The Divorce Party

She is quiet. Part of her wants to ask what Nate says now when he is talking to himself, to ask herself the same thing. Somehow that feels like too big a question. Somehow that feels like everything. Besides, who are we to tell ourselves anything about our lives? Who are we to be brave enough to figure out a new way to live them?

“I’m thinking that with enough practice, you can talk yourself into or out of anything,” Maggie says.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that you should be careful what you say,” she says. “I think we should both be careful what we say next.”

He leans forward, putting his hand over her chest, clutching her there, his fingers digging in. She is aware of his fingers, and that feels upsetting. His touch unsettles her right now, almost as much as it soothes her. But she has to think that it isn’t always going to be like this. As he moves closer to her, she knows she doesn’t want it to be like this, and he doesn’t want that. She knows that he is going to try to do whatever he can do to fix it. And for the first time, so will she.

It might seem that they haven’t moved far from where they started—Maggie started her day with Nate, and she is ending it with him. She is staying in the same place. But she is staying in a new way, a deeper one, which she is starting to understand might be the most important move she ever makes.

He starts to speak, his voice catching. He clears it, and takes a second try. “Maggie, I’m not going to disappoint you again,” he says.

She looks at him, right into his eyes. They are endless. And she can see that he believes it. She can see that he believes the impossible, which can be a recipe for disappointment, but is also the first step—the absolutely necessary step—to working toward anything that is possible. And stable. And true.

“You will disappoint me.”

“No. Not like this.”

“How can you know that?”

He shakes his head, and keeps talking. “Look, Maggie, it doesn’t matter in the end.”

“What doesn’t?”

“Even if this feels fairly awful for a while, I’m going to tell you everything. And I’m not going away unless you ask me to.” He pauses. “I’m not sure I’m going even then.”

“Are restraining order jokes ever funny?” she says.

“No, not usually.”

“Okay,” she says. “So I won’t make one.”

Then she rests her forehead against his, can feel him there, his heart beating there, right where he is touching her. It often feels like that, wherever they are touching, that she is reaching something inside of him. Especially now, when she needs it the most, that feels something like its own kind of promise.

“Nate,” she says, “I keep thinking about that swing outside. I keep thinking a swing like that would be great in front of our restaurant.”

“It would be. It would be perfect.” He is talking slow. “How about we ask my parents if we can use theirs?”

Maggie looks at him. “You think they’ll say yes?” she says.

“I think we’ve got a good chance, yes,” he says. Then he moves closer, putting his mouth against her ear. And he waits. He waits for just a second, before he says it, real low. “Can I tell you something I’ve never told you before?”

Maggie closes her eyes, a tear falling out, which she brushes away so he doesn’t see it, and so she won’t miss it, any of it, all of it, the good part, the hard and real part, that may be coming next.

epilogue

Montauk, New York, 1972

Champ

He is working on the swing.

Anna is sitting on the ground close to the edge of the cliff, pretending to look back in the direction of the house, but she is watching Champ out of the corner of her eye. He knows that she thinks he is too old to be lying on his back working on this swing.

He is too old. They live in New York City now, for more than a year now, where things are easier on them. They miss the house, though, miss being out here, in a way they don’t like to talk about even to each other.

They are back only for a few days for Thomas’s wedding. To the woman Gwyn. The woman that Anna thinks is too pretty.