Page 142 of Still Me
I sent Margot a picture of Dean Martin and wrote her a short letter updating her on his well-being, just to calm my nerves. I walked up and down the empty apartment and swore a bit. I poured myself a sherry from Margot’s dusty drinks cabinet and drank it in three gulps, although it wasn’t even lunchtime. And then I pulled the letter out of the bin, opened my laptop, sat on the hall floor with my back to Margot’s front door so that I could use the Gopniks’ WiFi, and e-mailed Sam.
—What kind of bullshit letter is that? Why would you send me that now? After all this time?
The answer came back within minutes, as if he had been sitting waiting at his computer.
—I get your anger. I’d probably be angry too. But Lily said you were thinking of getting married and the whole looking at apartments in Little Italy thing just made me think if I didn’t tell you now it was going to be too late.
I stared at my screen, frowning. I reread what he’d written, twice. Then I typed:
—Lily told you that?
—Yes. And the thing about you thinking it was a bit soon and not wanting him to think you were doing it for the residency. But how his proposal made it impossible for you to say no.
I waited a few minutes, then I typed, carefully:
—Sam, what did she tell you about the proposal?
—That Josh had gone down on one knee at the top of the Empire State Building? And about the opera singer he hired?
Lou, don’t be angry with her. I know I shouldn’t have made her tell me. I know it’s none of my business. But I just asked her how you were the other day. I wanted to know what was going on in your life. And then she kind of knocked me sideways with all this stuff. I told myself to just be glad you were happy. But I kept thinking: What if I had been that guy? What if I had—I don’t know—seized the moment?
I closed my eyes.
—So you wrote to me because Lily told you I was about to get married?
—No. I wanted to write to you anyway. Have done since I saw you in Stortfold. I just didn’t know what to say.
But then I figured once you were married—especially if you were getting married so quickly—it was going to be impossible for me to say anything afterward. Maybe that’s old-fashioned of me.
Look, I basically just wanted you to know I was sorry, Lou. That’s it. I’m sorry if this is inappropriate.
It took a while before I wrote again.
—Okay. Well, thanks for letting me know.
I shut the lid and leaned back against the front door and closed my eyes for a long time.
—
I decided not to think about it. I was quite good at not thinking about things. I did my household errands, and I took Dean Martin on his walks and I traveled to the East Village on the subway in the stifling heat and discussed square footage and partitions and leases and insurances with the girls. I did not think about Sam.
I did not think about him when I walked the dog past the vomitous ever-present garbage trucks, or dodged the honking UPS vans, or twisted my ankles on the cobbles of SoHo, or lugged suitcases of clothing through the turnstiles of the subway. I recited Margot’s words and I did the thing I loved, which had now grown from a tiny germ of an idea into a huge oxygenated bubble, which inflated from the inside of me, steadily pushing out everything else.
I did not think about Sam.
—
His next letter arrived three days later. I recognized the handwriting this time, scrawled across an envelope that Ashok had pushed under my door.
So I thought about our e-mail exchange and I just wanted to talk to you about a couple more things. (You didn’t say I couldn’t so I hope you’re not going to rip this up.)
Lou, I never knew you even wanted to get married. I feel stupid for not asking you about that now. And I didn’t realize you were the kind of girl who secretly wanted big romantic gestures. But Lily has told me so much about what Josh does for you—the weekly roses, the fancy dinners and stuff—and I’m sitting here thinking... Was I really so static? How did I just sit there and expect that everything was going to be okay if I didn’t even try?
Lou, did I get this so wrong? I just need to know if the whole time we were together you were waiting for me to make some grand gesture, if I misread you. If I did, I’m sorry, again.
It’s kind of odd to have to think about yourself so much, especially if you’re a bloke not massively prone to introspection. I like doing stuff, not thinking about it. But I guess I need to learn a lesson here and I’m asking you if you’d be kind enough to tell me.
I took one of Margot’s faded notelets with the address at the top. I crossed out her name. And I wrote:
