The First Husband

He nodded. “Temporarily, at least. The regular chef, Lisa, is off for the next few months on maternity leave. I’m just filling in. I used to be the chef at their sister restaurant in the Berkshires. A place called Maybelline’s. It’s about twenty miles outside Stockbridge.”

“I know Stockbridge. I just went there last year. Or pretty close to there, at least. Great Barrington, actually. I was there for work. If I had known, I’d have gone to your restaurant and written about it. I’m a travel writer. I write this column called ‘Checking Out.’ But I was only allowed to write about Great Barrington. That was what the column was about. So I guess I couldn’t have written about you. Not that time. . . .”

I started to fade out, in spite of myself, and Griffin tilted his head, like he was wondering if he was missing something again.

“Sorry,” I said. “I’m just a little sleep-deprived these days. It’s making me over . . . talk.”

He reached over and held his fingers close to my cheek, not touching my cheek but incredibly close to it. “But you have sleep marks,” he said. “Right there.”

I felt a chill. I felt a chill right where he could have touched me. I reached my hand up, instinctively, covering that side of my face. “Those are complicated,” I said.

He laughed. “I’m sure they are,” he said.

“So you’re no longer at Maybelline’s?”

“No, I’m actually opening my own restaurant in Williamsburg next winter. When I get back to Massachusetts. . . .”

I looked at him confused, wondering if I’d misheard. “Did you say Williamstown? ” I asked, thinking of the charming town in the Berkshires. Home of the amazing summer theater festival. Home of the Clark Art Institute. Home of one of my first “Checking Out” columns.

“No, Williamsburg. But everyone hears Williamstown, you’re not alone in that,” he said. “It’s about an hour from there. In the Pioneer Valley. I grew up in Williamsburg, actually, which is why I’m opening the restaurant there.”

I smiled. “That’s exciting.”

He smiled back. “Glad to hear you think so. Then you can come back and write about my new place. In exchange for these drinks.”

“Deal,” I said.

He reached over the bar top, picked up the bottle of bourbon, and poured each of us some more, placing the bottle on the counter between us when he was done. I couldn’t help but stare at the bottle, which was losing its liquid considerably fast.

“So,” he said. “Care to elaborate?”

I looked up at him confused.

“The sleep marks. Their complications?”

“Oh.” I shrugged, trying to think of how to say it. “I’m not exactly myself these days,” I said.

Griffin took a long drink of his bourbon, as if contemplating this. When he did, I noticed a tattoo on his wrist—a tattoo of an anchor, or half of an anchor, the circle tilt at the bottom abruptly cut off.

And this was the first thing I did, the first thing that proved the point that I wasn’t exactly myself: I touched it. I touched the tattoo, running my fingers along its edges. Why should this have been normal? And yet, somehow, it was. Griffin had no reaction. He just looked down at his wrist, watched how my finger was running along where the tattoo abruptly cut off, the unfinished part. The minus part.

“There’s a story behind this,” he said. “Though I’m not sure it’s a very good one.”

“It involves an old girlfriend?” I asked.

“Yes. It involves an old girlfriend, my eighteenth birthday, and a long night at a tattoo parlor in Canada.”

“Did you guys think it would be a good idea to share? Kind of like a best friend necklace?”

He shook his head, pointing at me.

“See? ” he said. “This is exactly why I have my rule about talking about other women with the one in front of me.”

“And what’s that?”

“I don’t do it.”

I laughed. “Got it,” I said. “But what happens when a new girlfriend wants to know about an ex? About your relationship history with the girls who came before. How do you cover that territory?”