His eyes fill with tears. He’s clearly devastated by the sight of the girl he was in love with.
Instead of stopping, Lily continues playing passionately until his tears have been running long enough that he won’t be able to deny them.
When Lily stops, she turns her back to Strad, not wanting him to gape at the gradual return of her ugliness.
“I’m sorry to be crying,” he says. “I don’t know why you had to play that piece.”
“Because we have to face things.”
“What things?”
“The fact that you’re unhappy.”
“I’m not unhappy. And I love you.”
“I don’t think it’s the right kind of love.”
“It’s a deep love.”
She turns around and looks at him. “It’s not a helpless, passionate love. It’s a responsible love.”
“So what? I love you.”
“But not the way you did.”
After a long pause, he finally murmurs, “Maybe not exactly the same way.”
Gently, she says, “And it’s because of how I look.”
He flinches. “The way you look makes no difference.”
“Oh? Because you don’t want it to? Or because it really doesn’t?”
“Because you’re the same person.”
“Not visually. And I know that matters to you a lot. You can’t change your nature.”
After a long while, he replies, barely audibly, “I don’t know. Maybe you’re right. I feel I’ve lost the person I was in love with. As though she vanished or died.”
Lily nods, resigned.
Suddenly, Strad seems to backtrack. “But it doesn’t matter because you didn’t vanish. You’re here, the same person. In fact, the beauty I saw and fell in love with was your soul.”
“But you no longer see it.”
“Maybe not with my eyes, but I see it with my heart, with my mind.”
“But it’s not the same, is it? For you, it’s not the same.”
He can’t speak, can’t contradict her. He looks miserable. He lets his head drop, in complete abjectness.
Softly, she adds, “I think it might be best if we stop trying to make our relationship work. We should accept that it’s over.”
Hardly raising his head, he nods.
They leave the piano room — she feeling many times worse than she did upon their first disappointing exit.
When they step out onto the sidewalk, he hugs her. In a choked whisper, he says, “I’m so sorry.”
When he releases her, she smiles at him weakly and walks away.
Strad doesn’t move. He watches her go. From the back, she looks the same as when he loved her.
HEARING ABOUT LILY’S breakup sinks me deeper into the dumps. Having finished reading Georgia’s novel only adds to my sadness, even though I loved the book. It’s a funny yet pessimistic novel about a love triangle — a one-directional triangle of unrequited love. It explores attraction, appeal, and desire. It’s about how even the most obsessive love can be fickle, as illustrated when the direction of the love triangle changes.
The book’s final message is that no one ever really finds true love, because such a thing doesn’t exist, but that people can have happy lives anyway, thanks to good friends.
It’s called Necessary Lunacies.
It left me more hopeless about ever getting over my romantic block regarding Peter, though more hopeful that he might be open to resuming contact with me.
I call Peter and invite him to Georgia’s party tomorrow night, even though I know I’m disregarding his wishes.
He says he doesn’t want to go.
I plead with him gently, tell him I’d like to see him.
“I don’t know,” he says.
I ask him to at least think about it.
But he won’t commit to doing even that.
After hanging up, feeling powerless, I decide to turn my attention to something I’ve been neglecting for too long.
I pick up my therapist’s business card and go down to the lobby.
I hand the card to Adam the doorman and tell him he should see this therapist, that she’s very caring. (I should probably see her again myself, but I’m always too busy.)
He strokes the card thoughtfully between his thumb and forefinger and says, “Thank you, but I prefer a softer kind of toilet paper.”
“I just want to help you, Adam.”
“You have helped me, actually, by giving me this card. I know I can stop trying to prove myself wrong.”
“About what?”
He doesn’t answer, but his face looks flushed and his eyes look slightly wild.
I say good night uneasily and go back upstairs.
PART THREE
Chapter Seventeen
To my relief, Peter does show up at the party the following day. A couple of pretty young interns from the Paris Review lose no time gushing over him, trying to chat him up. Smiling, he nods at them without interest.
After a few minutes I ask him if I can talk to him in private. I lead him to the bathroom, the only private place.
I mutter, “I was wondering if you might reconsider your decision not to be friends with me.”
“No.” He rests his hand against the towel rod behind me. “It’s too hard. I want more from you,” he says.
I look away. I want more, too, of course, but it’s impossible.
He leaves the bathroom. I compose myself and exit a minute later. The party is lively, though not yet at its peak. Many more people are still expected.
Neither Peter nor I are in the mood to mingle, so we go to my bedroom-office where Penelope, Jack, and Georgia are gathered. They don’t seem to be in much of a mood to socialize either.
Georgia is sitting on the couch, looking bored and grumpy, her cheek in her hand. Her mien clashes with her festive, bright red lipstick that she only wears on rare and important occasions. Clearly, she expected to have a better time this evening, which is often the case with her and parties.
Earlier, we told her how much we loved her novel. Our praise made her happy for about an hour, and then the effect faded.
The only one of us not here in my bedroom-office is Lily, who’s playing the piano in the living room, which may be another reason we’re here instead of there. Her grief is audible in her music. You’d think we were at a funeral. The guests don’t seem to mind or even notice, but we who are her closest friends can’t help being affected by it.
Georgia’s cell phone rings. As usual, she answers it on speaker, so we can all hear.
A man’s voice says, “Hey, Georgia, is the party still going?”
“Er… yeah,” she says, like it’s a dumb question.
“Great! Is there an alternate entrance into your building?”
“Er… no,” she says, like it’s a weird question. “The entrance is on Fifteenth Street between Union Square East and Irving Place.”
“They’re not letting me in.”
“Who isn’t?”
“The cops.”
“Cops?”
“Er… yeah,” he says, like it’s a dumb question.
“Why?”
“Er… because of what’s going on in your lobby, maybe?”
“What’s going on?”
“You don’t know? One of your doormen is going postal. He has a gun.”
We all look at one another, eyes wide.
“The doorman made everyone vacate the lobby, except for the other doormen and staff. So that’s why I’m asking if there’s like… maybe a service entrance in the back or something?”
“Are you crazy? Why would you want to enter a building containing a doorman with a gun?”