“No. I just wanted to keep talking to you. Is that okay?”
“Of course it is. Although I think you’re drunk.”
“Get used to it. Once we’re married it’s going to be two-margarita lunches every day.”
“Hmm,” he said, and she could hear someone talking to him in what sounded like a cavernous room.
“Where are you?”
“Walking into my building. David, the doorman, wants to know how my lunch was. He was the one who recommended the place.”
“Tell him it was great.”
She heard muffled talking in the background, and when Bruce got back on the line she said, “You should go. I was just calling to hear your voice one more time.”
“I’m glad. I like it. We can keep talking. It’s a long ride in the elevator.”
“This is what I wanted to ask you, actually. Where do you see us in ten years?”
“Where do I see us?”
“Yeah. Besides being married, obviously. You’re a planner, so I’m sure you’ve thought about it. I just wanted to know how you envisioned our lives together down the line.”
“Are you asking me about starting a family?”
“No, no. God. Just, how do you see us?”
There was silence on the phone, although Abigail could hear background noise, muted voices, the sound of Bruce moving through space.
“I see us as happy,” he said at last. “Whatever I’m doing, I’ll be successful and engaged and on the cutting edge of the new technology. For you, I picture you as a successful writer. In ten years, we’ll be at your book launch together. And all our friends and family will be there. Your parents will be back together, and maybe they’ll be running the theater again, and it’ll be successful this time. Basically, that’s what I see. Success and happiness.”
“You’re an optimistic man, Bruce,” she said.
“I am. You know that about me already, or at least I hope you do. All my life I’ve pictured myself as successful, and because I can picture it, that’s how I make it happen. It’s not that hard, actually. It’s just visualization. Mental energy. And that’s what I see for us. We’re going to take over the world, babe.”
“Okay. Now you’ve gone too far.”
Bruce laughed. “Sorry for being who I am … but it’s all I’ve got.
I gotta go now. Can we table this conversation and pick it up later?”
She was going to give him a hard time for the corporate lingo, but instead said, “I love you, Bruce. And I love your optimism.”
“Love you, too, Abigail.”
She drank a tall glass of water, then lay down on her couch and thought about what Bruce had said. When Abigail had been in high school, she’d imagined herself living in New York City with a good job. When she’d achieved that goal, it hadn’t made her happy, or at least it hadn’t made her happier. If Bruce’s prediction came true, about how successful they’d be in ten years, would she still feel the emptiness that constantly nestled inside her? Maybe it was just the loneliness of being an only child, something she’d never shake. Maybe it was something more—an inherited dissatisfaction—and she’d be one of those rich women who have affairs out of boredom and start drinking wine at three in the afternoon.
Or maybe, and this was her hope, Bruce’s optimism—his clear-eyed view of himself and the world—would somehow rub off on her. It was a hopeful thought, and she chose, in the dusty light of the afternoon, to believe it. She also believed, and she’d felt this for a while, that the fact that they were different was a good thing.
Two bitter, creative people don’t really go together, not for a long and happy marriage anyway. Bruce would balance her out, keep her grounded.
She texted Zoe:
the wedding is on.
Before she got a text back, she decided that lying down was a bad idea. She got up and watered her plants and thought some more about Bruce and how he saw the world. It was so different from how she saw it. Even though she’d grown up in the warmth of a happy family, with a roof over her head, there had always been a dark side to her, someone who considered the world vaguely threatening. She expected the worst, knew it could all come crashing down. Had she picked that up from her parents? She supposed she had. Her father, even though he was a dreamer, was quick to fold when the going got rough. Every time the Boxgrove Theatre was putting on a new play he’d be filled with anticipation, excited by the possibility that, creatively, they were on the cusp of perfection. But he’d also been filled with anxiety, worried that what they were putting on would be a total disaster. In reality, it was never either of those extremes. But the fact that they never produced a play that was truly remarkable—at least in his own estimation—continued to vex him, and after every season he would slip into a depressive episode that lasted throughout the month of September.