‘Is that what it was?’ he said in a tone that said he didn’t believe her.
‘It was always going to be hard when one of us went away to college,’ she said, looking back up at him.
‘Do you ever wonder what would have happened if you’d got into Juilliard?’ His voice had softened. It was more wistful now, rather than the hurt pride that had been evident before.
She closed her eyes and remembered that day. It had been no surprise she hadn’t got into New York’s most prestigious arts college. Her audition had been awful. She’d felt unwell and out of sorts and for years she had blamed her rejection on the bad luck of an off day. Now she realised that perhaps – probably – the competition had been too fierce. She was good, but not good enough. On the day the rejection letter had arrived, she had gone to Manhattan with Chris and they had sat on a bench in Battery Park watching the Staten Island ferries sail back and forth and just held each other. She remembered how she felt as though her world had fallen apart. The pain of not accomplishing her dream, the fear of leaving her boyfriend to go upstate to her second-choice college, which had offered her a full scholarship.
What would have happened if she’d got into Juilliard? she asked herself, seeing a sudden flash of an alternative life. She felt sure she would be dancing now, not waitressing. She would be in demand in all the repertories around the world. And perhaps she would still be with Chris, who had always been one of the good ones. Instead he had come up to Albany for the weekend a week before the end of the first semester at college and she had told him it just wasn’t working. It had been as simple as that.
Because it hadn’t felt as if it was working. Not when she had got sucked into college life and rehearsals.
‘I didn’t fight for you,’ he said quietly.
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she replied softly, not wanting to reopen old wounds.
‘Maybe I should have done what I came up to do that weekend.’
She looked at him and felt her head spin a little with all the beer.
‘Do what?’
He rubbed his chin awkwardly and didn’t look at her.
‘Do what, Chris?’ she asked, her interest piqued.
‘Hell, look . . .’ He hesitated, looking for his escape route out of the conversation. Realising he had none, he jumped straight in. ‘I came up to Albany that weekend to propose to you. I had the ring in my bag, a little cabin booked for the Saturday night . . .’
‘Propose to me?’ she said in disbelief.
‘I know we were only kids, but I guess it just felt right. For me, anyway. Back then,’ he added with a self-preservative disclaimer.
She felt frozen to the spot as she heard a holler from across the courtyard: ‘Hey, Amy. Want another beer? Bri’s buying.’
She shook her head and wiped her mouth.
‘I should go,’ she said, feeling too emotional to stay.
‘You don’t have to,’ said Chris, putting his hand on her forearm. ‘Have another drink. For old times’ sake.’
‘Happy Christmas, Chris,’ she said absently as she forced her way through the courtyard crowd.
By the time she reached the street, she wasn’t sure if any air was reaching her lungs. She puffed out her cheeks, and a spout of white air escaped into the night sky to confirm that she was still breathing.
She hadn’t been prepared for what had just gone on back there. Chris Carvey had wanted to propose to her. That weekend she had finished with him. She remembered he had come up on a snowy Friday night and left on the Saturday afternoon when a long walk through Tivoli Park had turned into an argument fraught with her frustrations of the semester. She remembered watching him walk away; the back of his beaten-up leather jacket, his favourite army rucksack thrown over his shoulder. A ring had been in that bag. A ring meant for her. A ring that meant he loved her, would love her, always and for ever.
Our timing was off. I didn’t fight for you. Well, it didn’t matter now, because he had moved on and had a family and another girl now.
I didn’t fight for you.
She kept hearing those words over and over again. She thought of Daniel and his feebleness in the face of his family’s expectations and desires. He hadn’t fought for her. Had she wanted him to?
Looking out on to the cold and lonely street, she knew with absolute certainty that she had. She could still feel the heart-racing excitement of seeing that Tiffany box in his sock drawer. So he’d behaved like a jackass, but she had loved him, from that first moment she had seen him on the nightclub dance floor. The most handsome man in the room, the smartest, most successful person she had ever met, who had singled her out and made her feel like his queen. Well, until his job offer in Washington and his ambition and his parents’ snobbery had forced him to make a choice. Love or career. And he had chosen his career.
I didn’t fight for you.
Well, she was a better person than he was.
Perhaps it was the egg nog and the punch and the Bud talking, but suddenly she wanted to talk to him. She wanted to fight for him. Pulling her mobile out of her pocket, she dialled his number.