You Were There Too Page 10

  Thank God.

  Harrison and I follow the flagstone path and go up four cement steps onto the porch. He pulls the handle of the screen door, opening it to rap on the frame of the solid wood one behind it.

  Three deep barks ring out from the bowels of the house, and when the door opens, a horse covered in black fur greets us, nearly knocking me over. Harrison grabs my arm to steady me. And Caroline comes flying out in a blur, reaching for its collar.

  “Willy!” she says, while simultaneously apologizing to us and pulling him back in the house. “He gets excited about company.” She calls over her shoulder, “Oliver! Come get your dog.”

  And then he’s there, not ten yards away. Standing at the transom between the living room and the kitchen, hair wet from the shower, ears sticking out making him look boyish and manly at the same time, a kitchen towel slung over his shoulder.

  The sight of him momentarily unsteadies me, that now-familiar out-of-body sensation taking hold, and I repeat my mantra.

  He’s just a man.

  He’s just a man.

  He’s just a man.

  Oliver whistles. “C’mon, Willy.” And the dog instantly stops struggling against Caroline and trots obediently to Oliver, sitting at his feet. Its tongue hangs out of the side of its mouth like a large piece of bologna.

  Caroline straightens up, brushing back wisps of brown hair that fell loose from the knot at the back of her head. “Sorry about that,” she repeats, her chest still heaving slightly from the effort. “Please come in.”

  Harrison gently places his hand at the small of my back and guides me in first.

  “Stay,” Oliver says, holding his palm up to the dog’s snout, and then strides toward us. Everything about him is casual—from his bare feet to the plain white T-shirt beneath the draped kitchen towel to the open beer bottle loosely resting in his right fist, which he deftly transfers to his left to shake hands with Harrison.

  Then he turns to me, his eyes friendly, warm. “Mia.”

  “Hi,” I say, slipping my hand in Harrison’s and squeezing.

  “What kind of dog is that?” Harrison’s still staring at the beast, his voice full of wonder.

  “Willy’s a Newfoundland. Gentle giant,” Oliver says, his face nearly beaming with pride as he glances back in the dog’s direction. He turns back to us. “Come on in. What can I get you—beer, wine?”

  “Wine, please,” I say. We both look at Harrison. He’s still looking at the dog.

  “Total beast,” he’s muttering in awe, and then, noticing the silence, he glances up. “Oh, beer would be great. Thanks.” Caroline directs us toward the sofa and chairs and Oliver retreats back into the kitchen, Willy following him obediently. Harrison and I sit on an old brown and orange flower-patterned couch staring at four taxidermied mallard ducks hanging in midflight on the dark-paneled wall above the fireplace mantel.

  Harrison dives into the social courtesies—starting with the weather (“Can you believe this heat? Brutal”), asking Caroline how she’s feeling, commenting on the delicious scents drifting in from the kitchen—while I murmur my agreement and look at the antique end tables, the guitar in the corner of the room, the worn patterned rugs, the dead ducks.

  “They’re dreadful, aren’t they?” Oliver appears at my side gripping two beers by the neck in one hand and a stemless glass of wine in the other. I follow his gaze to the ducks I’ve been staring at as if they will come back to life if I concentrate hard enough. “Oh! I don’t . . . they’re kind of . . .”

  “Morbid,” he says, fixing Caroline with a look. He hands me the wineglass, then reaches his beer hand across me toward Harrison, who takes one, still engrossed in conversation with Caroline.

  She stops in midsentence. “I heard that.”

  Oliver grins and lowers himself into the formal wingback chair next to me. “Well, I don’t understand why you haven’t gotten rid of them.”

  “I think they’ve kind of grown on me,” Caroline says, then turns to us. “This was our great-aunt and -uncle’s house. They took us in when our mom died. Kidney disease.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” I glance from Caroline to Oliver.

  He waves me off, but there’s a sadness in his eyes. “It was a long time ago.”

  “So Mia tells me you live in Philly,” Harrison says to Oliver.

  “Yep. Headed back tomorrow actually.”

  I jerk my head up at this, and Oliver’s eyes find mine briefly, then he glances away. My cheeks flush, and I train my gaze back on the ducks, trying to pretend my embarrassment is solely from my reaction at his news and not the way I felt when his eyes were locked on mine.

  * * *

  In the dining room, as we’re all tucking into big bowlfuls of spaghetti carbonara, Caroline sighs with pleasure.

  “Oh, it’s nearly perfect, Ollie,” she says, chewing with relish.

  “Nearly?” he says.

  “Well, nothing is as good as Sorelli’s. Have you two eaten there yet?” Caroline asks. The name of the restaurant sounds familiar, but I can’t place it—maybe I’ve passed by it while downtown. “Best Italian food ever,” she continues. “It’s a shame, since I can’t ever step foot in the restaurant again.”

  “Why not?” I ask, reaching for my glass.

  “While I worked there, I had sex with the manager.”

  I nearly spit out my wine.

  “Turns out he’s married.”

  “You knew he was married when you slept with him,” Oliver says, monotone.

  “I know, but it adds something to the story when you say ‘turns out,’ doesn’t it? Anyway,” she says to us, “now I’m pregnant with his baby! And done with the job at Sorelli’s.”

  “You know, you don’t have to share everything.”

  And that’s when I remember where I heard about Sorelli’s. “Oh, right! This woman at the Blue-Eyed Macaw was telling me about the open waitress position there.”

  Oliver sweeps his hand out, palm up. “And there you have it—one of the many perks of a small town. Everyone knows everything.”

  “So, Caroline, are you currently looking for work?”

  Caroline shakes her head as she swallows the bite she’s chewing and wipes the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “Luckily I found something pretty quickly—I’m assistant to the manager of Parks and Rec.”

  “Oh, that’s great,” I say. “So what kind of stuff do you do?”

  Oliver leans forward. “Yeah, what do you actually do, Care? You haven’t really said.”

  “Well, I get coffee and answer phones and that kind of thing, but I also get to sit in on meetings and make suggestions.” Caroline grins. “Like, you know how as a kid I always hated that Hope Springs didn’t have a Christmas parade?”

  “No,” Oliver says.

  “Yes, you do. I used to write letters to the mayor every November and I’d get that annoying form letter back about how they had plenty of wonderful celebrations like Shady Brook’s Holiday Light Show and that stupid train ride turning into the North Pole Express, even though it doesn’t even go anywhere. But what kind of small town doesn’t have a Christmas parade?”

  “Hope Springs,” Oliver deadpans, and then he studies Caroline’s face, which looks positively fit to burst with news. “Let me guess,” he says. “They do now.”

  “They do now.” Her lips curl into a smug smile. “I’ve already booked both the high school and middle school marching bands and a Santa to ride in a convertible tossing out candy at the end.”

  “Sounds like fun,” I say.

  “Thanks. So what do you do, Mia?”

  “Oh.” I buy time by resting my fork in the bowl. “I’ve actually kind of been job hunting myself recently. Something part-time.”

  “Mia’s an artist,” Harrison interjects. “A painter.” I warm at the pride in his voice. But I k
now what’s coming next—the subtle questions to determine if I’m a serious painter, if it’s an actual career or a cute hobby—and I’m not eager to delve into my failures once again, so I change the subject.

  “I saw the guitar in the den—do either of you play?” As soon as I ask it, I realize I’m hoping it’s not—

  “Oliver,” Caroline says. A man with a guitar might be a cliché, but it’s a cliché for a reason—it’s really hot. I used to think a man playing any instrument was sexy, until I went to Harrison’s parents’ home in Buffalo for our first Thanksgiving together and learned he played the trumpet in his high school marching band.

  “Oh my god. You have to play me a song,” I said, late that night in his childhood bedroom.

  “What? No. It’s too loud. It’ll wake my parents.”

  “They’re not asleep yet.”

  After a lot more cajoling, he acquiesced. Pursing his lips to the mouthpiece, he started blowing, his fingers moving rustily, his eyes bulging from the effort, as I stared in wide wonder at this new side of Harrison.

  Then his dad banged on the wall, startling us both. “What the hell is that noise? We’re trying to sleep.” And that’s when I started laughing so hard, I couldn’t stop.

  “Was that even a song?” I asked, through the fits and starts.

  “It was KC and the Sunshine Band,” he said, half-wounded. “‘Get Down Tonight.’”

  The fact that it sounded nothing like that only made me laugh harder.

  “Meh. I used to,” Oliver says now, countering Caroline. “I haven’t played in a while.”

  The conversation continues over another bottle of wine—four people getting to know each other during dinner. And I’m really surprised to find that I’m enjoying myself. I mean, one would think it would be eternally awkward to sit at a dinner table with your husband and the man you’ve been having less-than-platonic dreams about. And it was, at first. But the thing is—Oliver is so normal. I mean yes, he’s dead sexy in his urban hipster way. Objectively speaking, of course. But he’s also affable and self-deprecating and funny. Actually, weirdly, in that way, he reminds me a lot of Harrison. I steal a glance at my husband, feeling warm as he spins one of his tales from the ER. It’s a classic—one I’ve heard him share a few times—from his first week on rotation as a surgical resident at Thomas Jefferson about three buddies who went out drinking together.

  “Let’s call them Moe, Curly and Larry,” he’s saying. “They get drunk as skunks. Larry decides he’s going to drive home. Moe, realizing that’s not safe, tries to stop him. Won’t let him in his car. Larry, pissed, pulls out his gun—naturally—and shoots Moe.”

  “Oh no!” Caroline squeals.

  “So Moe pulls out his gun and shoots back. Then—then!—wait for it. Curly, he’s packing, too. Of course! So he pulls out his gun and shoots Larry, wanting to defend his buddy. Multiple gunshot wounds all show up at the ER at once.” Harrison laughs, shakes his head. “Fortunately, liquored up as they were, not one of them could hit the broad side of a barn, only sustained flesh wounds, and they all pulled through.”

  Relaxed, I reach for a piece of bread out of the basket in front of me. A comfortable silence falls over the table, as everyone pushes back from their plates, the only sound the heavy panting from Willy lying in the corner, eyeing the floor for a crumb to drop. I rip off a hunk of sourdough and chew.

  “Oh my god,” Caroline announces, slapping her palms on the table. “I just had the weirdest sense of déjà vu. Like we’ve all been here before.”

  “Really?” My head whips toward her.

  “Yes. Oh, never mind, it’s gone.”

  “That’s odd,” Harrison says, slowly. Thoughtfully. “Mia got that, too. When we ran into you at Dr. Okafor’s.” I swivel toward him, and that’s when I see it. His face is relaxed, open, and I know he’s had one glass of wine too many. Oh God. No. Nononononononononononono. This is not happening. I glare at him wildly, trying to catch his attention. He doesn’t look at me. I clutch my fork, ready to—what?—launch it at him? Stab myself directly in the heart?

  “Tell them, honey,” he urges.

  “No,” I say. “It’s nothing.”

  “No, it’s funny,” Harrison says, and I realize he thinks it really is. There’s no malice in his voice. “She thought she knew Oliver.” I stare at him with wide, desperate eyes and he looks at me. Really sees me. And then he shrugs. “Probably from the Giant or wherever you guys ran into each other.”

  Oh, thank God. I slump back in my chair.

  “Or from her dreams.”

  “Harrison!” And suddenly I’m stone-cold sober, staring at my husband in disbelief.

  “What?” Caroline says. “You had a dream about Ollie?”

  “No,” I say. I feel Oliver’s eyes on me and I immediately start laughing to cover my embarrassment. “It was probably just someone that looked like him. Dreams are so weird, aren’t they?”

  “Oh my god, they are,” Caroline says. “I have that one where I’m back in high school, but I’ve forgotten the combination to my locker, or where my classes are, or I’ve missed, like, forty-five days of school and they’re not going to let me graduate. Do you have those?”

  “I don’t know.” Harrison’s forehead wrinkles. “I don’t think I really dream.”

  “Everyone dreams,” Caroline says, as if she’s the foremost expert on the subject. “Some are just better at remembering them than others.” It’s something I’ve told Harrison before and normally I would jump in, agreeing with her, but I’m currently too busy trying to decide if it’s better to slink under the table and lie there until it’s time to leave or fake a sudden illness and rush to the car.

  Caroline stands up, clutching her stomach. “Ugh. Pregnancy indigestion is no joke. Anyway, I hope you all aren’t too full. I made bread pudding for dessert.”

  “Oh, I’m stuffed,” I say, a little too enthusiastically.

  Harrison stands up, and I’m relieved he got the hint—since he so clearly missed all the others I’d been lobbing in his direction. I ball my napkin on the table and scoot my chair back, ready to thank Oliver and Caroline for the delicious meal and make our exit. Harrison stretches his arms overhead and then pats his taut belly. “Sounds great. I love bread pudding,” he says. “Point me toward the bathroom?”

  And then they’re both gone, and I’m alone. With Oliver. I fiddle with the napkin on the side of my plate and try to pretend that everything is completely normal. In my peripheral, I see him lean forward, his eyes nearly boring a hole in the side of my face. I glance up and offer what I hope is a small, normal smile. He doesn’t return it.

  “Is that true?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve dreamt about me?”

  “Oh.” I attempt a coquettish giggle, one meant to convey: Yes. So silly how the mind works, right? But it comes out sounding maniacal instead. More like: I’m going to slit your throat tonight while you sleep.

  He tilts his head, his expression serious. “Was it before we met?”

  My heart slams into my chest. My mouth turns to cotton. What? I try to say the word out loud, but it doesn’t come. I swallow, my throat like sandpaper.

  “How did you . . . ? Why would you . . . ?”

  Something clatters in the kitchen. A crash, more like, but neither of us moves. “Because,” he says, his black marble eyes penetrating mine, “I dream about you, too.”

  My mouth remains open; a breath comes out, and sounds a little like Oh. Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe I don’t breathe at all. Maybe the earth collapses on itself. A meteor strikes. My body floats up into the sky as weightless as a balloon filled with helium. Anything is possible.

  “Well!” Caroline breezes back into the room. “Thanks to your gentle giant”—she tosses a glinty glare in Oliver’s direction—“the bread pudding is now all over the kitchen floor.
Which is fine, because I don’t think it was my best, anyway. But the good news is, I found push-pops in the freezer.” She holds up a cardboard box and then darts her eyes suspiciously between us, either feeling the thick tension in the air or just noticing the way Oliver and I are looking at everything but each other.

  “What?” she says. “What did I miss?”

  * * *

  “I’m so sorry, babe,” Harrison says when I maneuver his Infiniti into the driveway later that evening.

  “Huh?” I look at him in the passenger seat as if I’ve suddenly realized he’s there. I’ve spent the entire car ride home wavering between good old-fashioned shock and trying to decide how exactly to tell Harrison what Oliver said—because of course I’m going to tell Harrison—and the best I’ve come up with is: The strangest thing just happened.

  But I haven’t been able to push the words out of my mouth. Fortunately, he’s been chatty, thanks to the wine, dissecting the night the way couples do: biggest goddamn dog I’ve ever seen . . . I knew you’d like her . . . carbonara was a little too eggy. Usually an active participant, tonight I mumbled affirmations and stared out the windshield into the long stretch of road in front of us.

  “You’ve been so quiet, and it hit me,” he says. “I didn’t even think about Caroline being pregnant—how that might affect you.” He’s looking at me with such concern. Love.

  “Oh—no, Harrison. I mean, yeah, it’s hard, but—” I swallow. “You were right. I did like her.”

  “Still. It was stupid of me. Insensitive.”

  I want to explain. To tell him it’s not that.

  The strangest thing just happened. I will myself to say it out loud.

  But the words won’t come.

  Not when we step into the bright light of the foyer.

  Not when we’re pulling limbs out of shirtsleeves and pants.