publishers said that they wanted to read Nicky’s next novel. The agent told Nicky not to lower his standards and accept a deal with a smaller press; instead, he should write something new.
I thought it a tremendous success that Nicky’s first effort had piqued an agent’s interest and resulted in favorable reactions from the major publishers, but Nicky was devastated. The rejection might have been the first he’d ever suffered, at least of any consequence.
I’m not sure he wrote another word for the rest of our twenties. At least he didn’t mention anything that got further than the “idea stage,” and he never asked me to read anything. Then, around the time that Anne and I got engaged, he mentioned that he was back at it, working on something he was very excited about.
Apparently, it had taken him three years to finish, but there it was, what looked to be at least a ream of paper in a shopping bag. I glanced at the title: Precipice.
“Is it about two best friends from Astoria?”
He laughed. “I’m tempted to tell you that you’ll find out when you read it, but no. It’s a love story, actually.”
That surprised me a bit. I hadn’t thought Nicky knew enough about love to write a love story. A young buck who has sex with hundreds of women? That he could write. But love? It seemed outside his scope of experience.
“I can’t wait to read it,” I said. “Fair warning, though, it may take me a while. I have this appellate brief due in two weeks. Unfortunately, all my reading’s going to have to be case law until that’s submitted.”
He seemed disappointed that he’d have to wait before getting feedback.
“Why don’t you ask Carolyn to be your first read?” I suggested.
“I don’t think so. To be honest, I don’t think there’s a real future there.”
“Why? She seemed great.”
“I know. I was just thinking . . . I don’t know, just . . .”
“No, you’re right, Nicky. That sounds like a perfectly good reason to break up with a beautiful, intelligent woman.”
“You got lucky. Anne was practically the first woman you were serious about. That’s why you can’t understand what it’s like to be with someone who you think is great, smart, beautiful, and you have amazing sex, but you still have that nagging feeling like they’re not the one for you.”
“That’s the most pathetic thing I’ve ever heard,” I said with a laugh. “You almost make me glad that beautiful women aren’t constantly throwing themselves at my feet. If you want my advice, and I know you don’t, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t take it, give Carolyn some more time. I think there’s something real there.”
“I’ll take it under advisement,” he said.
It turned out that he did more than that. Not two months later, they were engaged, and their marriage came a month after that. Then, as soon as they returned from their honeymoon, they moved to the suburbs.
And now, a month after that, Carolyn was dead.
3.
Nicky said he was fine to stay in his house, but I suspected he had no idea how he’d feel once he was alone, so I told him that he didn’t have a choice in the matter, at least not tonight. After a brief back-and-forth, he agreed to take the train back to the city and stay with Anne and me for the night.
On the ride back into the city, Nicky told me that he had taken “something” to calm himself, so if he got a little loopy, I shouldn’t be concerned. He didn’t get loopy so much as sleepy. When we got back to my apartment, I delivered him into the bedroom and told him to rest.
Nicky was still asleep when Anne came home. It was about three in the afternoon. Anne was wearing her gym clothing and still sweating. When she saw me in the living room, she looked like she’d seen a ghost. By the fear in her eyes I first thought she had already heard the news about Carolyn, but then I realized that her concern stemmed from my being home in the middle of the workday. As if only some type of tragedy could explain it.
“I have some very bad news,” I said. “Carolyn died this morning. An accident. She drowned in the bathtub.”
Anne reacted with silence. It reminded me of what I’d gone through earlier that morning when Nicky called to impart the same news: a delayed response because the statement made zero sense.
Twenty-seven-year-old