off, her hand covering her mouth. “I e-mailed you a few years ago ...” She stares at her feet.
