“Is this the same Cece Downing who passed her actuary exams faster than anyone else at her company? The same Cece Downing who finished first in the two-hundred-meter backstroke with a partially torn labrum? You don’t give yourself enough credit.”
“I’m just saying—what if we reach an impasse?”
“Then we reach an impasse, but at least we’ll know we reached it instead of bailing out before. Plus, Cece, we were good together, and we can be again.”
Cheeks warm from the wine, the arches of her feet achingfrom their walk around the museum, Cece finds Jonathan’s logic unassailable. He’s right; they were good together. Cece feels the tension drain from her temple—the concerns of stability and money easily healed with a quick glance into her imagined future. This is steady ground, rock solid. And yet, like a shout in a storm, the whisper of a question teases at the corner of her mind. “Why are you giving us another shot? I mean, I’ve screwed things up spectacularly. Why aren’t you out there painting the town red?”
Jonathan laughs, a lighthearted laugh. “We spent four years together, Cece. That’s the longest I’ve ever been with anyone. Same for you, too, I think…It’s a known quantity, what we have together. There aren’t any surprises, in the best possible way. It’s bedrock between us, and I want to see what we can build together. I’m old enough to recognize something good. When I was younger, I always judged a relationship by things like passion and desire, and you need those things, too, but a relationship can’t survive on just those emotions. As for painting the town red—you know that isn’t really my style.”
Later, many years later, Cece will recall this lunch in detail. She will remember the honey-colored curtains framing the front window of the restaurant; she will remember the sound of the wine bottle sinking in its bucket with each melting ice cube; she will remember the hint of vanilla on her lips from thetorrijathey ordered for dessert. She will remember Jonathan handing his credit card to the waiter without looking at the bill. But now, here, Jonathan seated across from her, Cece is only aware of her gratitude for this man who is willing to forgive her colossal blunder. And while she won’t say it aloud for fear of ruining themoment, she’s thankful to him for seeing past her foibles and her shortcomings, her anxieties and her indecisions.
Jonathan insists on walking Cece back to her car in the parking garage. Without Yale students in session or the weekday commuters, downtown is oddly quiet, the streets vacant and hushed.
“Thanks for the today,” Cece says after opening her car door. “I didn’t realize how much I needed it.”
“Anytime,” Jonathan says. He looks like he wants to say more but doesn’t.
“I’d prefer if we left things undefined…if that’s all right with you.”
“Sure,” Jonathan says with his trademark confidence. “It’s not like we’re involved with other people or anything.”
Cece thinks of Morgan, his beard against her neck, hands on her lower back, chapped lips that tasted like woodsmoke and molasses. It had only happened once—no—twice, but that didn’t mean anything. It was foolishness and lust—there was no depending on such whims. This, Cece thinks, Jonathan in the flesh, is real. This is something she can depend on.
10
“Just calling to wish you good luck, not that you need it!”
Cece instinctively lowers the volume on her phone, paranoid that her mother’s voice might somehow blare throughout the train car. Boxed in, knee to knee, commuters are buried in their screens—a few old-timers peruse newspapers. Before she can respond, there’s a click on the other end. Inconceivably, her parents still have a landline.
“Barry, is that you?”
“Who else would it be?” From the sound of his voice, Cece surmises her father is in the kitchen, most likely at the island having his trademark breakfast of black coffee and an English muffin.
“I’m talking to Cece.” Kim’s annoyance mingles with the birdsong in the backyard.
Cece can see her parents very clearly, living in the same house but occupying two completely different spaces.
“What’s this job I hear you’re going for?”
“Risk management firm. Mom had a connection.”
“Sure you want to jump back in so soon? You’ve been grinding for a while.”
It’s strange to hear her father advocate for rest and reflection; after all, this is the man who, when Cece was in high school, rose at daybreak to ferry her to and from morning swim practice. This is the man who walked the length of the pool, while she swam, with a bullhorn shouting instructions in a crackling voice. Is he getting soft in his old age? Is Kim right? Has Barry Downing grown complacent?
“Let me talk to Cece, Barry.”
Coffee is slurped. “All right. Don’t lose your head. Say, Cece, when are we getting Bernard back? It’s getting lonely here without him.”
“She’s bringing him down next weekend. We discussed this. Now, will you get off the line, Barry? Aren’t you supposed to be at the hardware store?”
“Your mother is keeping me busy, Cece. Idle hands are the devil’s workshop and all that. Remember, Cece, just focus on you. Don’t worry about what anyone else is doing in their lane. You’ll get the job if you want it.”
The line clicks off and Kim lets out a long, exasperated sigh. The birds have gone quiet. “See what I’m contending with?”
The carriage door clangs open to reveal a burly conductor in a blue MTA uniform, ticket scanner swinging from his belt, a hole punch in his right hand. “Tickets! Tickets! Last stop before Grand Central Station is Stamford. Stamford!”
“What do you expect, Mom? He’s practically retired. How many clients does he have left? Two, three?”
