Page 49 of The New Couple in 5B

The play was about a young girl name Jessie who ran away from home to escape abuse and came to New York City, only to be victimized again and again, before eventually finding her way. The character Ben was her social services counselor—the young, hip voice of reason, who helps her get her GED, get into college and find a job. I knew enough about the acclaimed playwright to know that the story was semi-autobiographical. It was funny, moving and true—and Chad’s performance was mesmerizing. He’d been studying and rehearsing for the role, never imagining that he’d actually be on stage. Then, the original Ben slipped and fell down the stairs of his walk-up and broke his leg, only an hour before he was due to report to the theater. Chad had raced on zero notice from his job as a bartender up the street and got there just in time—hence his rush up the front steps.

Hilary had to have cancelled late, otherwise Rosie wouldn’t have been waiting there. The weather had to be lousy, or the steps wouldn’t have been slick. Rosie had to fall. The actor scheduled to perform had toquite literally break a legjust hours before the performance. Chad had to be racing up the stairs at just the moment Rosie fell and spilled the contents of her bag.

His performance, the play, was a huge hit—a standing ovation and big cheers for Chad. I swear I was in love with him before I left the theater.

You fell in love with Ben, Chad likes to complain.Because he’s so woke, and present, so wise. I don’t think I’m as evolved as Ben.

But it wasn’t true. It wasn’t Ben; it was Chad. It was always him, from that first moment when he handed me the ruined compact. There was something in his gaze, his energy. Whatever it was, I wanted it in my life.

I don’t believe in bad luck, do you?

Those were Chad’s first words to Rosie. I don’t. I don’t believe in good luck, either. But I do believe that certain circumstances might look like bad luck, but then lead to something wonderful.

That night at the theater I didn’t linger, though. I wasn’t going to be the girl waiting to meet the actors—even though it was a small production and the cast always gathered in the lobby to shake hands and talk with the audience.

When the play ended, I moved toward the exit in the crowd. Just as I reached the doors, I heard my name. It was my professor, Miranda Bright—a brilliant playwright who would go on to win major awards. I pushed my way back to her, and she pulled me into a warm hug, smelling of jasmine.

Tall and elegant, with long dreadlocks and wire-rimmed glasses, she was a dynamic, engaged and joyful teacher of her craft. I never wanted to write plays, but I loved writing them for her.

“Your play,” I gushed. “It was magnificent. Wow, so moving.”

She put her hands in prayer at her chest, gave a little bow. “It’s a journey. It’s all the people involved. I’m just a team member. But thank you.”

Her grace, her humility, was so inspiring.

“Tell me everything,” she said generously, even though it was her night.

I told her quickly about my job in publishing, the book I was researching.

“You’re going to do great things, Rosie,” she said kindly when I was done.

I blushed at her kindness and hoped I could prove her right. I continued to heap praise on her, the wonderful play, her huge talent, insight, wisdom. And then, there he was.

“Poor Chad,” she said, looping her arm through his. “He raced from his bartending job. Wasn’t he magnificent?”

“He was. You were,” I said. “You were—mesmerizing.”

He smiled, gave a bow of gratitude. “I wish you wrote for theNew York Times.”

“Maybe someday,” I said.

I still don’t remember quite how it happened. One minute we were standing and chatting; Miranda got pulled into another group of admirers. Chad introduced me to some other cast members; there was an easy drift backstage where the champagne was flowing.

And then it was late.

“Do you want to get out of here?” he asked finally. That charm; he was so easy with himself, with me.

There was no way he was going to leave there without getting to know her better, Ivan went on.He told me that she cast a spell on him that night. One look, and he was ruined for all other women.

We left together and found ourselves at a speakeasy on Eighth Street and we stayed there until it closed, just talking. Intimacy was total, immediate. We weren’t apart again, not really. There wasn’t any on-again, off-again. There were no games. We were living together inside six months. Engaged after a year. It took us nearly five years to get to the altar, only because we were both so young and it seemed right to wait. We’ve barely argued. Even when I was deeply depressed during the writing of my last book, he was there, my rock, my best friend, dragging me through, never impatient, always by my side.

If just one of those things hadn’t happened, we wouldn’t be standing here tonight, toasting this beautiful, special, talented young couple. Even so, it takes more to make a marriage than good luck, or bad. A few people in this room can attest to how that initial golden moment can dull, how secrets, lies and bad behavior, jealousy, or possessiveness, can tarnish love. But I’ve seen how these two love each other, support each other, laugh together, are tender, don’t hold back, give everything. Maybe it was kismet that brought them together, but it’s their pure loving hearts that will keep them that way.

I’m thinking about Ivan’s speech, about the night Chad and I met, as I watch my husband work the room. After he sweeps in the front door with Olivia, petite and impeccably dressed in a tight black suit and heels, looking fierce and official by his side, he speaks to the detective, telling him things I’ve never heard about Dana. That she was unstable, that she’d struggled with mental illness since childhood. She was obsessed with him, was sick with jealousy over his relationship with her father.

His performance is pitch-perfect—earnest, searching, distraught. I feel like I could be watching him on stage.

“I kept this—a lot of it—from Rosie,” he says, looking over at me. The wrinkle in his brow, the set of his mouth—worried for me, for us, but trying to help.

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