Fiction Friday: Not for Profit, Part Two

[Part One here.]

By the time I had crossed the square, I was grateful for the dim coolness of the museum. As I entered, a balding middle-aged man was just coming out, and he held the door open for me with a charming little bow. He looked faintly familiar, and while I paused to leave a donation I puzzled over who I could possibly know in Mexico. But I didn’t puzzle long, as I quickly realized I wasn’t alone: Jonathan was standing at the far end of the room, his back to me, leaning over to examine something in a glass case.

It was Jonathan as in my ex-fiancé Jonathan. The “ex” part had been his idea, not mine. We met in college and soon began spending our evenings together in the campus coffee shop, where he would beat me at darts while he talked history and I talked accounting. And somehow it worked. We got quietly engaged the spring of his senior year, before he headed off to Georgetown (the showoff) to get his master’s. I knew long-distance engagements were usually trouble, but once again, somehow it worked. We called each other most evenings, of course, and Jonathan wrote. I know, who writes letters anymore? But he did. It must have been the historian in him. On nights when he didn’t call, I could re-read the letters, and the loneliness wasn’t fun, but it was a good year. The way you handle being apart can tell you whether you’re meant to be together. Or at least, I thought so.

He came to my graduation that May. I told myself that a little reserve was only natural after we’d been separated so long. That summer, the letters became less frequent and the calls just a little shorter, but I was cramming for the CPA exam and it was easy not to think about anything else.

He waited until after I’d passed the exam. I was grateful to him for that, even then. And he flew out to talk to me in person. I don’t believe you can soften a blow, but at least you can face it. He was sorry and, I think, ashamed, but he had met someone else. There wasn’t much to say on either side. The bare statement did the trick. We wished each other well — he probably meant it — and said goodbye.

I hadn’t seen him in four years, but now I knew it was him even before he turned around. So I had a second or two’s advantage over him, and yes, I enjoyed it. I was determined that he was going to deal with seeing me.

He didn’t look pleased. It took him a few moments to make a decision, and while he hesitated, I studied him. He looked good. I could admit that, and the admission had nothing to do with the fact that he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. Yes, I checked. But if his second engagement or his marriage (I preferred engagement) hadn’t lasted either, it was not exactly an incentive to think about a rebound. He had left me. If he had left someone else after that, well, maybe he was better off alone.

Besides, there were other things to think about. Things like the small gold signet ring on his right hand. The diamond-set Rolex on his wrist. The obviously bespoke light grey suit. This was a man who had so far published exactly one book: a biography of Sir Francis Walsingham. It was a really good biography, but Sir Francis Walsingham does not pay for that kind of tailoring. More importantly, none of it was Jonathan. Some things don’t change in four years. Or ever.

Whatever he was thinking about, he made up his mind. “Hi.”

“Hi.” This was his problem, not mine.

“‘Of all the gin joints,’ huh?” He took a step toward me. “Except that you’re a beer drinker, aren’t you?”

It hurt that he remembered that.

“Can I buy you one?”

Dignified silence is harder than it looks. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I mean… There’s no point, is there? It’s a small town, but I’ll only be here three days. We can ignore each other that long.”

“Yeah, but I need to say a couple of things first.” He saw that I was about to speak and put up a hand. “Natalie, please. This is not to rehash the past or offer explanations. This is right here, right now. There’s something you need to know.”

*******

I let him buy me a beer. I was curious, but it was more than that. I had only heard him use that tone once before: the night he proposed. He had looked and sounded then as if a minor matter like the end of the world wouldn’t distract him, and he looked and sounded that way now.

He took me to a cantina just off the square. When the waitress had brought beer, guacamole, and chips, and then made herself scarce, I expected him to launch right in, but he started by asking why I was there. I told him about my job and about the hospital, and because it seemed natural I even told him about the week’s delay and my sister’s baby. I suddenly remembered that he’d been my date to her wedding, and that I’d tripped over my bridesmaid’s dress on the dance floor.

He murmured congratulations that we both knew I wouldn’t pass on, but his mind was elsewhere. “Do you trust me?”

“I used to.”

He deserved that, and he knew it. “And now?”

I thought, Heck no, are you crazy? But I heard myself say, “I’ll try.”

“Okay. Just listen, and I’ll answer questions at the end if I can. We met at the museum — I mean met met, as in complete and total strangers. I told you my name was David Blair and that I was in banking, but I didn’t seem to want to give details. You got the impression I was here on vacation. You let me buy you a drink, we flirted a little, I wasn’t your type.” He paused. “You want it?”

I shook my head. “Too easy.”

“No hard feelings, we went our separate ways, and that was that.” He saw the waitress glance in our direction, so he smiled, but his eyes weren’t smiling.

My first thought, when I was capable of having thoughts, was Why are you trusting me now? But the answer was obvious. He was trusting me now because he had to. And for no other reason. And there were more important questions to ask. “Are you in trouble?”

“Not if your memory’s still good.”

“Is this why you left me?” I knew it was, but I needed him to say it.

“Yes.”

“Will you call me when it’s over?” It was my turn to stop him from speaking. “I know you can’t explain. That’s become very obvious. But just this once, I need to know you’re all right.” When he nodded, I reached into my purse and handed him a business card.

He looked at it, but then he handed it back. “I wasn’t your type. You wouldn’t have given me a card.” He drained his beer and clinked the bottle against mine. “Don’t worry — my memory’s still good, too.”

*******

It occurred to me that night (when you’re not sleeping stuff occurs to you) that I had never for a second doubted what side he was on. I was angry at him, more angry now than I had been four years ago, but I simply wasn’t able to doubt him. Like the Rolex, it wasn’t Jonathan. So I forgot about doubt and concentrated on anger. He should have told me. There I was on safe ground. He should at least have asked what I wanted. But after dwelling on that in righteous certainty, at about 1 a.m. I asked myself what my answer would have been.

There I wasn’t nearly as certain.