The First Husband

Jesse looked crazed, even in the dark, trying unsuccessfully to get a handle on what he now knew.

“Annie, I’m so sorry about all of this,” Nick said. “I really am. But if I could just have one minute alone with you before I leave . . .”

I shook my head. “No way,” I said.

He looked at me, and nodded, seeing that I meant it. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll go.”

Which might have marked it as the end—this surprise visit, this bad trip—for then at least. Except for Jesse.

“Wait . . . so who are you?” Jesse asked.

Nick was walking past him out the door. Nick this close to already being past him.

“He’s going, Jesse,” I said.

But Nick turned back and introduced himself. “Nick Campbell,” he said. “I’m an old friend of Annie’s.”

Jesse nodded, starting to bring his attention back to me. Then—it was as if something occurred to him—he stopped midswitch, his eyes getting wide.

“Wait, you’re Nick?” he said. “As in Annie’s ex, Nick?”

But before Nick could even answer—before I could answer for him—Jesse dropped his Fritos to the ground and reached back, popping Nick hard, right in the jaw. One continuous motion, an unnatural crack, Nick flying backward and landing on the ground.

I bent down, instinctively, holding on to both of his shoulders. “Are you okay?” I asked.

Nick nodded, attempting to move his bloodied jaw around. “Yeah. I’m fine . . .” he said. “I guess I deserved that.”

I looked up toward Jesse. “What the hell, Jesse? ” I said. “What is that accomplishing? We are all adults here!”

“Didn’t he just say he deserved it?” he said.

“Doesn’t matter! We are all adults here! ” I said, louder—quite clearly, on my way to completely losing it.

Jesse just shrugged and—stopping only to pick up his bag of BAR-B-Q Fritos—walked over us and out of the wine shack. Leaving me not far from where I started, alone with Nick, and somehow back on my knees.

28

“I want to understand what were you thinking,” I said, “ just showing up here? ”

Nick and I were in the bathroom in the lobby of the closest local hotel—the Hotel Northampton—the closest place where I could leave him in his state. Me, using one of the hotel’s ancient, monogrammed towels to blot at the blood on Nick ’s busted lip; Nick, sitting on the countertop before me, holding on to the back of his neck with one hand, steadying himself, holding a glass of scotch in the other—steadying himself in that way too.

“I said I was sorry,” he said. “And I am. Sorry.”

“Fine,” I said, pulling back, studying my handiwork. “But how’s that the same thing as an answer?”

He looked at me, confused. “What’s the question again?”

“Nick, come on.”

I tossed the towel into the small wicker basket and took a seat in the faded recliner across the small seating area, crossing my arms over my chest. It was too much to think about Griffin’s restaurant opening being tainted by this. It was too unforgivable. But there it was: an undeniable truth. And there I was with the unforgivable party.

I shook my head. “Everything’s such a mess now,” I said. “You made a choice. I made a choice.”

“I know,” Nick said.

I looked up at him. “Apparently you don’t, or we wouldn’t be here.”

If I were honest, what Nick was doing here wasn’t the most important question: What was I doing here? In a hotel lobby, nine long miles from my husband. Why hadn’t I gone back into the restaurant instead?