But I like New York life, really. I picked this. I knew early on that New Hampshire wasn’t where I was supposed to be, and I escaped. I went to NYU, and then stayed. Judd came to Manhattan ten years ago—not because of me, but because in his rambling search for employment and a new start, he’d gotten a job as a personal trainer in a New York gym. I suspect he really came because the per capita number of supermodels is so much greater in New York than on the farm. (The boy appreciates beauty.)
So why do we forget all that when we’re faced with our old friends and their settled-down lives? I do not know. I remember them as teenagers—the girls gossipy and funny, chewing gum, making big plans, and the boys handsome and strong, all of them smelling of Old Spice as we’d make out in their pickup trucks in the woods. I loved them then, and I love them now, even as I am so glad deep down that I didn’t stay and marry one of them. The Old Spice guys are doughy and complacent now. They’ve somehow turned into our fathers, pontificating about the weather and the price of beans. The women are sarcastic in their discontent, hands on hips, eyes rolling. Men! they say. Why can’t they ever listen!
But you get with a bunch of people you used to love, and see them coupled up, passing around pictures of their babies, and you can’t help but notice the looks that pass between husbands and wives, and the way they finish each other’s sentences, steeped in all that intimacy and knowing . . . and sometimes seeing that just kills you is all.
Even my twin brother, Hendrix, fell in love in high school and never looked back. It was as though he and Ariel Evans, his chemistry lab partner, had been destined from birth to be together. They now have three little boys, and Ariel, despite her ethereal name, manages their household like she’s the CEO of a well-run corporation, making lists and schedules and barking out commands to keep all four of her males in line. And Hendrix seems just fine with that. When I once pulled him aside and asked how he adapts to all the organization his life contains—not to mention the nagging—he just shrugged and said, “So Ariel nags—so what? I love her. She’s not perfect. This is what marriage looks like, Phronsie.” He sounded impatient, like he was having to teach me remedial life skills or something.
And—well, now that I’m thirty-six, I have to admit that I really, really want what Hendrix has. Somebody just for me. I want a guy who has his own side of the bed next to my side of the bed, whose clothes hang next to mine in the closet, and who will take the scary spiders outside and let them loose, and who will understand the look I get on my face when I want to leave a party. Who knows that I like chocolate rum raisin ice cream best of all, but red raspberry can do in a pinch—never vanilla. And who tells me all his secrets and listens to all of mine when he’s lying across the pillow from me. Who lights up when he sees me. Who has hidden places in his personality that only I know about.
And, what the hell, I want somebody to be listed as next of kin on the hospital form, should it come to that—a guy who has the legal right to visit me if I’m ever in the ICU.
And, despite my never thinking this desire would sweep over me, I want a baby. I badly want a baby. Which is a big surprise, even to myself. But I do.
But this guy across the table—the one proposing—well, he isn’t the one for all of that. He’s great. He’s fun, he’s nice, he’s interesting. He knows the part about the chocolate rum raisin ice cream, and he’s willing to carry spiders outside.
But the simple fact is: he is not in love with me, and never has been. Period.
Alphonse swoops down just then, bearing a plate of eggplant fries and hummus, and plops it down in front of Judd. The diner’s idea of health food. “This is on the house, Juddie my buddy,” he says. “Not to be pushy or anything, but you look like you could use some oil and salt. And thanks for helping me move my stuff the other day, man.”
“Anytime. You know that,” Judd says, and they do a fist bump and Alphonse glides away.
“When did you help him move?” I say.
“Oh, last week. He found a cheaper rent, and so he needed some help with the couch and a desk. I went over and helped him load up the truck.”
He eats a handful of eggplant fries and looks at me. “Look. I know what you’re thinking. But this isn’t about Pemberton or Tandy’s or anything like that,” he says. “I want to get married, to you, and it’s not about what anyone else thinks.”
“But it’s not really about me either,” I say. “And you know how I know that? Because we are not in love. Case closed.”
“I know, but that’s the best part. Just hear me out. This is brilliant when you think about it. First premise: Nobody wants to be alone for their whole life. I don’t, you don’t. Second premise: We’re already old friends. Unlike most of the people we know who got married because they were madly in love, we still actually like each other, and they don’t. Third premise: We have what most marriages are aiming for, which is true compatibility. We put up with each other.”
“Judd, I . . . forgive me, but putting up with each other is not a very high mark. That won’t get us through the first six weeks.”
“Wait. Look at this. Before we came tonight, I made a little temporary engagement ring for you out of a twist tie I had.” He reaches into his sweatpants pocket and pulls out a piece of wire covered with peppermint-striped paper, all knotted up into a circle, and hands it to me. “The good thing about this kind of ring is that it’s adjustable. And replaceable.” He gives me a big smile. “You could get a new one from me every week.”
“Wow. You are really going all out with making a compelling case.”
“I know. I’ve put a lot of thought and effort into this.”
I feel dazed. How long has he been thinking about this? Also, it’s interesting that he doesn’t even bother to dispute my claim that we’re not in love. He’s not even put out by my refusing him. I take a sip of my beer and look over at the normal people in the diner, people who are talking and laughing and who presumably know who they should marry and who they should not. Who have never had to explain to another person that being in love is an important component to married life.
“I just don’t see how you can discount love like this,” I say. “It’s insulting to love to talk like it doesn’t matter.”
“No, no. It does matter. But the truth is, this is love. You don’t recognize it. But love is all this good stuff that we already have”—he stops to wave his arms in the air, taking in everything—“the history we share and these diner evenings and the times we’ve eaten popcorn while we watch Friday Night Lights. I put butter on my popcorn for you, Phronsie! That’s what love is—not all that moonlight and sonnets and walking in the rain bullshit. Nobody wants to walk in the rain! Nobody! And nobody likes suspense or playing games.”
“I don’t know,” I say slowly.
“Look. I made up my mind that if we both had unsatisfactory dates tonight, I was going to ask you. Because, Phronsie, face it: we are not happy with dating. We’ve put a whole year into finding spouses, and look at it this way: maybe we couldn’t because we are the spouses. You know?”
My face feels hot. I lower my voice. “Judd, please. I want to be in love. And you do, too. Remember that? Remember Karla Kristensen and your year of pining away? No offense, but it was kind of a big deal in your life.”