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Drink. That’s what I want. I want to go home and drink until this pain disappears.
That’s where the driver is headed, until we drive by Edmond’s place, and my hurt turns to anger. She said Edmond saved her. Did he know?
I throw bills at the driver, not bothering to count them, and storm like a raging bull into the restaurant. I walk right by Beatrice at the front desk and into the kitchen.
‘Two steak. One rare, one blue.’ Edmond catches my eye and probably sees the murderous look on my face. ‘One halibut. One lamb, pink.’
‘Yes, Chef.’
‘Chef.’
He moves from behind the counter. Rather than asking me anything, he says, ‘Drew, you can’t be in here.’
‘You knew. You fucking knew.’
He holds up a finger. ‘Keep your voice down. This is my work. And hers.’
I squeeze my eyes shut to stop the burning sensation. ‘How could you know she’s married and not tell me?’ My anger wanes, and I’m looking at my friend through clouded eyes.
How can it hurt this much?
Edmond looks at me with sympathy. Something I’ve never seen when he’s looked at me before. I realize I’m standing before him, not as a hot-shot attorney in the city, not as the friend he knows, but as a broken man.
‘There are things you don’t know, Drew.’
‘So fucking tell me,’ I snarl.
‘It’s not my story to tell.’ He looks at the clock on the wall. ‘Give me an hour, all right? Go to the Irish bar around the corner, and we’ll talk.’
I don’t know whether I want to throw myself on the floor like a child and beg for the pain to go away, or whether I want to put my fist in my friend’s face. So I turn my back on him and leave.
I contemplate going home. The last thing I want is to be in a bar full of people. But I need to know what Edmond has to say. If nothing else, I’ll have a drink in my hand sooner if I go to Paddy’s than I will if I go home.
* * *
She lied to me. She laughed and smiled and made love to me, and the whole thing was a goddamn lie. I wrestled with fear and doubt. I went against everything I’ve told myself is important.
She’s made a fool of me. And I let her. I fell for the lie. I plant my empty shot glass on the bar. ‘Another.’
‘You might want to slow down, pal,’ the Irish barman says as he refills my glass.
‘You have no idea how fast or slow I want to drink.’ I want to drink myself into oblivion. I want to drink myself into a stupor of ignorance. I think I want to drink so much, I don’t remember anything. Not the bagel truck. Not her dimples. Not the way her skin feels against mine.
‘I know you’re starting to slur your words, and this is number ten.’
I slap a hundred-dollar bill down on the bar. ‘I’m not paying you to count. I’m paying you to pour.’
Two hands come down on my shoulders.
‘He’s all right, I’m hanging around.’ The voice is Edmond’s. He orders a beer and takes a seat on a bar stool next to mine. ‘Drinking yourself senseless isn’t going to make this disappear, Drew.’
‘Now you want to fucking tell me something.’
‘Don’t take this out on me, Drew. You’re better than that.’
‘Better than that? Am I? I’ve been sleeping with someone else’s wife.’ I mean the words to sound fierce, but they stick in my throat, catching on the emotion that’s been balled there since I saw her standing next to her husband. Her fucking husband.
After downing my shot, I wiggle the empty glass in the air, catching the attention of the staff. Edmond says nothing. He doesn’t defend himself. He doesn’t defend her.
