Always the Last to Know by Kristan Higgins Page 0,71

eyes crinkled and sparkled in that special way I remembered, and shit, yes, he did look happy.

My wild boy.

Tears spilled out of my eyes, surprising me. Obviously, I could’ve been his wife. I’d said no for all good reasons. He was uncompromising, and that wasn’t a good sign for a marriage. We didn’t want the same things, no matter how much we loved each other. So of course he was moving on. He deserved happiness, and I felt a hot, fast burn of shame that I hadn’t been able to give it to him. No. I’d broken his heart instead.

Then again, he’d broken mine, too. It was a mutual devastation.

So I would be glad for him. I took my unjustified sense of betrayal and stuffed it down deep. Before I could talk myself out of it, I took out my pastels and drew him a little card with a heart-shaped cloud on it and wrote, Congratulations on your engagement. I’m happy for you, Noah. I didn’t sign it. I didn’t have to.

He didn’t answer, nor did I expect him to. I just wanted him to know I wasn’t resentful or furious or sobbing on my desk . . . even if I’d sobbed a little.

In a way, his engagement freed me. I didn’t have to justify or prove myself, because Noah wasn’t out there, watching and waiting and judging anymore. I relaxed, not knowing my heart had been clenched with tension until it loosened. Something softened in me. Now when I saw that New York confidence, when I read about Aneni’s latest show, I felt the familiar sense of wonder, but it was no longer infected by envy. Maybe I’d never be them, those brilliant, sharp-edged, confident New Yorkers, but it was okay. I was doing just fine.

I got a couple of raises at St. Catherine’s—Sister Mary seemed to like me. Teaching was more fun than I’d expected, introducing the kids to Picasso and Seurat, Jackson Pollock and Georgia O’Keeffe. I was told I was loved multiple times throughout the day, and was the beneficiary of many hugs. At least once a month, a kindergartener or first grader would propose. It was good for the ego, all those bright eyes and happy faces, and it was nice to leave them, too, and return to my lovely apartment in the armpit of the city.

Though I was embarrassed by their utter vapidity, the couch paintings were profitable. I could bang out one of those in a couple of hours, depending on the medium and size. If it looked like something you’d buy at Target, so be it. I still got to sign my name and deposit a sizable check. I took down my website, since nothing I was doing needed to be immortalized in cyberspace.

I saw friends often and enjoyed the nights when I was alone, despite the urge to machete my way through Times Square on the way home every night. (Tourists taking pictures of neon signs should be thrown in jail. There. I was a true New Yorker.) I even dated a little. A slurry of first dates, one regrettable hookup, then a nice person named Sam. We dated for a few months—he was a funny guy who did something with the waste water of New York City. I liked him very much. We never had a bad time together. One night, when we’d been together long enough that we didn’t wonder if we were going to spend the weekend together, he said (in bed, no less), “I think I’m falling in love with you, Sadie.”

I replied with, “Oh, wow, that’s so . . . flattering.”

Thus ended Sam and me. I was grateful he broke it off before we got more entangled in each other’s lives. Breaking another heart was not something I could handle. And besides . . . I think I’m falling in love with you? Kind of tepid. I’d never had to ponder that with Noah. It was, to quote the great Stevie Wonder, signed, sealed, delivered. Done.

Once in a while, I’d check Gillian’s Facebook page. She was the kind of bride who gave me a rash—obsessed with the me-ness of the upcoming day. “Which bouquet do you like best?” she’d ask. Sure, sure, she was an event planner, but come on. She had Pinterest boards of dresses, bouquets, centerpieces, bridesmaid dresses. She had a bachelorette weekend with her twelve closest friends in Miami (those poor women . . . I imagined it cost them thousands), and