be ridiculous is what she wants him to say. Our love is real, our relationship is strong, we have not been dating for ten years and living together for three just because I needed a warm body by my side.
“Please can we not talk about this right now? We probably should have a talk at some point, but not tonight. I don’t have the energy.”
Amy is stopped by this. They should have a talk at some point? What does that mean? She thinks of the ring box in JP’s dresser drawer. Maybe the talk he’s referring to will include, finally, a proposal. But somehow, she doesn’t think so.
“I bought a bottle of the Cliff Lede,” she says. “And some nice steak tips. I have that potato salad recipe I want to try. It has a bacon dressing—”
“I won’t be here for dinner,” JP says.
“What?” Amy says. She takes a nice long drink of her wine, but it has no more effect than if she were drinking pink water. “Where are you going?”
“I’m having dinner on Union Street,” he says. “At Savannah’s. She invited me when she drove me home from Vivi’s reception, and tonight was the night that worked for both of us. I should have told you this morning, I’m sorry.”
Amy knows to ignore her base instincts. She smiles. “Not a problem. The steak tips can wait. I may call Lorna and see if she wants to grab a bite at the Gaslight.”
“Good idea,” he says. Then he adds, “Thank you for being understanding; I appreciate it. This can’t be easy for you.”
Amy gets into the outdoor shower where she cries hot, ugly tears and wails into the sumptuous white Turkish towels from Serena and Lily that JP insists on. She has a glass of the Cliff Lede resting on the changing bench—the steak tips could wait, but that beautiful cabernet could not—and the second she shuts the water off, she drinks lavishly. She isn’t sure how to triage her pain. What hurts the worst? JP is going to Savannah’s for dinner, where the two of them will talk about Vivi—memories that have nothing to do with Amy. Amy will, for the two or three hours that JP is on Union Street (at Entre Nous, a house so divine it demands envy), be erased. JP’s utter devastation and his regret as he pored over the photographs is another kind of pain. And his flat declaration that they should talk is worrisome, to say the least.
Amy texts Lorna. JP informed me he’s going to dinner tonight at Savannah’s house.
She waits. Lorna is her best friend; there won’t be any need for further explanation.
WTF????!!?!
Exactly, Amy thinks. She texts: Can you meet me at the Gaslight in an hour? Girls’ night out!
Wish I could, Pigeon, but I’m on the boat over to Hyannis. I have the doctor bright and early.
Ugh, right. Lorna has an appointment at Cape Cod Hospital; there was something in her mammogram that needed a second look. If JP had let Amy know his plans a little earlier, Amy would have taken the ferry over with Lorna. They could have eaten at Pain D’Avignon and shopped at the mall like regular off-island people. Amy could have been there for Lorna’s appointment.
No worries! Amy says. Good luck tomorrow. Call if you need me. Now Amy needs to make a decision—stay home or go out alone?
Go out alone, she thinks. She pulls her sexiest dress out of the closet and lays it across the bed where JP will be sure to see it. He comes out of the bathroom in his boxers, his face slathered with shaving cream.
“You’re shaving?” Amy says. “Is this a special occasion, then?”
JP shrugs and goes back into the bathroom. He doesn’t even glance at the dress.
Amy drinks another glass (two) of the Cliff Lede but there’s still half a bottle (a third of a bottle) left for another night. She’s wearing the sexy black dress—black is so forgiving—and she feels good. It’s not weird that she’s going out alone, she tells herself, or that in the ten years she’s lived here, she has made only one friend. She imagines herself as a character in a Vivian Howe novel—those women are always venturing out solo and finding a good time.
The Gaslight used to be a movie theater but has been reimagined as a live-music venue. It has a pressed-tin ceiling and a wall of vintage turntables and speakers; there’s a stage with a hot-pink neon sign that