Page 16 of Exit Lane
He’s referencing the other thing in my life that I’ve told only him, the other thing I’d rather sweep under the rug: that one doctor referred me to another doctor who is running some tests. That I’m young and healthy and the odds are low, but it’s worth checking some things out to be safe. That even seeing the word “oncology” in an emailand leaning back for an MRI is enough to make me want to reconsider the way I’m moving through my life.
The second I hang up, I feel something start to crystallize in my head, in my chest, in the recesses of my gut. It grows stronger and stronger until it’s wrapped around every inch of me, full-body clarity like I’ve only felt one other time in my life, when my mom told us my dad was moving to a hotel for a few weeks while they figured things out. Then it was rage, and now it’s an equally singular and blinding emotion: determination.
Nothing seems as complicated as I’ve told myself it was since I first saw Marin on campus. She’s the person I think about all the time. My first instinct whenever I pick up my phone is to call her. When we’re talking, it’s hard to remember why I let this cloud of confusion drive me to inaction for all these years. When we’re together, it’s the only thing that matters.
I look up from my pacing and realize I’m walking past Sing Sing. A dumb smile lands on my face. I don’t care about what’s rational or all the reasons why letting her go might be logical. All that matters is Marin, getting to her, and giving what we’ve tried to ignore a real shot.
Marin
I log off of my last call just in time for my sushi delivery. It’s Wednesday. Two days since I sent the email. I’ve hired a Danish tutor to distract me. She’s strict and incrediblyunforgiving. I’m being whipped into shape via vocab lessons, and it’s good for me. I matched with a gorgeous producer on Raya, but his messages make me want to drop my phone in the toilet. “We’d make the ultimate power couple” and a string of arm muscle emojis. My first thought? To tell Teddy about it. Instead, I swipe again.
I take my salmon rolls out to the terrace. It’s freezing, but the gentle whir of Copenhagen at night is starting to win me over. Wrapped in a mohair throw and a beanie Sloane’s mom gave me five Christmases ago, I try to convince myself I made the right decision. That cutting Teddy off was the only option. That Teddy reminds me too much of what I once thought I’d want when I grew up. A close family. A home I could always come back to. I lost all that when I was fifteen. The life I rebuilt is different, distant, and as far away from the pain as possible. It’s a life that looks good, but most of the time, it doesn’t feel like anything at all.
And yet, as much distance as I’ve put between myself and my old hurt, when I’m unable to sleep or distracted in meetings, it’s Teddy’s face I see. His corn-fed, Midwestern-mannered, quick-to-laugh face.
I pull the blanket over my head like a hood, shivering, and turn back to the plate in my lap.
Mid-bite, I hear a knock. Only police and Jehovah’s Witnesses show up at your door in Denmark. Privacy is sacred here.
Another knock. I stand, the cold through my socked feet multiplying my nerves. I close the balcony door gently, grab my phone from the kitchen table, and preemptivelydial the local emergency number. My heart beats in my throat. The quiet of the night I was charmed by takes on hostility. I grab a skillet off my stove, a fine weapon in case I need it. One hand ready to dial, another clenching cookware, I try to recall the thirty-minute self-defense class FourVC held during a work retreat. I plant my feet, swing the door open, and immediately stumble back. Like I’ve been pummeled by a wave. Like being pulled under by the tide is all I’ve really wanted.
XII
Teddy
Seeing her in pajamas makes the eight hours in Comfort Plus next to a chatty toddler feel worth it. Her hair’s slipping out of a braid, and one pant leg is tucked into a pushed-down sock. This isn’t the Marin I work with every day. This is the Marin I haven’t been able to get out of my head for the last five years.
I imagined this reunion unfolding a thousand different ways—immediate sex in the kitchen, intruding on someone else having sex with Marin in the kitchen, awkward silence, a curt request to turn around immediately. My logical brain settled on Marin responding in her signature style, with a lot of questions in a raised tone. The skillet in her hand? No amount of daydreaming could have prepared me for that.
And her warmth, that feeling of being in her presence—I think I forget what it’s like, as a coping mechanism.
I rock back and forth from heel to toe in the same tennis shoes I was wearing when I hatched this plan. Let her process. Don’t overwhelm her any more than you already have.
She’s speechless, sputtering while she pushes up her sleeves and scans me, suitcase and all, beforewhisper-shouting, “Teddy, why didn’t you call? Or email me? Are you here... just to see me? Or for something else? Why didn’t I know you’d be standing here right now?” The list of questions comes out in a jumble. I watch her toggle between what she feels and what she wants to feel. She sets the skillet down on a nearby credenza. A smile works its way out of the corner of her perfect mouth, but then she crosses her arms.
She’s apprehensive, but the grin’s winning where she’s trying desperately to stay stern.
There was no point in rehearsing anything. The second I’m in front of Marin, I can only say exactly what I feel. I whisper in her hallway, leaning against the doorframe.
“This is a romantic gesture, Mar. That’s why I didn’t text you my flight confirmation number.” If I could just kiss her, lift the pajama top off her shoulders and make good on where we left our phone conversation off.
She winces at the word “romantic,” but a subtle blush spreads across her face, too, and it’s like she’s read my mind. Annoyed, she reaches one hand for the doorframe, bristling as she grazes my fingers and decides crossing her arms is much safer. I watch her run through her response in her head, seeing the way her eyes avoid mine as she constructs a cost-benefit analysis in real time. “You can’t just show up here and expect me to go back on what I said, Teddy. What we did wasn’t right. You’re in a relationship. We work together. I... live here.” A neighbor slips out of their door with the poshest-looking dog I’ve ever seen. They both glare at us.
Marin sighs. “Come in.”
The apartment is somewhere on the opposite end of the spectrum of the rundown place I’ve clung to since the two of us first rolled into New York five years ago. The ceilings shoot past twenty feet. The walls are wood paneled, even in the bathroom, where I notice a clawfoot tub as we walk by. An office, without a hideous monitor and computer chair from Amazon. Throw blankets that look like they were chosen specifically for this space and seem to know it. It’s intimidating, like every single part of her life. But the closer I get to the real Marin, the more confident I feel that the rigid organization, the shininess of it all, is just an attempt at control.
Before I can stop myself, I’m picturing our life here, in this apartment. Marin doesn’t want the house on Fifty-First Street and T-ball games at the same park where Carter and I met, but maybe I could want this. If it means having her. Before I can examine the thought, fear seeps in. If I don’t clutch that dream I’ve pinned my future on, where does it leave me?Be here, I remind myself, a mantra I stole from one of Caroline’s morning meditations months ago.
Marin puts on a kettle, leaning against her spotless marble counter. Her arms seem permanently crossed at this point, so I try to explain.
“It’s over with Caroline,” I tell her, inching toward the kitchen like I’m approaching a cornered animal. “I broke up with her. Before you sent the email. And I’m not saying that to pressure you or demand that this”—insert erratic pointing between the two of us—“has to become... anythingmore than it is. But I decided I had to at least create the opportunity to give it a chance.”
Saying it, I feel instantly lighter. Watching her process the news about Caroline, about my unwillingness to ignore this thing we have, I feel hope flutter somewhere in my chest. She doesn’t respond, just carries two mugs that seem to shimmer in the low light over to her dining table. With her sitting across from me, I’m struck by how little time we’ve spent in the same room. In contrast to our hours on the phone and the nights I’ve spent alone imagining what this would feel like, there’s been so little actual face-to-face interaction. And maybe I should be grateful for whatever amount of sober thinking that distance has granted me. Because her beauty, even at her most calculated and cold, is arresting in real life, and it engulfs me. Perfect posture. A pajama shirt undone one button too low. Those cheekbones sprinkled with freckles and the way she runs her finger across her collarbone when she’s thinking. The way she slides her hair behind her ear.
I wrest my eyes away from her gestures and press my palms into the warm mug. “Here’s what I’m proposing, and I’m sorry I don’t have a deck to go along with this.” She nods, not taking the bait on my attempt at a joke. I’m overcompensating for my uncertainty. I’m scared to stop talking because she could very well ask me to book the next flight back to New York, so I go on. “I’ll get a hotel nearby for the week. We’ll hang out as little or as much as you want. And by the end of the trip, we’ll decide if what happened on the phone that night means anything. Worst-case scenario:It’s awkward, and we endure next year’s FourVC offsite in Portugal with the help of a lot of wine. Best-case scenario: Well, I don’t know. That’s kind of what I’m here to find out.”
My beating heart fills the silence in the room. It’s high risk, but so was flying out here in the first place. So was not taking action at all. I’ll do anything she asks. Even if these ten minutes are all I get with her, it’s proof enough that no other person has ever made me feel this way, and I’m willing to bet no one else ever will. She uncrosses her arms, and I don’t dare blink. Marin opens her mouth, pulls an inhale, and presses her head into her hands like they might help her think.
