that.
And the feeling had never gone away. There was a strange paradox at the heart of it: she felt totally comfortable with him, trusted he loved her whatever she did, yet at the same time she still wanted to impress him, still wanted to show him she was a strong and intelligent and beautiful woman who merited his ongoing love and attention. She didn’t resent the feeling, because she didn’t think she had to do it. He made it clear he loved her whatever – even when she was an exhausted new mom screaming at him because she was scared and tired and lost and he was there so he was the one she was going to take it out on, or when she’d had a bad day and her nasty side – and she did have a nasty side – was on full display – she never felt his love for her was at risk, because she knew he felt the same way she did: they were lucky they had found each other, and when you got lucky you made sure you didn’t waste it.
And right now she needed the man she loved more than ever.
‘We’ll work this out,’ Ben said. He was unsmiling. ‘And when we do, whoever did this will regret it.’
It was unusual for him to be angry; normally he was more sanguine. When they were younger – it didn’t happen so often now – and other guys chatted her up at bars, or weddings, or parties, he didn’t get mad, didn’t threaten them or glare at them. He left her to deal with it, and, if she mentioned it, he smiled and said other guys could talk to her all they wanted. He was the one going home with her. He was the one who’d be having breakfast with her. He was the one who bought her the sexy underwear she was wearing and who would be taking it off in the not too distant future. At most – if he felt she was uncomfortable – he would wander over, and introduce himself. Shake the guy’s hand, then apologize for interrupting, and tell her the mother-of-the-bride wanted to talk to her, or he wanted to introduce her to a work colleague who was about to leave, or say their taxi had arrived and it was time to go. She loved his confidence, his assumption that his position was not threatened by these half-drunk sleazeballs on the prowl at parties.
She’d asked him once, after a glass of wine too many, What if it wasn’t a sleazeball, but some handsome, charming guy? Would you be threatened then?
He’d laughed. I’d be fine. If you were interested in handsome, charming men you wouldn’t be with me. But you are with me. So I assume you’re interested in guys who are like me. And I’m the person who’s most like me that I know. So – logically – you’re never going to find someone more like me than me, which means I have nothing to worry about.
She shifted closer to him on the couch.
‘How will we find them?’ she said. ‘I have nowhere to start.’
‘I was thinking about that. It has to be someone you know. I mean, in theory it could be a complete stranger, but I don’t see how. And if it is someone you know then maybe we can work it out. Or narrow it down.’
‘Right,’ Sarah said. ‘I suppose. But I’ve been trying, and getting nowhere.’
‘What if you missed someone? What about an ex-boyfriend? One of them might hold a grudge.’
‘But why now?’
‘Who knows? Maybe they got divorced. Or developed a drug problem. Or decided to fuck with you. What about the guy you dated in college? He was a bit intense, as I recall.’
‘Matt?’
‘I think so. The one who tried to sabotage our wedding.’
She’d forgotten about him. She smiled, although it hadn’t been funny at the time. She’d dated a guy from Cape Cod, Matt Landay, for a semester in her sophomore year of college. He was not really her type – a jock with rich parents and a frat boy attitude to match – but there had been some chemistry between them, and in the spirit of youthful experimentation, she had started a relationship with him. He was only the second man she had slept with, and they had a lot of sex, but by the time the semester ended she was bored of him. She didn’t bother breaking it off; she just went home for the summer and, in the days before cell phones and text messages, forgot about him.
He didn’t forget about her, though. A week into the vacation he showed up in Barrow, in his parents’ convertible BMW, and knocked on her door.
She was surprised, and not pleased, when she opened it to see him standing there in his khaki shorts, linen shirt and Oakley sunglasses.
It took her two days – and a fictitious weekend away with her friends, which she told him she wanted to cancel but couldn’t – to get rid of him. It was awkward, and uncomfortable, and they only had sex once, in silence.
She thought he would get the message, but the next week he called and informed her he was thinking of coming back. She asked him not to; he insisted.
You’re my girl, he said. I want to see you.
She wanted to say I’m not anybody’s girl, but instead she told him she was enjoying time alone and planned to go on doing so.
For how long? he said, a note of desperation in his voice.
I dunno. All summer, maybe.
He was silent. No, he said, finally. No way.
Matt, she said. It’s up to me.
No, he said. You’re my girl. You are.
So this time she said it: I’m nobody’s girl, and I don’t want you to come to my house.
He started to plead, but she hung up.
Two days later she was coming back from the beach with Jean. They pulled into her street and there was a red BMW convertible in her driveway. Leaning on the hood, his back to them, was Matt.
She told Jean to keep driving. When she got home in the evening he was gone. Her mom gave her a wry smile.
Be careful, she said. These young men can get carried away.
He didn’t show up again. He didn’t even call, and back in college, he avoided her. It was about a month later that Toni suggested they go out for a coffee.
I think you need to talk to Matt, she said.
No thanks, Sarah replied. I’ve been enjoying not talking to him.
Well, you might have to. Toni paused. He’s been saying – well, he’s been telling people the reason you guys broke up is because you’re crazy. He’s saying you stalked him during the summer and you cried if he tried to do anything without you. He’s also spreading a rumor you’re a nymphomaniac, although he’s claiming it could be because he’s so good in bed.
So Sarah did talk to him. She explained that whatever respect she’d had for him was gone forever. And she asked him to tell everyone that his explanation for their break-up was lies.
He refused, and it was the last time she had any contact with him.
Until the week before her wedding, when an email arrived. Matt had learned she was about to get married and, as a result, would be lost to him forever. He had always loved her, he claimed, so, in a last-ditch attempt to salvage their relationship, he was letting her know he loved her.
