ONE
I have substantially changed names, places, and dates, but the events described are as true as I can recall.
My name is Michael. I am a middle-aged white male. I am a successful businessman. I am -- well, I was -- happily married. My life was pretty tame up until about two years ago. Now here I am in a luxury suite at the Boston Park Plaza, naked, with a throbbing erection, staring at an unfamiliar face in the bathroom mirror. My heart is racing, pounding against the inside of my breastbone like a kick drum.
I am about to either rescue my soul or make the biggest mistake I have ever made.
How did I come to this point?
Here's where the voiceover guy says, "Previously in Michael's life...."
I was born on Cape Cod. My father owned a large insurance agency and played a lot of golf. My mother hosted parties and played a lot of golf. I grew up happy and went off to Harvard, there to study whatever the hell I felt like studying, as it was a given that I would go into the business after graduation. I studied business -- for which I had a natural aptitude -- and minored in psychology -- in which I had a lifelong interest.
College was years of books, exams, pleasure and partying. I played squash and went to museums, got drunk, went to clubs and concerts, dated several beautiful women. I lived off campus in a house with four other guys. My existence was sweet until that fateful afternoon in the spring of my senior year when Emma dropped by. She was the current amusement of Ben, one of my housemates. The sun was hot outside and we had all the windows wide to let the breeze in. I was watching a Red Sox game when Emma darted in and blurted out, "This is Mike. Mike, Rebecca." and sprinted up the stairs, leaving behind her a shocked and young-looking girl.
This Rebecca was medium tall, thin but fit, with a mane of curly auburn hair. Pert nose in an oval face, full mouth, freckles, and the deepest widest brown eyes I had ever seen. She had -- when she later did smile -- a kind of naïve goofy just slightly imperfect grin that for some reason struck right to my heart. We stared at each other for a long moment until I patted the sofa next to me. She immediately came and sat, an oddly obedient response, which I thought nothing of at the time (but -- I might as well foreshadow -- this aspect of her personality would much later destroy me). I could tell she was tense, so I turned down the volume and began to talk to her. She slowly calmed, her body relaxing, as she told me that she and Emma had just been at the Fogg to view a new exhibition of Japanese prints in preparation for writing an essay in their art history class.
Once she got over the shock of being thrust into strange company, I found her to be a warm, empathetic, observant woman. As she described the prints, her face was animated with a joy of discovery that made me want to rush over and view them myself.
Being a healthy young man, I tried to make out the figure under her clothes, but she was overdressed in a bulky blouse with a high neck and a strangely unfashionable long skirt that reached down to her ankles. The whole time we were talking -- well, I was doing the vast majority of the talking -- she kept her eyes mostly cast down. I managed to steer the conversation back to her and found out that her friends called her Becky and that she was from rural Ohio.
I offered her a beer, but she refused in alarm. She was convinced to accept some ice water, and I fetched a glass. As I was about to hand it to her, we heard a loud groan from upstairs, followed by rapid squeaks from Ben's platform bed. Becky turned crimson and shrank in on herself. In normal circumstances I would have muted the game and enjoyed the obscene symphony. Instead, I clicked the TV off and invited her to come out to the porch.
There, with the doors drawn, the muted sounds of passion were washed away by the distant Cambridge street noise, horns and sirens. Becky calmed again, though an occasional shout from Emma pierced the veil and made her jump. I shifted my conversation muscles into overdrive. Here was a challenge I immediately knew was worthy. I am comfortable talking to strangers. I am not shy. For some reason this girl -- no, this young woman -- made me want to stare silently at her, but I forced out words to get her to look up and favor me with those captivating eyes. Every time I could get Becky to lift her head and meet my eyes, however briefly, I received a shock. Hormones, psychic energy, brain bleeding, whatever are those chemical responses that get classified as... well, as love. I didn't make that connection at the time. I just wanted to look into those lovely brown eyes. I also desired to get her bulky clothes off. I shifted my weight and realized I had was hard. Very hard. I held my beer in front of my crotch and we spoke for quite a while longer until Emma ran out the door, grabbed Becky by the hand, and fled without a good-bye.
I sat there, unable to find a motivation to move, realizing that I could not recall a single thing from our long conversation. Except her name. If we never met again, I would remember her name forever.
By the time I came back in, the game was long over. A sweaty Ben was sitting in the kitchen nook replenishing his vital energy with a pizza and Bud Lite Lime. He nodded at the box and I sat down, though I had no appetite. That I did not fall upon a pizza was a clue I missed.
"Who was that girl?" I asked.
"What girl? Emma?"
"No. No. Rebecca. The one who came with her."
Ben shrugged. "I dunno. She lives in Mather House, same as Emma. Why?" He paused his slice in midair. "No. Don't do it."
"Do what?"
"Waste energy on her. Emma says she is a professional virgin. Majoring in virginity. Raised in the nineteenth century. Her father has a carriage, her mother uses a wood stove that they gather around on Saturday nights to read the Bible. You will never get a taste of that."
"Well hell," I said and cracked open a beer.
But I could not forget those eyes. I thought about them every ten seconds or so for the next week, the way that mental images of tits or ass ordinarily and regularly punctuate a healthy young man's internal dialog. The next weekend I stalked Mather House until I saw Becky come out carrying two books and a clipboard. I fell into step beside her. She glanced up at me and actually smiled, that goofy adorable smile. My pulse rocketed. I slipped the books from her grasp. "Allow me, ma'am," I said.
That was all it took. I carried her books to the library and stayed with her while she read and took notes. I sat in the next cubicle and read a textbook on my phone. I caught her contemplating me every once in a while with wide questioning eyes. I said nothing. When she was done, I took her to dinner. The next day I called for her at Mather and we walked along the river, talking. I took her to a French movie at the Brattle. We attended an Indian music festival at the Hatch Shell. Over the next month I made sure to be with her every day to do something, no matter how briefly.
Some days I had only a few minutes to spend with her, because graduation was upcoming and last-minute business and sweeping up the odds and ends rushed down upon me like an avalanche.
Before I knew it, we were standing in Harvard Yard in our gowns. By now, she looked me straight in the eye most of the time. But this afternoon she stood silent, gaze locked on the ground. Behind her, her mother and father were talking and looking around the Yard. Behind me, my mother and father were laughing at a joke.
"Goodbye, Michael," Becky said. She held out a hand for me to shake. "We are leaving tonight."
"T- Tonight?" I stammered. For some reason the idea that the end of college meant the end of our relationship, such as it was, had not sunk in. I had not even kissed her properly. Just a peck on the cheek when dropping her off. A protective arm around her shoulders when a bicycle approached along the narrow river path.
Our eyes met. The sadness twisting her face made me want to cry right there in front of the crowd of graduating seniors. I wanted to scream. I could not live without those eyes. I wanted that look to be the first thing I saw in the morning and the last thing I saw at night. She was leaving.
The sun went out over Harvard Square. I shivered.
I could have had any of a few dozen women. I was not ugly, could charm any female you pointed me at. I had money and prospects. I had learned and honed moves in the bedroom and could get references praising my performance from at least ten previous girlfriends.
I stepped over to her father and spoke to him for a few minutes, then I went to my parents and told them I had just gotten permission to marry Becky. I don't think I even ever properly proposed to my intended. I just assumed she would go along with my desires. Michael, romantic fool.
When I resumed my spot back in front of Becky and told her rather matter-of-factly that our parents had agreed to our engagement, her mouth opened in a wide surprised circle and she actually hopped up and down. She never even said yes.
Fast forward. Long story short. American Dream. Fancy wedding. Long honeymoon. Job with Dad. Nice big house in Orleans. Kids--
Wait. Rewind. Back to the honeymoon.
