By Any Other Name(15)
* * *
A glass of prosecco later, Ryan has not only restored my dishwasher, he’s nearly got the radiator valve sorted, too. We’re both in our underwear now and thoughts of Ross’s handshake are long gone. Ryan’s grunts and curses have decreased to once every three minutes, and I feel a space for conversation opening.
“Shall we discuss plans for tomorrow?” I ask.
Ryan doesn’t look up from his work. “Plan One is to enjoy our vastly improved quality of life, now that you have a working dishwasher. And a revamped radiator.”
“That rattle was my lullaby. You’d better hope I’ll be able to sleep through the silence.”
“I’m thinking you, me, that couch, pizza delivery, with jalapenos because I love you, and the new Scorsese. Is that a perfect Saturday, or what?”
“It’s Valentine’s Day!” I cry, more fiercely than intended. I’ve always been pretty lackadaisical about the holiday, but maybe I’m a bit worked up because this is the first year that Valentine’s Day has fallen on a weekend, which means it’s the first one we’ve actually gotten to spend together.
“I’m joking.” Ryan grins. “You should have seen your face when I said Scorsese.”
I throw a pillow at him. “I hate Scorsese. It’s like, would it kill him to put a woman in a film before Act Two—”
“Lanie,” he cuts me off, sensing a diatribe. “I’ve got a whole day planned, capped off by a very fine dinner at your favorite, Peter Luger. I made the reservation months ago.” He glances at me, and I know I haven’t reacted with the desired level of enthusiasm. “Lanie?”
We’ve celebrated our last four special occasions at Peter Luger, but if I mention that, it’ll be: It’s an institution! or I thought you loved their creamed spinach, which I do, above all vegetables on earth, but I don’t feel like defending creamed spinach tonight. The routines we’ve fallen into sometimes make me feel restless and claustrophobic, like a windup toy stuck in a corner.
“Do you ever worry that we act like old married people who are neither old nor married?” I ask.
And I think he’s going to say: No, because there’s no one else I want to be old and married with, which is why I proposed to you.
But Ryan surprises me, like he does sometimes. He picks me up, tosses me over his shoulder, and barrels toward the bedroom, making me yelp with delight.
“You ever seen an old married guy do this?” He tosses me on the duvet, and I’m hungry to get my hands on him.
* * *
By dusk on Valentine’s Day, we’ve had brunch at our favorite spot, Parker & Quinn, which I love for their DIY mimosa bar (four kinds of juice!) and Ryan loves because he gets to watch the Wizards beat the Bulls. He’s taken me to a midtown tennis shop for a racquet so that his couples goal of playing doubles in D.C. can finally be reached. I, in turn, have dragged him to the Guggenheim because I can’t get enough of Helen Frankenthaler’s Canal.
As we leave the museum we’ve still got an hour until dinner, so I suggest a walk back through the park.
We approach the Gapstow Bridge at Sixty-Second Street, which has been a touchstone of my jogging route since before I got the job at Peony, back when I was lost and broke and alone, begging the universe to reveal my destiny. The stone bridge looks like it was torn out of a fantasy novel, slate gray and mossy, crossing the north edge of the Pond. Beyond it rises one of the most stunning views of the Manhattan skyline, glittering in the gloaming. It’s a place where I’ve never felt like I could ask for too much, so long as I was willing to work to make it happen.
I stop at the center of the bridge, take Ryan’s hand to make sure he stops, too. “This might be my favorite place in all of New York.”
“It’s beautiful,” he says, tugging my hand a little, glancing up at the sky. “Should we get going? Looks like it’s going to rain again.”
“Wait. I was going to save this for tonight, but the moment feels right right now.” I open my purse and take out my small gift wrapped in tissue.
As Ryan unwraps the gift, I feel a growing anticipation. I’m practically bouncing on my heels by the time he parts the wooden panels.
“Your list,” he says. “From the book.”
“Yeah. From the book.”
“Doesn’t own clogs. Check. You do know I’m not a grocery list, right? I’m, like, a real guy?”
“Don’t you think it’s amazing that I had this unreasonably long and meticulous plan for love—and I found a man who meets every single one of my requirements?”
“Uh-uh, I found you,” he says and kisses me.
I show him how to put his gift in his wallet, and I like the way it looks there. “Now even when we’re apart, you’ll know why I love you.” We’re stepping off the bridge when I stop. “Wait, it’s Saturday.”
“All day long.”
“They should be here.”
“Who?”
“Edward and Elizabeth.” I scan the grass below the bridge, as I did so many times on my Saturday evening jogs. But the couple I’m looking for is nowhere to be seen.
Their names aren’t really Edward and Elizabeth. Or maybe they are—I’ve never actually met them. But I used to see them here each week. For as long as I’ve lived in New York, they have mattered to me.