On Second Thought

“You’ve been on my case to get married for years,” Ainsley said.

“Well, you’re wasting your life with Eric, honey. If he liked it, as the song goes, he would’ve put a ring on it.”

“Should you be quoting Beyoncé when you have a PhD from Yale?” my sister asked. “Also, Eric’s recovering from cancer, if you remember. Weddings are kind of low on our priorities list.”

“How’s he doing? Still clear?” I asked, hoping she wouldn’t launch into too many medical details.

“Yeah,” she said, “but he’s waiting for the eighteen-month mark. That’s when he’s officially better.”

“Fingers crossed,” I said.

“Kate,” Mom said, turning to me, “you can hardly expect me to be wholehearted about this. You’ve known him what? Six months?”

“Five.”

“Five. Do you know the statistics for people who marry knowing each other less than two years?”

“Nope. But I’m almost forty. Old enough to make my own decisions, Mom.”

Ainsley chattered cheerfully about flowers and dresses, but she gave off an air of confusion. After all, as Mom pointed out via Beyoncé, Ainsley was the one with the decade-long relationship. She already lived with Eric in Cambry-on-Hudson. She clearly was supposed to be first down the aisle.

“Well, Eric thinks the world of Nathan,” she said gamely. “He’s a total catch!” The words made me wince. So 1950s, as if we women had to trick men into marriage.

But he did meet every criterion a single woman could have—kind, steady, interesting, intelligent, attractive, financially secure. Even his divorce spoke well of him; he hadn’t been hanging around, not committing (as I had been). He had no pit in his cellar, no devices for torturing women, no collection of Nazi uniforms. I looked, believe me, making him laugh and laugh as I poked around his enormous home.

There was absolutely no reason not to marry him.

Except...

There’s always that, isn’t there?

Marriage, as nice as it might be, would throw my life into upheaval—Nathan wanted me to move to Cambry-on-Hudson, relocate my studio, sell my apartment. Of course he did. COH was his hometown, and though I hadn’t grown up there, it was where I went on holidays. It made sense. He had a gorgeous house perfectly suited to children and entertaining, with plenty of space for us both.

But still. All the adjustments, all the moving, most of the changes would be mine. Ideally, I’d take more time to ease into this. I knew I wasn’t used to being part of a couple, of joint decision-making.

Not to mention that five months wasn’t enough time to truly know each other. This would be a leap of faith that everything I believed to be true about Nathan would hold fast. If I was wrong—or if he was—we’d look like idiots.

The changes would be worth it, I believed. But it would be upheaval nonetheless, and twenty years on my own...well, it was hard to walk away from. I couldn’t bring myself to sell my apartment. Instead, I rented it and put my things in storage. It was December. Who wanted to schlep furniture?

If I’d been even a few years younger, I would’ve waited. There was a small, annoying voice—my mother’s—telling me that a reason not to marry him didn’t mean a good reason to marry him. That you can’t really love someone you’ve known for five months.

I confessed my concern to Paige. We were at Porto’s, our favorite bar, one of the few places in Brooklyn that predated the influx of cool people and was therefore übercool, the not locally farmed, not organic, not microbrewed, not free-range food and drink deemed delightfully retro by the hipsters.

We were drinking vodka tonics at a table, idly watching Daniel the Hot Firefighter flirt with what seemed like identical blonde women who couldn’t be more than twenty-two. “Maybe I should wait,” I said. “Just see how things go.”

“I think you’re a fucking idiot,” Paige said, taking a slurp of her drink.

“No, no, tell me what you really mean,” I said. “Don’t mince words.”

“Seriously, Kate. He’s great. Marry him. Move to the ’burbs and have twins. I’m so jealous I could stab you in the throat.”

“Will you be a bridesmaid?” I asked, grinning.

“Piss off.”

She wasn’t smiling. My own smile died a quick death. “Paige,” I began.

“I don’t want to talk about it, okay? You were the last single friend I had. I’d kill for a guy like Nathan, and you sit there wondering if you should marry him. Who do you think you are?”

“Um...a person? With feelings and thoughts? Come on, Paige. I thought I could talk to you—”

“Yeah, well, don’t. Okay? You have a two-carat ring on your finger. Wear white. Register for new china and, hey, how about a destination wedding to make your single friends use vacation time and spend their own money to cheer you on?”

With that, she threw down her napkin and left.

“Did you and Paige break up?” Daniel asked, appearing at my side. “Was it over me?”

I laughed reluctantly. “No. I’m getting married. Paige is...” My voice trailed off.

“A bitch?”

“No. Just feeling a little left out, maybe. I’m moving to Westchester.”

He shuddered. “Well, mazel tov, Kate. Nice knowing you.”

“I’m not dying.”

“You’re moving out of the city. Same thing. See you never.” He smiled and went back to his fan club.

I forgave Paige the bitchiness, but I knew she wouldn’t forgive me. I was getting what we both always wanted, and she was not. I understood. The little voice in my head, that tremor of warning, was snuffed out.

On New Year’s Day, Nathan and I went for dinner at a restaurant with a view of the Brooklyn Bridge. It was snowing, and we had a window table. I wore a glittery white cocktail dress and slutty black shoes, and Nathan gave me a red rose. The justice of the peace came in, and in front of a room full of strangers, with New York shimmering through the windows, I became Nathan’s wife.

Ninety-six days later, I became his widow.

Chapter Six (#ulink_d806c711-f780-5d0d-9d9f-6c52aed04b54)

Kate

Taking a pregnancy test moments before leaving for my husband’s wake...the sense of the ridiculous was not lost on me.

I locked the guest bathroom door and tried to take a deep breath. Since the moment Nathan went down four days ago, I’d been in a dream-state of panic and disbelief, the edge of hysterical laughter never far from my lips, as if at any minute, Nathan was going to jump out of the broom closet and say “Surprise!”

I hadn’t cried yet. Not exactly. There’d been some...well...noises. A sense of strangulation if I dozed off. No tears, not yet. I did, however, seem to be hyperventilating rather a lot.

Ainsley used to have panic attacks when she was little. Mom dutifully taught her to breathe slowly—in for a count of three, hold for a count of three, exhale for three, hold for three. In for three, hold for three, out for three, hold for three. I used to chant it during thunderstorms when she was tiny and would climb into my bed, shaking with fear.

I tried it now. It wasn’t working. All the air wanted to do was rush in-out-in-out-in-out.