They would eat, and talk about books that they’d read; other authors Gregory was working with or books that he’d acquired. At some point, under the table, his foot would brush her ankle; his fingers would touch her hand as he poured her more wine. Sometimes she’d want him so desperately that they’d end up in the ladies’ room, kissing frantically, groping each other with other patrons banging on the door. Once, they hadn’t been able to make it back to the hotel. Gregory had backed her into an alley, pushing her against the rough brick wall, shoving her skirt up around her waist as she wrapped her legs around him and closed her eyes.
Veronica knew that Gregory dated other women. Gregory knew that Veronica had a boyfriend in Boston. It didn’t stop them, or even slow them down.
As things with Lee became more serious, he started to plan for holidays and weddings months in advance with the unspoken assumption that they’d be attending as a couple, and ask her about the various suburbs they might theoretically live in someday. Ronnie knew that she should end the affair. She wanted to be with Lee, wanted the life she would have with him. Maybe things weren’t as glamorous in Massachusetts, or as exciting; maybe she herself was different there—less extroverted, happy to let someone else be the center of attention—but she was comfortable with Lee, who was steadfast and loyal. He would always love and care for her. She couldn’t say the same for Gregory… but still, she couldn’t bring herself to give him up.
Whenever she was in New York, she could feel her Boston life, her real life, the life she wanted—at least with most of her heart, most of the time—beckoning, waiting to consume her. She knew that, at the very least, she should feel guilty about what she was doing. Lee, she knew, was scrupulously faithful to her, even surrounded by young, comely paralegals and secretaries. He’d been shy in high school, a boy who preferred reading Isaac Asimov novels to most sports, and he’d been, he told her with a wry expression, shorter than his five-foot-three-inch mother until his junior year. Now he was taller, solidly built and pleasant-looking, with a law degree and a successful practice, and still charmingly oblivious to the women who flirted with him, the way his secretary would smooth his tie or a waitress would brush her arm against his as she set the check down on the table. He’d be, she knew, a good husband and father.
And yet, for almost an entire year, the affair continued. She kept seeing Gregory even after she and Lee moved in together, to an apartment on Beacon Street, right near the Charles River, and began planning a wedding for the following year. She didn’t stop, and she didn’t feel guilty. Maybe she would have, if she’d taken up with some man in Boston, a fellow academic, or a friend’s husband, or a stranger she’d met on the T, but of course Ronnie would never do such a thing; she would never dare. Veronica was a different creature. Veronica dared.
In the end, it was Gregory who’d ended it. They’d been at the Algonquin, where it had started. In bed, Gregory had leaned down, gently brushing a lock of Veronica’s hair behind her ear.
“This has been wonderful, but we need to say goodbye.” She felt the shock of it rocketing through her, and opened her mouth to ask him why when he said, gently, “I’m getting married in the spring.”
Veronica swallowed hard. It made her a hypocrite—why was it okay for her to have someone else, but wrong if Gregory did? Why was it wrong for him to be getting married when she was, too? Her face felt frozen as she made herself ask, “Who is she?”
“No one you know.” He caressed her thigh idly, one fingertip tracing the line where her leg met her groin. “She’s a girl I’ve known forever. Her parents know my parents. We all summer together in the Hamptons.”
Ah, thought Veronica, feeling bitterness twisting in her heart. Of course he’d marry someone else who used “summer” as a verb. Probably this girl Gregory had known forever was pretty and petite and blonde. All at once, Veronica felt plain and unlovely; her nose too big and her skin too dark.
“You’re right,” she said, and moved away from him. “It’s time to stop.”
Gregory reached for her, his hands unusually gentle, his voice tender. He held her face in his hands, the skin of his palms warm on her cheeks. “I’ll never forget you.”
They’d made love one last time, slowly. Gregory had kissed her body, touching her, like he was trying to memorize her shape, and the smell and feel of her skin. He’d been inside of her, rocking slowly, holding her thighs, pulling her body as closely against him as he could, when Veronica had gasped, and frozen.