got the chance to talk to him.
I’m not at all surprised to hear that he is good-looking. He always was, and never more than that night with the Bee Gees in our ears and me in his arms. We danced for a while, through three or four more songs, and when the next slow dance began (“Can You Feel the Love Tonight,” by Elton John), my father came barging over and announced loudly that it was his turn to dance with his daughter. I could see a funny look on Andrew’s face. He knew my dad (everybody knew my dad), and I think it was at that moment that he realized who I was. And I looked up into his eyes, afraid I’d find regret or embarrassment, but there was neither of those. Andrew just looked very content, and very handsome.
He bowed formally and raised my hand, offering it to my father with an overdone flourish. It was very corny and funny, the sort of thing that could have come off cheesy but I had such a crush on him he could have gotten away with anything. So I danced with my father and then I went back and sat down and continued to pick at the frosting on my chocolate cake. And Andrew never came back to ask me to dance again, or to say good night, or anything. I went home and ran a hot bath and lay in it for a long time.
At school that Monday I found a note in my locker, handwritten in red ink on a sheet of loose-leaf paper with holes on the side where it had been ripped from a binder.
Thank you for a splendid night.
I’ll be seeing you.
A. M.
I still have it. I love everything about it. I love that he took the time to find out which was my locker, and I love that he used the word “splendid,” which I’m not sure I have ever seen used in any context since. I still remember it as one of the sweetest encounters of my life, even if nothing ever came of it. There is something endlessly romantic about my memory of the whole thing; in fact, if you told me you had it all on videotape I would refuse to watch, because I’d be afraid it wasn’t quite as perfect as I remember. And I still think of Andrew as my first boyfriend, even though I’m afraid I can’t tell you for sure if he’s an excellent kisser.
Please write me back.
* * *
Person2Person
From: Brooke B.
To: Samantha R.
BreastCancerForum.org
* * *
Pity, he’s a hunk.
* * *
Person2Person
From: Samantha R.
To: Brooke B.
BreastCancerForum.org
* * *
I’m not at all surprised. His father was the only man in town more handsome than mine. Is he married? Does he have a family? Does he seem happy?
You may or may not know the answers to any of those. I realize he is your children’s doctor, not necessarily a family friend. Frankly, it’s you I want to know about. I apologize for prying when it is so clear you don’t want to share, but I’ll ask one more time and then I promise to leave it alone.
How is your heroine doing?
* * *
Person2Person
From: Brooke B.
To: Samantha R.
BreastCancerForum.org
* * *
What was the major drama you found by surprise in your e-mail?
* * *
Person2Person
From: Samantha R.
To: Brooke B.
BreastCancerForum.org
* * *
I found a naked photo of another woman in my husband’s inbox. And it happened on my honeymoon. So I was married for two days.
* * *
Person2Person
From: Brooke B.
To: Samantha R.
BreastCancerForum.org
* * *
Wow, I’m sorry.
I didn’t mean to be so glib about something so serious.
I’ll tell you, though, maybe in a way you could look at it as though you are lucky. You say you’re having a hard time feeling lucky, and I understand that, but in a way you are, because you found out more quickly than most that you married the wrong man. Some women don’t have the good fortune of discovering that in two days. For some it takes two years, or two decades. And it isn’t always so obvious. A nude photo of a woman seems less like a sad surprise than a sign from above, like a flashing light with a megaphone attached, blaring: “You married an asshole, run away before he ruins a lot more than two days of your life!”
I have been married a long time. People often ask me about my marriage, and I always tell them the same thing: being married to the right