This Is How It Happened (16 page)

Dick and I agree not to have contact by phone or e-mail. We’ll exchange messages on the message board at Starbucks. So instead of the usual lost dog, and babysitter needed, I’ll tack up a secret missive to my favorite hired gun. It will say,
To D. From J. Wednesday. 4:00.

Yep. This is how Dick and Jane have decided to communicate. It’s simple. Easy. Convenient. Not a lot of bells and whistles. There won’t be any messages waiting for me in my morning newspaper. Like in the movies. No carrier pigeons or anything like that. There will just be a note tacked up on a corkboard at good ol’ Starbucks.

The next night I go to my tennis lesson. Deepak introduces me to the new guy. The new
very cute
guy. Apparently, he will be my hitting partner during the lesson.

“This is Nicholas,” Deepak says.

“Nick,” the guy corrects him.

Wow. First Dick. Now Nick.
I never saw the storm cloud coming, but apparently it’s raining men.

Nicholas, or Nick, strolls over and I see he’s wearing all black. Not a tennis purist like me, but still. He’s six feet tall, with wavy blond hair, and the nicest smile I’ve seen in a long time. Nick has cute dimples when he smiles and sharp blue eyes.

“I’m Jane—I mean, Madeline,” I say, shaking his hand.

I hold my breath and check his hand for a wedding ring.

Nada. Nothing. Zippo.

He probably has a live-in girlfriend, though. Or maybe he’s gay. “Nice to meet you Jane Madeline.”

“It’s just Madeline. But everyone calls me Maddy,” I say. I smile at him and flutter my eyelashes a little. I realize I’m nervous. My palms are even sweaty.

Jeez, Maddy. Get a grip!

Deepak tells us to “pair up” so Nick and I move to opposite ends of the court and begin warming up.

I lob the ball over easily because I don’t know Nick’s level of play. I’m pleasantly surprised when he expertly hits the ball low and fast back across the net.

I return the ball hard down the line. Nick races for it and I watch his body move as he whacks it back. This guy is certainly graceful on the court. And quick as lightning. I’m glad for the competition.

We hit back and forth for a while. Nick plays well. In fact, he’s the best man I’ve ever played against, besides my father.

I think he’s impressed with me, too, because he walks up to the net and says, “Where did you learn to hit like that?” I notice he’s out of breath. And I’m just warming up.

“My dad enrolled me in tennis camp when I was still in a stroller,” I say.

Nick smiles and I notice his nice, straight teeth.

“Smart guy,” he says.

“Yes, he was. He passed away a few years ago, but every time I’m on a tennis court, I think of him.”

Whoa, Maddy. Hold your horses.

I’m suddenly sharing personal information with this guy and I’ve known him a whole two seconds.

Nick shuffles his feet a little. And taps his racquet against his shoe. First one shoe, then the other.

“Yeah, my dad died of cancer last year. He was a big tennis buff, too,” he says. “We even went to Wimbledon.”

“Oh my gosh! I bet that was incredible,” I say.

Nick looks up and our eyes meet. We kind of stare at each other for a second too long. And then we both look down at our shoes. There’s suddenly so much chemistry between us, I think I’m going to be electrocuted. Of course, it could all be in my head.

Deepak is watching us from the sidelines and he says, “Back to work, lazy people!” Then he decides to ignore us and circulate around the other couples in the class.

I lean against the net. “So why are you taking lessons, Nick? I mean, you don’t seem like you need them.”

“I can use a little help on my swing,” he says. “But how about you? I mean, you’ve got this tennis thing down to a science. You definitely don’t need to be here.”

I refrain from telling Nick that I’m a lonely, pathetic woman. Because I figure it might end up sounding lonely and pathetic. So I say, “My serve isn’t what it used to be.”

He says, “Tell me about it.”

We go back to our individual sides of the court and have a vigorous hour of play.

Afterward, Deepak congratulates us on a game well played.

Nick sits on the bench with a water bottle. He turns to me and says, “Hey, do you want to get a smoothie or something?”

I zip my racquet up inside my tennis bag, stand and brush my hands off against my tennis skirt.

“Absolutely,” I say, flashing him my most winning smile.

I follow Nick’s car to Jamba Juice. And I’m wondering what on earth is going on. I haven’t dated anyone since Carlton the Terrible. So it’s been, like, forever. I wonder if this guy is actually interested in little ol’ me? Or does he just want company?
Maybe he’s bored
, I think. I decide that he’s bored.

Nick gets out of his car and escorts me into the juice bar. “After you,” he says, holding the door open for me.

“Thank you so much,” I coo, and I realize I sound like Heather.

I order a strawberry, banana, and peach. Nick goes with a protein shake. We sit outside at a table and slurp at our straws.

So, tell me about you,” Nick says. He’s looking at me with those blue eyes and smiling with those dimples. And honestly, it throws me a little off balance.

“I went to the University of Texas for both my undergraduate and graduate degree,” I say. “They say that people who come to Austin never leave, and I guess I was one of them.”

Nick laughs. “It’s a great school. I went to Vandy, myself. But, unlike you, I couldn’t wait to leave Nashville. I guess I’m an East Coast guy at heart,” he says.

“Oh yeah? Where are you from?”

“Boston originally. But my family moved around a lot.”

“Witness protection program?” I ask, and Nick laughs.

“My dad was in the Air Force,” he says. “So tell me more about you. Any siblings?”

“A younger brother. He’s great. Ronnie,” I say. And I realize I’m smiling like a proud sister.

Nick chews on his straw a minute and stares down at the table.

“What’s wrong?”

“Huh? Oh nothing. I’m an only child. I always wished I had a brother, though.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without Ronnie,” I say. I finish my smoothie, crumple the cup and lob it into the trash can from a good distance.

“Two points,” Nick says.

“Well, thanks for the great tennis match,” I say. I suddenly feel sweaty, tired, and a little grungy. I wonder if Nick thinks I look gross. I’m second-guessing myself because it’s been so long. Plus, I wish this juice joint were a tad darker. The sidewalk tables are lit up like a Christmas tree. Nick can probably see every dirty pore on my face.

“Same time next week?” I ask, and I immediately regret leaving so suddenly. Nick looks like he was just about to ask me for my phone number.

Oh well.

I’m on a mission. And this guy probably wouldn’t think it was very attractive if he found out I’d hired a mercenary to get back at my ex-fiancé.

He’d probably think I was nuts. In fact, I’m beginning to think I’m nuts.

But that’s what happens with women in love. They do some crazy shit, sometimes.

Nick says, “I’d like that.” He stands and we shake hands, awkwardly. We stroll back through the parking lot.

I look up at the sky. “Nice night. Lots of stars.”

Nick takes a moment to look up at the sky, too. Then he looks straight at me.

“Beautiful,” he says.

An hour later, after I’ve showered and brushed my teeth, I’m sitting in my bathrobe with my feet propped up. Leafing through the various business journals. That’s when I spot the article. On the front page, no less. The
City Business Journal
shows a picture of Carlton at the awards dinner. The headline reads,
YOUNG CEO AWARD’S DINNER INTERRUPTED BY HECKLER.

Heckler! I sit up straight on my couch.

Oh. My. God. I clap my hand to my mouth. I feel a momentary pang of guilt. But then, I can’t help myself. I begin to laugh. And I can’t stop. I imagine Dick jumping out of his seat, calling Carlton a fraud, throwing the papers in the air, and rushing from the ballroom.

Ready for round two
, I think.

I wasn’t overjoyed about the pregnancy, but I wasn’t sad about it, either. Deep down, in some odd way, I thought the experience could possibly bond Carlton and me. And make us closer as lovers and companions. I knew there were many couples that decided, for one reason or another, it wasn’t the right time. A baby would be welcome at a later date, but not today. And I believed that day would come for us. Even if a baby seemed wrong now. At least we knew it was possible. Some couples had to turn to artificial insemination. But our love had created a natural pregnancy. And that was a beautiful thing. Our love would conquer all, I thought.

If Carlton thought having a baby was too much pressure, too much expense, too much everything—I didn’t have to agree with him. Deep down, in my heart, I really wanted this baby.

Later that afternoon, Carlton shoots me an e-mail out of the blue. I’m expecting something sweet like:
It’s all gonna be okay, my Juliet. Don’t worry about a thing
. But instead, his message is weird. Formal.

I suddenly panic.

I sit for a moment. Read the e-mail in silence.

Expand his horizons? What does that mean?

Oh, I get it. He doesn’t want the baby. He wants room. Space. Freedom from the responsibilities of fatherhood. And this is his way of telling me. Expanding his horizons—makes sense. He wants to travel freely, play golf, go hunting, hang out with the guys on Saturday nights. He doesn’t want a crying baby around. A wife who keeps him tied up. A ball and chain on each leg.

I understand, Carlton. I understand
, I think.

I sit by my laptop and wait. Five minutes later, Carlton sends his reply.

Re-evaluated? Re-EVALUATED!

Hmm. I read about this once. In one of those “men are from a different planet” books. Sometimes men like to retreat into a cave. And women aren’t supposed to chase them. We’re supposed to let them go into their caves and they’ll come out and love us and want to be with us more than when they went into their cave.

I get an instant response this time.

My body feels cold all of a sudden, and I shiver involuntarily. I stare at my laptop. Let the e-mail sink in.

Is Carlton breaking up with me on the day I tell him I’m pregnant?

I take the Juliet ring off my finger and read the engraving inside.
Forever, my Juliet
. But now Forever wants Permanent Space?

This doesn’t jibe.

Before I can think about what I’m doing, I log into Carlton’s hotmail account. I type “[email protected].”

Hmm. Password, password? I’m frantic. Is it another woman? What? I know I shouldn’t be spying, but I want answers.

I try typing a few passwords, but get an instant message:
The password you typed is incorrect. Please try again.

Damn!

I type in the word “Organic.”

Nope.

“Organic 4 Kids”

No.

I type my own name.

Of course not.

Think!

I suddenly remember Carlton’s dream boat. A 50-foot Beneteau.

“What will you call it?” I remember asking him, one Sunday, as I glanced over his shoulder. He was surfing the Internet for sailing yachts. His favorite pastime.

“The Heretic,” he replied. “I’ve always wanted to name my boat The Heretic.”

I hold my breath. And type in the word “heretic.”

The screen changes. I’m in! God, I should be in the CIA. Put my talents to use.

I scroll through Carlton’s messages. I can feel my face burning bright red. I know what I’m doing is wrong. I’ve never doubted Carlton. Not once. Sure, I’ve caught him looking at other women. But what guy doesn’t? Still. Something’s not right. I feel it in my gut.

I see a message from his friend, David.

“Vegas, baby. Vegas.”
It reads.

A few months ago, Carlton went on a weekend trip for David’s bachelor party. Carlton told me he hired a few strippers to come to the suite. The girls went a little crazy and had a sex show. Complete with toys. Right in front of them. Boys will be boys, I figured, at the time.

My fingers shake. I click open the
Vegas, baby. Vegas
e-mail. And scroll down the message.

Man, don’t be an idiot and write this shit down,
Carlton warns.

My heart starts beating. I know what’s about to come. But I don’t believe it.

His friend David writes,
Carlton, who was that hottie you took back to your room? You paid extra, didn’t you, you sonofabitch?

I feel my heart stop. Maddy Piatro. Found dead in front of computer. Reading fiancé’s e-mails.

I race through the other messages in Carlton’s in-box.

Another from David.

How’s the homefront with you know who?
he asks.

Carlton replies.
The bomber has its target in sight.

The bomber has its target in sight! Gee whiz. Apparently, Carlton’s the Enola Gay and I’m Hiroshima.

My heart is pounding hard in my chest and that’s when I hear the front door slam. Carlton! I quickly close out of the e-mail, stand up, and wipe my hair back from my face.

Carlton cruises into the room, a dark look on his face. “I don’t feel the same as I did when we first started dating,” he says, out of the blue.

I look at him. My heart is really going to town, now. My voice is shaky, but I try to sound calm. “Isn’t that normal, babe? Doesn’t every relationship have some ebb and flow? Ups and downs? I didn’t even realize we were in a slump.”

Carlton looks at me. Shrugs.

“Things have gotten so trivial,” he says. “I mean, you told me what goddamn shirt to wear today.”

“I’m your publicist!”

“Still,” he says. “It’s not sexy.”

“Life is not a movie, Carlton. Don’t you think I miss the flowers you used to bring me? All the love notes? Don’t you think I miss that, too?”

“I can’t bring flowers if I’m not feeling it,” he mutters.

I want to tell him I know about his e-mails. But I can’t. It’ll be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. He’ll never forgive me.

“You cheated on me in Las Vegas, didn’t you?” I demand, pointing at him.

“Does it really matter, Maddy? At this point?”

“Yes!”

“As a matter of fact, no. I thought about it. Some girl even came up to my room. Knocked on the door. One of the strippers. But I told her to get lost.”

“And you expect me to believe that?”

“Believe what you want,” he says, sounding fatigued.

I stare down at the floor.

“What if I tell you I’m having this baby?” I say. I want my voice to sound strong, but it’s weak. Shaky and weak. A pathetic attempt at strength.

“Then you’ll be alone,” he says, simply.

At that moment, I feel as if I’ve been stabbed. Now I know how a stabbing feels. It hurts. Hurts in the gut. Not a quick jabbing pain. But a dull, sharp one. The kind of searing pain that never goes away.

I rush into Carlton’s arms in a ball of tears. I’m crying so hard, my shirt is sopping wet.

“Please don’t tell me you’re breaking up with me! I thought you loved me!” I say, and I feel my shoulders hopping up and down. Uncontrollably.

“I do love you, Maddy,” Carlton says. He holds me for a while and I completely crumble in his arms.

Carlton hustles me into the bedroom. “Don’t cry. Don’t cry,” he says, over and over.

He hands me a box of Kleenex and I blow my nose. Hard.

“Look, Maddy. We’ve been together four years, we live together, and nothing’s going to happen overnight. Let’s just take a breather,” he says.

“I’m pregnant, Carlton!” I almost scream. I hold my ring finger in the air. “I thought we were engaged!”

“I’ll be there for you when you have the abortion,” he says, quietly.