Mark appeared to be considering the question. “I knew I didn’t want to live in New York—too big, too expensive, too close to home. But I did want a city. You know. Music. Museums. Culture.” He pretended to preen. “I have always seen myself as a patron of the arts.”
“There’s great restaurants, too,” said Abby. “Unless you’ve stopped eating completely.” She regretted her words as soon as she’d said them, and saw, on Mark’s face, some strange combination of pride and regret.
“I should probably tell you what happened,” he said.
“You don’t have to,” said Abby, low-voiced, even though by then she’d guessed.
Mark inhaled audibly, then lowered his voice.
“Roux-en-Y,” he’d said, gesturing at his midsection. “Gastric bypass surgery. I got it done when I was nineteen.” His handsome face got a little sad. “By then, I’d gained and lost hundreds of pounds. I could lose the weight but not keep it off.”
You and almost every other person who goes on a diet, Abby thought.
“I knew nothing else was ever going to work, long-term.”
Abby had murmured something sympathetic as her mind whirred and clicked. Did Mark hate fat people now that he wasn’t one? Did he have any interest in her now that he could probably have any woman he wanted?
While she was thinking, Mark was watching her face, looking at her in a way that made her skin feel flushed and her bones feel pleasantly liquid. “Look at you,” he’d said, his voice getting a little lower, a little rougher. “You look just the same. Prettiest girl at Camp Golden Hills.”
Abby had laughed, because she knew it wasn’t true. She was, more or less, the same size she’d been at sixteen, the last time Mark had seen her, but she had faint wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. Her hair wasn’t as shiny as it had once been, or as thick, and she had age spots along with her freckles. But Mark’s expression was serious, and his eyes never wavered as he’d reached across the table to take her hand.
“Are you doing anything Saturday?” he’d asked. “Maybe you could show me around.”
“I would love that,” she said. He’d squeezed her fingers, and she’d smiled at him. Later, Abby would think that their reunion had felt as frictionless as a door swinging open on freshly oiled hinges; like something preordained.
If it had been any other old acquaintance, Abby would have anchored Saturday’s tour with her favorite places to eat. There would have been brunch at Sabrina’s, then some walking, and people-watching. There might have been a trip to the Barnes or the Philadelphia Museum of Art, followed by hummus and fresh pita at Dizengoff or tahini milkshakes at Goldie, then a stroll east to Spruce Street Harbor Park for fried chicken sandwiches at Federal Donuts, ice cream from Franklin Fountain, and drinks at Oasis… but could Mark eat any of that? Would Mark even want to?
“Do you want to walk?” Abby asked on Saturday morning. She’d met him at his apartment on Rittenhouse Square, where the carpet was immaculately vacuumed, the white couch was pristine, and the black-and-white beachscapes in their silver frames were precisely aligned on the wall. “Or we could rent bikes.” There was an Indego kiosk a few blocks from Mark’s apartment. Abby had passed it on her way there. They’d gotten lucky with the weather. After a stretch of bitterly cold days, the sun was shining, the wind had died down, and the temperature was in the fifties.
Mark’s gaze had drifted toward the ground. “I don’t know if you remember,” he’d said, his voice low. “I don’t actually know how to ride a bike.”
“Oh, God,” Abby said. “I totally forgot.”
“I know,” Mark said, a little shamefaced. “It’s weird.”
“It’s fine. Really. Lots of people don’t know how to ride bikes.” Just not many our age, Abby thought, even as she was chiding herself for not remembering. “We can walk.”
She’d ended up taking him through Rittenhouse Square Park, past the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall. They’d sat on a bench in Washington Square, where Mark complained that she wasn’t showing him any of the city’s real history. “Where was the first Wawa built?” he asked plaintively. “When are we going to the birthplace of the Eagles fans who threw the battery at Santa?”
Abby glared at him severely. “Okay, first of all, the batteries were at a Phillies game. The Eagles fans threw snowballs. And Santa deserved it,” she said. “If you’re going to live here, you need to get on board with that.”