EXCERPT:
The party that night was being held in the Rainbow Room high above Rockefeller Plaza, with its walls of windows, its iconic view of the Empire State Building, with the crystal magnificence of its immense chandeliers glittering overhead. And its famous revolving dance floor beneath our feet—always—because that’s what I recall most about that evening.
It’s never the tuna tartare, the veal arancini, the foie gras macarons or the lobster pot pie that I think about. My Tom Ford suit or the new Rado watch I’d been so proud of rarely cross my mind anymore—still less the Veuve Clicquot or the Bruichladdich Black Art I drank that night.
In my mind, and in my heart, we’re always dancing…
“You’re looking awfully pleased with yourself,” Tony observes as we swirl around the room. We’re such a good team when we dance, so in sync with each other’s steps, that it never seems to matter which of us leads.
“Sure, I’m pleased. Look at us. Look at where we are. We’re on top of the world right now, Tony—metaphorically and literally.”
“Well, one of us is,” he points out, and I can’t really argue with that. This is my company’s party we’re attending tonight, not his. And as far as my bosses are concerned, I’m the GOAT.
“True. However, I am dancing with the best-looking man in the room.” And one of the best dressed, I add silently; thanks to me. I’d splurged on a new suit for him, as well, thinking that, perhaps, if he got used to dressing for the corner office, he’d work a little harder to get himself there. “So, basically, everyone here either wants to be me, or to have you.”
Tony’s lips twitch as he rolls his eyes. “Well, by that logic, since you already do have me, I guess what you’re really saying is that everyone here just wants to be you.”
“Okay,” I say, after thinking about it for half a sec. “That’s fair; I can live with that.”
“Except you can’t. Since isn’t true.”
“Excuse you?” I ask in mock outrage.
“There’s at least one person here tonight who couldn’t care less about me. But he sure wouldn’t mind having you—just in case it’s escaped your notice.”
“What? Bullshit. Who’re we even talking about?”
“Jim,” Tony replies succinctly, naming one of my colleagues.
“Ah.” I nod reluctantly. This is not how I intended this conversation to go. But, “You might have a point.”
Don’t get me wrong, Jim’s a great guy—charming, insincere, ambitious, a total prick, and not at all bad looking. He kinda reminds me of me. And if I had time for a work husband, or any interest in having one, he’d probably be my first pick. And I really hope Tony didn’t notice any of his shameless attempts to maneuver me beneath the mistletoe earlier this evening. As if I’d fall for something that obvious—sorry, son. This boy wasn’t born yesterday.
“But you know it’s not personal, right?” I say. “I’m not interested in him, and he’s just looking to bask in the glow of my reflected glory. I think he views it as a win-win. Which, let’s be honest, it would be—for him.”
“For both of you.”
“Are you…jealous?” I’m smiling in disbelief as I raise my hand, and his along with it, and push him into a little turn. It’s archaic and a little embarrassing to admit, but I’m kind of turned on by the thought.
Tony’s lips are pursed like he’s tasted something sour. “No, Jake. That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Good. Because you know there’s no reason for it, right?”
“Isn’t there? Can you honestly tell me that if you and I met today, instead of when we were just eighteen, that you’d still want to marry me now—when you could marry someone like Jim, instead? Someone who can do more to advance your career than I ever will? Someone who could fill the shoes you keep trying to force my feet into; to be the other half of that power couple that you and I used to think was our fate?”
“That could still be our fate,” I correct gently. I hate that he’s so down on himself. “No, that will be.”
“Jake…”
“I’m not worried, Tony. I know it’ll happen.”
“I don’t think so.”
Thinking of the newer, better laptop, currently wrapped and waiting under our tree, the one that I’m hoping might motivate him into doing a little more work outside of the office, I double down. “Of course, it will! You just need to get your head in the game and—”
“Talk less, listen more. It won’t!”
Well, not with that attitude, I think, feeling salty; feeling like I want to return the laptop, and keep the money. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying, I don’t…I don’t think I want that anymore.”
But I can’t accept that. This is our dream that he’s just…just giving up on—it’s not his alone. How come I don’t get a say in this? “I don’t know why we’re having this discussion, right now. Who the hell knows what would happen if we met today? The point is, we didn’t—so the whole thing’s moot.”
“But if we did,” Tony replies mulishly. “Are you really going to stand here and tell me you wouldn’t choose differently?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. Could be you’re right. You’ve obviously given the idea a lot more thought than I have. Do I think there are advantages to being married to someone with more ambition? Sure. Do I think that would be more practical? I do. Do I think I could have Jim if I wanted him? No doubt.”
Tony pulls away and glares at me. “I could go home. If that’s what you’d like. I’ll get a cab downstairs and you can stay here; you and Jim could plan out your future together.”
“So dramatic,” I sigh as I pull him back into my arms. I would bet my entire 401K that, if I were married to Jim, I wouldn’t have nearly as much drama to put up with. Too bad that’s not what I want.
“Do you know what your problem is, Tony? It’s that you slept through most of philosophy class sophomore year.”
“That’s my problem? A lack of Descartes?”
“In a manner of speaking. And don’t try and tell me it didn’t happen. Because I know for a fact that it did, because you were constantly asking to look at my notes.”
“Fine. You win. But I don’t know what that has to do with anything now.”
“Simple. As a result, you never learned to think or argue logically.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes. Now, listen up. We both agreed that I could have Jim if I wanted him, yes? And yet, I don’t have him. Ergo, I must not want him. And I don’t. I want you. For reasons which are entirely eluding me, at the moment.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“Other than the fact that I love you. Always have. You know this.”
“Love you, too,” he mumbles, looking only partially mollified. But am I worried about that? Hell, no. Because I know him, and I know how to close deals, and I’m not near to being done yet.
I pull him closer, wrapping my arms around his waist. Then I lean in and start singing—softly, just for him—crooning along to the song that’s playing. And thanking my lucky stars that it’s something romantic and schmaltzy—and set in a reasonable range.
Do I think I sing well? Heck, no. I’m not delusional. But I also know that it doesn’t matter. He’s always been a sucker for a serenade.
Within a very few minutes, he’s pulling back, cheeks flushed, pupils blown. “Do you want to get out of here?” he asks in that husky voice that promises All the Good Things.
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