On Second Thought. Kristan Higgins

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СКАЧАТЬ her sister for not securing the train properly. There was the first dance, the father-daughter dance, mother-son dance, the cutting of the cake, the tossing of the bouquet.

      As I held up the camera to photograph the bride getting ready to chuck her flowers, I could see through the viewer that, yep, she was rubbing it in, calling some of her reluctant friends by name to get on out there. I am no longer one of you, hags! And the world shall know that you are still single!

      Those older (my age) friends muttered resentfully as they stood on the dance floor, third martinis in hand, not even pretending to try when the bouquet was tossed. The bride’s college-age niece caught it, still young enough to think it was fun.

      Then the call went out for the single guys to catch the garter—another baffling tradition: Would you like to have my wife’s pointless underwear accessory as a memento? Maybe keep it under your pillow and sniff it from time to time? The men were the usual suspects—the teenage boys, the already drunken groomsmen, an elderly uncle, the guys whose dates were pretending not to watch but were shrewdly assessing how hard the men would try to make the catch.

      Someone caught it; I didn’t see who, as he was in the middle of the pack. But then came the obligatory dance for him and the bouquet-catcher, so I dutifully took a few pictures, congratulating them both on their dexterity. The niece was quite beautiful, the guy good-looking without being too handsome, his reddish hair and blue eyes giving him the boy-next-door appeal. My money was on him taking the niece home.

      Imagine my shock, then, when the garter-catcher left the niece at the end of the song and came right over to me. Asked about my camera. Listened as I described it, then admitted he took pictures only with his phone. Further admitted he was talking about cameras only to see if I was single and might want to have a drink with him.

      “If that’s code for ‘I have a room here, want to hook up?’” I said, “then sadly, the answer is no.”

      “There’s a code?” he asked, grinning.

      “There is.”

      “Well, what’s code for ‘Will you have a drink with me after the wedding? Or sometime this week?’”

      It’s Hi, I’m an alien, I thought.

      Because good-looking, age-appropriate men didn’t date thirty-nine-year-olds. (Daniel the Hot Firefighter, anyone?) Even if, unlike Daniel, a guy my age wanted to settle down, they focused their sights on women in their twenties or early thirties, still secure in their fertility. Not women who’d been single for the entire two decades of their adult lives.

      Up until this moment, I had never been approached by a stranger and asked out. Not once. It just wasn’t how it happened anymore.

      I gave him my business card and smiled, hopefully hiding my befuddlement, then went off to photograph the hissing bride and pissy groom twining arms to sip champagne. I would’ve bet my left ovary that I would never hear from the garter-catcher again.

      He called me the next day and asked me out for a drink on the Lower East Side. Not knowing how to handle such a bizarre turn of events, I accepted.

      The restaurant was agonizingly trendy; I’d Googled it earlier in the day and saw it marked as one of New York’s hippest bars with egotistical cocktails and flattering lighting.

      “Nice place,” I said, though it wasn’t really my style.

      “I picked it because it was a straight shot across the East River for you,” he said.

      “That was very thoughtful,” I said, sliding into the booth. “I’m guessing you’re either gay, a serial killer, a gay serial killer or a bigamist, charming his way across America, occasionally calling his children by the wrong names, his wives thinking he’s just distracted because he works so very hard.”

      He laughed, and I felt a purr of attraction low in my stomach. “No,” he said. “Just one ex-wife. Sorry to let you down.”

      His name was Nathan Vance Coburn III, an architect and fourth-generation son of Cambry-on-Hudson. I told him my folks lived there, that my sister and her boyfriend had recently bought a house there, as well. We played Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, figuring out who we knew in common. He read my mother’s column and had met Eric at a fund-raiser.

      I didn’t bother trying to impress him or monitor myself; those days were done, those long mental lists of what to say and ask, which topics to avoid. His average looks were appealing, and he wore a suit but no tie. Long blond eyelashes gave him a sweet, almost shy look, though he seemed relaxed and funny.

      Men like this just weren’t single.

      It seemed contradictory, because I personally knew at least five really great women in their late thirties and early forties who were looking for love. Statistics would say there’d be at least five similarly great single men in the same age group, but statistics would be wrong. I didn’t know one man my age I’d want to date, and believe me, my criteria had been low. Forget about living with his mother or having a job. We were talking “no recent murders” by the time I called it quits.

      So Nathan Vance Coburn III... I was obviously suspicious.

      I shook his hand at the end of the date and said it had been very nice talking with him. He called me two days after that. We met for dinner, and he insisted on paying. I let him kiss me good-night, and he did it just right; no tongue, long enough to convince me, short enough to avoid embarrassment.

      I smiled all the way home, the only person on the subway to do so.

      We started dating, and by dating I meant just meeting and talking and some kissing. We held hands sometimes. No sex, because I was having fun the way things were. My newly acquired Zen kept me chill about the whole thing—if it worked, yay. If not, no biggie.

      Nathan seemed freakishly great. I quizzed him on the social issues that mattered to me, showing him pictures of my brother’s biracial kids. Nathan’s only comment: “Gorgeous,” with a sweet, almost wistful smile. I mentioned my gay friends. My voting history. My feeling that people who stole handicapped parking spaces should be hobbled. I told him about my fear of earthworms. He sympathized and admitted his fear of potato eyes.

      Nathan didn’t mind the old-fashioned courtship. Sometimes, he’d bring me a bouquet of flowers. Once, a small cardboard box tied in twine, containing a perfect red velvet cupcake. I’d send him photos from our dates, since I was never without my camera—the old woman on the bench, the sun glinting off One World Trade Center. I took him to the best Polish restaurant in Brooklyn and introduced him to the wonders of homemade pierogi. We went for a walk in the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, the golden aspen leaves drifting down around us, and went to the top of the Empire State Building, something he’d never done, which I found incomprehensible. He was an architect, after all.

      “We ever gonna sleep together?” he asked amiably as we surveyed the miracle of New York’s skyline.

      “Someday, maybe,” I said, running a finger along his wrist, feeling the heavy thud of his pulse. “If you’re very lucky. Keep up with the cupcakes.”

      The next day, two dozen cupcakes were delivered to my studio.

      The truth was, I was almost afraid to sleep with him. What if I found out that he liked to use a riding crop on his lovers, or could get it up only if I called him Caesar?

      Nope. When the day came, СКАЧАТЬ