and read at a low-ceilinged coffee shop in Harvard Square called Café Pamplona. His plan was to get there before her on one of those days, tell her she looked familiar, start a conversation. Eventually they’d figure out that they lived in the same apartment building in Boston, and wasn’t it funny that they had actually met in Cambridge, and maybe they could get together sometime soon on their side of the river.
But he never got to enact this plan. Everything changed in February. A man had started appearing in Audrey’s apartment. A tall jock in a suit, who always showed up with a bottle of wine. Alan knew who he was. His name was Corbin Dell, and he also lived at 101 Bury Street, right down the hall from Audrey.
Chapter 7
Alan had met Corbin Dell shortly after he’d moved to Bury Street. This was before he’d begun watching Audrey Marshall, back when Quinn and he were an amorous young couple sharing their first apartment.
They’d met—Alan and Corbin—in the lobby of the building. Corbin was talking with the doorman named Bob and Alan was checking his mail on his way to play racquetball. The tape-wrapped handle of his racket poked out of his gym bag.
“Squash or racquetball?” Corbin asked Alan, noticing the racket.
“I’ve played both,” Alan said, “but lately I’ve been playing racquetball. Do you play?”
“I do. Where do you play?” Corbin asked. He was almost impossibly square jawed. In fact, everything about him was square—his wide shoulders, his thick hands, his head, its sharp corners accented by a blond crew cut. Alan knew, just by looking at him, that he would be a far superior player.
“The Y,” Alan said.
“Where? On the river?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I didn’t know they had racquetball courts. We should play some time. You could come to my club.”
“I’m not very good,” Alan said.
“I don’t care about that,” Corbin said. “The guy I play with now is so competitive it’s stopped being fun.”
They introduced themselves. Alan had a business card from the software company he worked at that had his e-mail on it, and he gave it to Corbin.
“You in marketing?” Corbin asked.
“I am. What about you?”
“Financial advisor. At Briar-Crane.” Alan recognized the name. Of course he was in finance. Guys who looked like Corbin loved nothing more than currency speculation and talking about rates of exchange. They said goodbye, Corbin telling Alan that he’d be in touch about racquetball. Alan exited through the courtyard on his way to the Y, knowing that Corbin would probably never e-mail, but feeling a strange surge of pleasure that he suddenly lived in a building where men made racquetball dates in the lobby. This was his new life, now that he was with Quinn, who’d always had family money and always would have family money. She’d insisted on moving into 101 Bury Street, even though the rent was four times what Alan had been paying for a two-bedroom in South Boston.
Alan forgot about Corbin Dell, and was surprised when, a week later, he got an e-mail from him that read:
Let’s play that game of racquetball. I can do Saturday morning if you can. I got a court for 10 am. Corbin
They’d played, and Alan had been right: Corbin was a far superior player, not just in skill level, but in fitness. After the game, Corbin looked like he didn’t need a shower, while Alan, dripping with sweat, worked hard to form complete sentences. Still, after showering and walking back from Corbin’s swank club to the apartment building, Corbin said they should play again.
And they did, but just once. It was right before Christmas week, and afterward they got a beer together at the Sevens on Charles Street. The drink at the bar felt to Alan like their racquetball games—Corbin in control and Alan scrambling to catch up. Corbin talked about great restaurants in Boston, mentioned his portfolio, and swiveled his head to watch a beautiful brunette walk across the room. Alan thought Corbin was overcompensating for something, although what that was he didn’t know. Maybe it was that stupid, preppy name—Corbin—that he’d been saddled with, or maybe he was secretly gay and trying desperately to hide it. After the beer they walked together down Charles Street. It was just past five but dark already, the store windows festooned and glittery with Christmas lights. “I hate Christmas,” Corbin said, almost to himself, then quickly laughed.
“I’m ambivalent. I don’t celebrate it,” Alan said.
That had been their last time hanging out, except for occasionally running