On Second Thought. Kristan Higgins

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СКАЧАТЬ note the California king-size bed comfortably accommodates two.”

      He made me dinner. We had a bottle of wine. And we did sleep together.

      It was lovely. He was lovely.

      Finally, I asked the question that had been bugging me from the first day we’d met. “Nathan, why did you ask me out?”

      “It was an impulse,” he said, and I gave him points for not delivering a schmaltzy answer. “You just seemed...together. And happy.”

      I liked that a lot.

      One night, after a long kiss good-night that made my stomach gather in a giddy, delicious squeeze, he whispered, “I love you, you know,” and my whole chest ached with heat.

      “I love you, too,” I breathed without thinking.

      My next thought was Too early. Too easy. Too soon.

      Six weeks later, he proposed.

      It was fast. But we weren’t kids. He’d been married already. And children, which seemed like an elusive dream akin to spending the summer horseback riding through Montana with Derek Jeter, were now a possibility. One way or another, biological or adoptive, we both wanted to be parents. He loved his two nephews like crazy. Always wanted to be a father. Madeleine, his ex-wife, had changed her mind on that; it was the issue that ended their marriage.

      And, I thought, life was uncertain. Look at Eric, hit with cancer at thirty-two years old (though thankfully, he caught it early, and it was a cancer with a high cure rate). My sister could’ve lost him. Live life to the fullest. Seize the day. Et cetera.

      His parents weren’t thrilled; well, his father seemed fine, kissing me on the cheek and forgetting my name almost immediately in a benign, scotchy way. His mother looked elegantly perplexed but was classy enough to say, “I’m sure we’ll become quite close.” His sister, Brooke, was warm, and her husband was quite nice, as well. Their little boys were beautiful; cousins for my future children. The thought caused a palpable tremor of joy.

      My own family was mixed. Dad, who was enduring the off-season by rewatching every game he hadn’t personally called, tore his eyes off the TV and said, “Good for you, Poodle! About time! You’ve been with him what, ten years?”

      “No, that’s Ainsley,” I said. “This is kind of a whirlwind thing.”

      “Those are the best. Like me and Michelle,” he reminisced fondly, naming Ainsley’s mother. My own mother’s lips disappeared. “Well, good for you!” Dad continued. “Will I have to pay for the wedding?”

      I patted his arm. “I think we’re gonna keep it small. Elope, maybe. I’m forty, after all. Almost.”

      “You are? Good Lord! Well, elopement is a good idea. Very romantic. Bring him by sometime. Does he like baseball?”

      I winced. “He’s a Mets fan.” We were pin-striped, of course. Dad was an American League umpire.

      “Pity. Well, I’m sure he’s nice.”

      “Why would you want to be married, Kate?” my mother asked over lunch with Ainsley and me. “Just live together. It’s less messy when you break up.”

      “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said. “And aren’t you pro-marriage? I’m sure you mention it in one of your books.”

      “You’ve been on my case to get married for years,” Ainsley said.

      “Well, you’re wasting your life with Eric, honey. If he liked it, as the song goes, he would’ve put a ring on it.”

      “Should you be quoting Beyoncé when you have a PhD from Yale?” my sister asked. “Also, Eric’s recovering from cancer, if you remember. Weddings are kind of low on our priorities list.”

      “How’s he doing? Still clear?” I asked, hoping she wouldn’t launch into too many medical details.

      “Yeah,” she said, “but he’s waiting for the eighteen-month mark. That’s when he’s officially better.”

      “Fingers crossed,” I said.

      “Kate,” Mom said, turning to me, “you can hardly expect me to be wholehearted about this. You’ve known him what? Six months?”

      “Five.”

      “Five. Do you know the statistics for people who marry knowing each other less than two years?”

      “Nope. But I’m almost forty. Old enough to make my own decisions, Mom.”

      Ainsley chattered cheerfully about flowers and dresses, but she gave off an air of confusion. After all, as Mom pointed out via Beyoncé, Ainsley was the one with the decade-long relationship. She already lived with Eric in Cambry-on-Hudson. She clearly was supposed to be first down the aisle.

      “Well, Eric thinks the world of Nathan,” she said gamely. “He’s a total catch!” The words made me wince. So 1950s, as if we women had to trick men into marriage.

      But he did meet every criterion a single woman could have—kind, steady, interesting, intelligent, attractive, financially secure. Even his divorce spoke well of him; he hadn’t been hanging around, not committing (as I had been). He had no pit in his cellar, no devices for torturing women, no collection of Nazi uniforms. I looked, believe me, making him laugh and laugh as I poked around his enormous home.

      There was absolutely no reason not to marry him.

      Except...

      There’s always that, isn’t there?

      Marriage, as nice as it might be, would throw my life into upheaval—Nathan wanted me to move to Cambry-on-Hudson, relocate my studio, sell my apartment. Of course he did. COH was his hometown, and though I hadn’t grown up there, it was where I went on holidays. It made sense. He had a gorgeous house perfectly suited to children and entertaining, with plenty of space for us both.

      But still. All the adjustments, all the moving, most of the changes would be mine. Ideally, I’d take more time to ease into this. I knew I wasn’t used to being part of a couple, of joint decision-making.

      Not to mention that five months wasn’t enough time to truly know each other. This would be a leap of faith that everything I believed to be true about Nathan would hold fast. If I was wrong—or if he was—we’d look like idiots.

      The changes would be worth it, I believed. But it would be upheaval nonetheless, and twenty years on my own...well, it was hard to walk away from. I couldn’t bring myself to sell my apartment. Instead, I rented it and put my things in storage. It was December. Who wanted to schlep furniture?

      If I’d been even a few years younger, I would’ve waited. There was a small, annoying voice—my mother’s—telling me that a reason not to marry him didn’t mean a good reason to marry him. That you can’t really love someone you’ve known for five months.

      I confessed my concern to Paige. We were at Porto’s, our favorite bar, one of the few places in Brooklyn that predated the influx of cool people and was therefore übercool, the not locally farmed, not organic, not microbrewed, not free-range СКАЧАТЬ