some attention to you, you have to latch on to him with a death grip because you don’t know if another man will ever be interested in you again? They can’t be blind to his considerable shortcomings, can they? The whole situation is just too depressing.
I call my mother, the most enthusiastic purveyor of advice I know.
“If you decide to tell her, be prepared for her to be angry with you,” Mom cautions.
“Maybe I should wait to see how this wedding date issue plays out. Katie was going to try to pin him down on a date, finally. And he hasn’t actually cheated on her yet.”
“I’d say he has,” Mom replies. I think she’s right. He has betrayed Katie.
After I hang up the phone I’m too distracted to get any work done, so I compose an email to Katie simply asking when we can get together. Her reply appears about a half hour later. She wants to go shopping for swimsuits on Saturday. This is not my favorite activity, but I agree to go. Why do I feel like I’m summoning her to her execution?
eight
A few uneventful days have passed since Bryn’s confession. It occupies my thoughts constantly, ahead of the company buyout, about which there has been no further news. I thought Bryn might try to call or email me after our conversation. No doubt, she’s wondering if I’ve told Katie, but I haven’t heard from her. It would be easy to vilify Bryn, but I’ve thought things over, and I find myself feeling sorry for her instead. Having the attention of an attractive, successful man, no matter how despicable he obviously is, would be hard for her to resist. Character issues aside, Bryn is insecure and probably a little bit lonely. Mike found the perfect candidate with which to share his own significant issues. Katie really would be better off without him. But I have a feeling she just won’t see it that way.
The nagging nausea I now feel reminds me that I have to hurry and get dressed if I want to be on time for my date with Jason. I’m always slightly nauseated before a date. No matter how many dates I’ve been on, or how many years I’ve been dating, nerves are my constant dating companion. Also, a part of me doesn’t want to go and would rather stay home. I wonder if that’s normal.
I drive toward a red velvet sky as I head into the city. The last moments of daylight are bleeding into a layer of purple clouds just above the horizon as I pull into one of the many public parking lots downtown and pay the attendant. The humidity has dissipated with the sunlight, and my clip-free hair feels as though it’s behaving nicely. I swiftly walk the two blocks to the restaurant with my clicking heels broadcasting my progression. Someone is leaving as I’m arriving, and he graciously holds the door open for me. The artificial arctic air hits me as I enter the restaurant. I’ve been to this place before when it was a more casual spot that served Mexican food. Since then it’s changed hands, transforming into an upscale Italian place. It’s crowded, and echoed voices create a constant level of noisy conversation occasionally punctuated by a burst of laughter.
The main foyer is filled with people waiting to be seated. I don’t see Jason. It’s just eight now, and I’m right on time. When I spot a crowded bar area in the back, I decide to take a quick look over there, hoping that I’ll recognize Jason if I see him. I crane my neck and glance around, ignoring the invitations for eye contact that I notice in my peripheral vision. I don’t think I see Jason, and I move back toward the door to speak with the maitre d’. When I do, I learn that there is a reservation for two under the name Randall. I let him know that half of the Randall party has arrived and then, rather than stand in the chilly foyer, I move outside to the sidewalk and the balmy evening air.
Boston is a great city for people watching. The street on which I stand is comprised of mainly of upscale restaurants and shops. Expensive cars line the sidewalks, and couples dressed for an evening out stroll by. The streetlights have been constructed to look like old-fashioned gas lamps, but they are juxtaposed by the modern skyscrapers that stretch up into the night