The First Husband

Couldn’t I—right now—let life be incredibly, incredibly . . . simple?

In the spirit of that, I gave them another smile, a fearless one. “It’s really good to see you both.”

Then I reached out and hugged them both to me, like it was the most natural thing in the world to do. It was a triangulated hug, with two sides of the triangle standing there as stiff as could be. Just waiting for it to be over.

Finally, Gia awkwardly pulled away.

Then Emily followed, straightening her

skirt, trying unsuccessfully to hide her bafflement.

“Well,” she said. “Okay, then.”

I don’t care. Still. It was so worth a shot.

I watched Griffin sleep from my vantage point on his hospital room windowsill: his mask now off, the tubes starting to disappear.

He’d been sleeping for hours as I sat there, the sun coming up behind me. I watched him and tried to figure out how to do it. How to begin to say thank you for the restaurant. How do you thank someone for having that kind of sure-hearted belief in you, that kind of faith in your future? At the very least, by being honest, I decided.

Which was when Griffin woke up.

He turned toward me, covering his eyes with his arm, at first, to block out the little bit of sun coming in toward him. Then, adjusting to it, he put his arm behind his head. And gave me his smile.

“Hi there,” he said.

“Hi there,” I said. “How are you feeling?”

He felt around for it, the real answer.

“I’m feeling a little better, I think . . .” he said. “Somewhere between a little better, and a lot.”

And he looked it. Gia had been right about that. He wasn’t there entirely, not just yet. But I could see the seeds, just below the surface. Pushing their way out.

“Good,” I said. “And maybe this will help. The doctors are saying you can go home.”

“Today? ”

“Not today, but soon,” I said. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“I’ll take soon. . . .” He nodded. “I’ll take tomorrow. Maybe.”

I gave him a smile and got off the windowsill, moving to the edge of the bed, dragging the hospital room’s one chair with me. Straddling it, the high part between us.

He reached out and took my hand, held on to my fingers, between the chair’s beams.

“Tell me something . . .” he said.

“What?”

“I want to know about London.”

I looked down, looking at our hands, as if they had the answer. “I’m not sure where to start,” I said.

“The beginning is usually a good bet,” he said.

I nodded. “Well . . .” I said. “When your brother called me, to tell me what was going on with you, that you were in here, I had just quit my job. . . .”

Griffin gave me a confused look. “So how’s that the beginning, exactly?” he asked.