On Second Thought

After all, I’d opened other turquoise-blue boxes before, and they hadn’t contained engagement rings. On our fourth Christmas together, upon seeing the small box, I burst into tears and threw myself into his arms.

Gold hoop earrings.

On my twenty-ninth birthday, an opal pendant.

Both lovely, mind you. Just not what a woman expects when presented with a box of a certain shape and color. So tonight, if there was anything other than an engagement ring in that box, I needed to know before a hundred people watched me open it.

Like a cat burglar, I slid the box out of the drawer and removed the turquoise lid. Inside was the black velvet box, just like those that had held the earrings and pendant.

I peeked, then inhaled sharply.

It was an engagement ring.

The diamond glittered at me, pulling me under its spell, the depth and sparkle of it, the mystery. It was perfect. A gorgeous solitaire, simple but so elegant, tiny diamonds on the band, the bigger stone dazzling. And big. A carat and a half. Maybe more. Oh, Tiffany! Well done!

“Check this out,” I whispered to Ollie, showing him. He licked his chops, and I idly petted his silky little brindle head, staring at the ring.

My eyes were wet as I closed the lid and replaced the velvet box into the blue one, then put the package back under the boxers.

Finally. Finally.

Then I pumped a fist into the air and did a little end zone victory dance around the room, happy little squeaks coming out of my throat. Ollie joined me, whining with joy, as he himself was an accomplished dancer.

At last! I was getting married! And the ring was flippin’ gorgeous! And it was about time!

Eric was the love of my life. We’d been together since our senior year of college (eleven years ago, mind you). There’d never been anyone else. He’d been the third boy I kissed, the first boy I slept with and the only boy I’d ever loved.

And after the past year and a half, during the terror of his life-changing diagnosis, during the treatment and illness, I wanted to be married more than ever. No more partner, no more boyfriend, no more significant other. I wanted him to be my husband. The word was as solid and comforting as a bullmastiff.

In my heart, we already had a marriage-level commitment, but I wanted the whole package. You know how some people say, Heck, we don’t need a piece of paper to show our commitment! They’re lying. At least, I was lying and had been lying for, oh, ten years now.

The wait was over.

I glanced at my watch, then bolted into the bathroom. If I was going to be an engaged woman tonight, I was also going to get laid tonight, and I had to shave my legs. All the way up.

* * *

Two hours later, the party was in full swing. I wore a white dress (bridal, anyone?) and red heels, and I was nursing a glass of cabernet, feigning calm, though my palms were sweaty and my heart stuttered and sped. Ollie wandered around, greeting guests, sniffing shoes, wagging his tail, all shiny and sweet-smelling, since I’d given him a bath earlier that day.

This was Eric’s big night, and soon it would be our big night.

The house looked fantastic. It wasn’t as big or fabulous as my sister’s new place, but it wasn’t shabby, either. And unlike Kate’s home, my house was lovely because of my work. Kate had walked into a fully furnished showplace designed by her architect husband, filled with custom-made furniture and tasteful modern art paintings.

Our place was my doing. Since my former career in television imploded, Eric funded 90 percent of our lifestyle, being the Wall Street wizard he was, but home was my domain. Every piece of furniture, every photo, every throw pillow, every paint color had been my decision, making this house our home.

Was our relationship a little retro? You bet. I liked it that way. And while Kate and Nathan’s house was more impressive, I liked to think ours was a little more welcoming, warmer, more colorful. Kind of like Kate and me—her always a little reserved, me always trying too hard.

The caterers zipped around with trays of pretty food and bottles of wine (good wine, too; Eric had a man-crush on Nathan and asked for some recommendations, since Nathan had an actual wine cellar). There was a martini bar on the deck, and everyone was laughing and smiling with good reason. Eric had beaten cancer, and this party was his way of thanking everyone for their love and support since that awful day when he’d found the lump.

As if reading my thoughts, Eric glanced over at me and smiled, and my heart melted and pulled like warm taffy. His dark hair was still short—it used to be longer, but after he shaved his head in anticipation of hair loss, he liked the cropped look. His black-framed glasses made him look attractively dorky, but the truth was, he was gorgeous, and since the diagnosis and his organic macrobiotic diet and exercise plan, his body was smokin’.

There was a velvet box-sized shape in his front pocket.

My fiancé. My husband.

The very first time I saw Eric Fisher, I thought, That’s the man I’m going to marry. It had never been a question of if, just a question of when.

That question would be answered tonight.

“Ainsley, the house looks amazing!” said Beth, my across-the-street neighbor, who’d been wonderful about bringing food and leaving little bouquets of flowers from her garden when Eric was sick. “What a happy day!”

“Thank you, Beth! You’ve been so great. We can’t thank you enough. Get a martini, quick!” She smiled and obeyed.

So many friends were here—Eric’s fraternity brothers, his coworkers from Wall Street, Eric’s parents and grandparents. My friends, too, from town and college and the magazine, though no one from my old job at NBC had even RSVP’d. My brother and his wife hadn’t been able to make it, but their older two kids were here, not by choice. I had the impression Sean and Kiara left Sadie with a sitter, dropped the teens off here and sneaked out to dinner rather than come to the party.

Esther, who was thirteen, was slumped in a chair, the only sign of life her thumbs moving over her phone. Matthias, at fifteen, was similarly slumped, eyeing the young female servers when he thought no one was looking.

“You guys can go down to the cellar if you want and watch TV,” I told them, stroking Esther’s curly hair. They jolted back to life and practically trampled each other in the race to the cellar door, Esther shielding her eyes as she passed the photo montage. Poor kid. No teenage girl should have to see that.

“Hello, Ainsley.”

I managed to catch my flinch at the sound of the voice. My boss was here—Captain Flatline, as we called him. Ollie trotted up to greet him, cheerfully sniffing his shoes, then putting his paws against Jonathan’s knee. Jonathan ignored him.

“Hi, Jonathan!” I said brightly, though almost everyone else at the magazine called him Mr. Kent. I didn’t. I had an Emmy, thank you very much (though I probably should’ve given that back after the debacle).

“Thank you for inviting me.” He looked like he was at a funeral, still in a suit and tie from work, face as cheerful as the grave.

“I’m glad you could come,” I lied. “Is that for us?” I nodded at the bottle of wine in his hand.

“Yes.” He handed it to me. “I hope you enjoy it.” Still no smile. “I’m sorry you couldn’t make your employee review this afternoon.”

I faked a frown. “Yeah. Me, too. That call with the pumpkin farmer went on longer than I thought.”

He lifted an eyebrow. We both knew I was dodging the review. The thing was, the job wasn’t that hard, and I did it well. Or pretty well, anyway. As the features editor, it was my job to assign articles to our vast army of freelancers, all of whom wanted to be the next host of This American Life and/or winner of the Pulitzer Prize.

Hudson Lifestyle, however, was glossy fluff. Lemonade stands and barn restorations, new restaurant openings and the history of Overlook Cemetery. Before I worked at the magazine, I’d been a producer on The Day’s News with Ryan Roberts, the second most-watched news program in the country. I could handle Ten Ideas for Fall Porch Decorating.

That being said, yes, I had some difficulty in following every one of Jonathan’s many rules to the letter. He liked us to roll in at exactly 8:30 every morning, which didn’t take into account the fact that I might change outfits or get caught on the phone with my grandmother. He didn’t allow food to be left in the employee fridge for more than four days in a row. No personal phone calls at work? Come on. No checking Facebook? What century was this?

These were the things Jonathan had discussed last year in my review, before I knew that dodging them was a friendly competition held among all Hudson Lifestyle employees. The current champion was Deshawn in Sales, who’d gone three years without one and was now flirting with Beth at the martini bar.

“Hello! Are you married?” Gram-Gram, my stepmother’s cheerful and slightly senile mom, popped over and beamed up at Jonathan.

“Gram-Gram, this is my boss. Jonathan, my grandmother, Lettie Carson.”

“Hello!” she said, taking his hand and kissing it.

He glanced at me, alarmed, then said, “Very nice to meet you.”

“You, too! Ainsley, I was wondering if you could help me, honey. I’m on a dating website, but I can’t seem to swipe. How do you swipe on your phone? My swipe is broken.”

“Um...well, show me, and I’ll help you.” She handed me her phone.

Jonathan didn’t seem compelled to move on. He watched us, expressionless.

“Tinder, Gram-Gram? It’s kind of...trashy. And hey, that’s my picture! Not yours! You have to use a picture of yourself, you know.”

Gram-Gram humphed. “I hate pictures of myself. Besides, you’re so pretty.”

“Well, you’re misleading people.”

She winked at Jonathan. “Maybe they’ll date me if they think I look like her.”

“Shame on you,” I said. “Here. Smile!” Before she could protest, I’d snapped a shot, opened Tinder and changed her profile shot.

“Fine,” she grumbled, scowling at it. “Thank you, I suppose. I’m getting more champagne! Nice to meet you, young man!”

“Go easy on the booze, Gram-Gram.” She wandered away, patting people in her wake. I force-smiled at Jonathan. “She’s quite a character.”

“Yes.”

I suppressed a sigh. Though my boss was somewhere around my age, he gave the impression of being a seventy-year-old minor British lord, an ivory-topped walking stick firmly impacted in his colon. In the two years I’d worked at his little magazine, I had yet to hear him laugh.

“Well, thank you for coming, Jonathan, and for the wine. That was very thoughtful. Here, come talk to my sister. I don’t think you’ve met her. Kate! This is Jonathan Kent, my boss.”

Yes. Let Kate have to deal with him. Like Nathan (and now Kate), Jonathan, too, was a platinum member at the Cambry-on-Hudson Lawn Club. From the corner, Rachelle, who answered phones at the magazine, made a sympathetic face. To be honest, I’d invited the boss only because he overheard me talking about the party this very morning. Jonathan was, to put it kindly, a downer.

But he had given Eric the online column—just a WordPress spin-off that Eric posted himself, the magazine’s website providing a link and a byline. Eric loved writing The Cancer Chronicles, so I guess we owed Jonathan for that, though it hadn’t been easy convincing him to say yes.

“Nice to meet you,” Kate said. “This is my husband, Nathan Coburn.”

Being that it was Cambry-on-Hudson, Nathan and Jonathan had met sometime in the past. Ah, yes. Hudson Lifestyle had done a feature on Nathan’s house a few years ago, before my time.

I wondered if I’d ask Kate to be my maid of honor, even though she’d eloped and hadn’t even asked me to come as a witness. If I asked, would she somehow make me feel dumb? Then again, she was my sister...well, my half sister, but still. Nathan could be in the wedding party, too. He was a sweetheart, that guy. He caught me looking at him and gave me a wink. In some ways, he felt more like a brother than Sean, who was eleven when I was born, fourteen when I came to live with them.

Kate was lucky to have Nathan, though I never would’ve put them together. At least she seemed to know it. She and Nathan were holding hands, which was sweet.

“Hey, Ains!” said Rob, one of Eric’s fraternity brothers. “What kind of cancer was it again?”

I bit down on my irritation. If Rob had been a true friend, he’d have read The Cancer Chronicles (or the CCs, as Eric called them). Or maybe even called during the past year and a half. Like a lot of Eric’s friends from college, he was something of a dolt.

I picked up Ollie and petted his fluffy little head. “It was testicular,” I said, still wishing I didn’t have to name boy parts. They all sounded so ugly. Penis. Scrotum. Sac. Girl parts, on the other hand, all sounded rather exotic and beautiful. When I was at NBC and we did a story on teenage pregnancy, there was a girl who wanted to name her daughter Labia. I could almost see it.

“Testicular? Shit!” Rob winced comically and turned to Eric. “Dude!” he bellowed. “Your nuts? Ouch, brother!”

“That’s the good cancer, isn’t it?” asked Rob’s wife.

“There is no good cancer,” I said sternly.

“I mean, the cure rate is really high. Like 98 percent?”

Her statistics were accurate. “Yes.”

“So it wasn’t like Lance Armstrong, then? The really dangerous kind?”

What was this? An interrogation? “It was the same type Lance had, but thank God, we caught it earlier. And all cancer is dangerous. I hope you never have to find that out.”

Sure, sure, I sounded sanctimonious, but really, people could be such jerks. Eric had talked about this in his column, how people threw around terms like “good cancer” and “great odds” and just didn’t understand.

No matter what, Eric had been afraid of dying.

There was part of him, I knew, that had wished his battle had been a little...well, a little more dramatic. He’d been prepped to be noble and uncomplaining. That was why he asked me to get him the column at Hudson Lifestyle. His journey, he said, would inspire people.

And it did. Well. I was inspired, of course. The blog didn’t get a lot of traffic, and Jonathan was irritable about it, so I lied to Eric about the statistics. He’d been fighting cancer. He didn’t need to know his views were in the dozens (sometimes not even that).

The truth was, the CCs were kind of...bland. Eric wrote about finding silver linings, living in the moment, being present, the transformation of the caterpillar to butterfly. There was a lot of detail about his treatment. Even a picture of the pre-and postoperative scrotum, which we had to take down as soon as Jonathan saw it, since it violated the magazine’s pornography rules (that was an awkward meeting, let me tell you).

Eric liked to use quotes: Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the realization that there is something more important than fear... Live to fight another day... You are braver than you know, stronger than you think... It’s always darkest before dawn. (That one made even me wince.)

It wasn’t exactly new territory, or great writing. Every Monday morning, Jonathan would fix me with a dead-eyed stare after he read the blog. I didn’t care. It wasn’t like Hudson Lifestyle was Newsweek. And besides, Eric was always very flattering when he referenced me. He called me Sunshine on the blog, rather than using my real name. To protect my privacy, he said, though I wouldn’t have minded being outed.

“Why doesn’t anyone comment?” Eric asked a few weeks after he started, and that was when I made up a bunch of fake usernames and started posting. Lucy1991, CancerSux9339, EdouardenParis, LivefromNewYork28, DaveMatthewsFan! and LovesToRead288 were actually all me.

There’d been this one woman who’d had chemo at the same place Eric went. Noreen. She’d been so, so sick, so thin it was a wonder her legs held her. No hair, no eyebrows, sores at her IV sites, yeast infections in her mouth, bleeding gums, yellow skin and slack, hollow eyes, a cough so hard I was surprised she didn’t bring up her large intestine. It was her third time around with cancer. The odds were not in her favor.

But Noreen always smiled, asked after the nurses’ kids by name, sometimes even crocheted little blankets for the preemies in the neonatal unit when she had the strength. Never lost her sense of humor, wore funny T-shirts that said My Oncologist Can Beat Up Your Oncologist and Does This Shirt Make Me Look Bald? She was never anything but gracious, kind and happy. Every time I went in to sit with Eric, I was terrified Noreen wouldn’t be there, that the cancer finally devoured her.

Against all odds, she made it. In fact, she ran a half marathon last month and raised more than twenty-five grand for cancer research. That was when Eric started training for one, too.

But Eric’s cancer journey had been...well, it had been easy. Easy as cancer journeys go, that is. No hair loss (though he did shave his head). Only two days of puking and diarrhea that might’ve been caused by some iffy sushi. He lost fifteen pounds, but then again, he needed to, and it was more through our new macrobiotic diet than because of chemo. There was one week where he took a nap every day.

So what Rob’s wife had said was true. If there was a cancer you had to have, testicular was the way to go. And Eric had sailed through it like a champ.

I knew he exaggerated on his blog, but I didn’t bring it up. He had cancer, for the love of God.

And he won. Maybe his battle wasn’t as tough as other people’s, but he won.

My throat was tight with happy tears. I set Ollie back on the floor so he could win more hearts and minds, and took a breath, wanting to press our night into my memory forever. Three Wall Streeters were laughing in the corner. Lillie, my college roommate, was giggling with her fiancé. Everyone looked so happy.

Almost everyone, that was.

“You really went all out, didn’t you?” My stepmother, Candy, appeared at my elbow. “I can’t imagine what this cost.”

“So worth it, though,” I said, determined not to let her ruin my mood.

“If you say so.” She gave me her patented, squinty look of disappointment—I did my best, but look what I had to work with.

A word about Candy.

She and Dad were each other’s once and future spouses, as it were. The first time around, they met in college, got married, had Sean and Kate. Then, when Kate was seven, they got a divorce.

Not very long after the divorce—a few months, I was told—Dad married my mother, Michelle, who died when I was three. A pickup truck hit her one Sunday afternoon as she was riding her bike. Six months after that, Dad went back to Candy and married her again.

Candy wasn’t an evil stepmother. She took care of me when I was sick and asked if I did my homework, but...well. She already had her children, and they were past the age when they needed help brushing their teeth. I was not encouraged to call her Mom. “Your mother is in heaven,” she’d say calmly if the M-word slipped out, as it sometimes did. “You can call me Candy.”

Dad, who had been a great baseball player in college but not quite good enough to play for a living, was an umpire for Major League Baseball. He traveled seven months of the year, so the bulk of my upbringing fell to Candy. And while she did take my father back, she never got over him dumping her for a younger, prettier woman. Every few years, she’d announce that she was divorcing Dad, though she never followed through.

Candy had a PhD in psychology and had authored several books on family dynamics, including The Toxic Mommy and Stuck with You: Raising the Recalcitrant Stepchild. Other cheerful titles included Freeing Yourself from Your Family and Parenting When You’ve Got Nothing Left. She was a bit of a celebrity on the parenting circuit, and also the advice columnist for Hudson Lifestyle, which she wrote under the name Dr. Lovely.

She was great out in public and took her appearance very seriously—expensive blond hair, glaring white teeth, a perfect size four, five foot two, abs of steel. At book signings and whenever confronted with a fan, she’d morph into a smiley, warm, wonderful person who never minded taking photos.

With us—with me, I should say—she remained brittle. Which was okay. She had her reasons, and she’d never been cruel or angry toward me. Just resigned. She got her man back, but with the stiff price tag in the form of a toddler.

“Oh, honey, this is gorgeous,” said Eric’s mom, Judy, pouncing on me with a hug. “You’re so wonderful, you know that? And look at you! So beautiful!”

“Thanks, Judy!”

“Candy, how are you? Isn’t this a special day?”

“It is.” My stepmother forced a smile, then backed away. Judy and I exchanged a look. We’d gossip about everything tomorrow. Tomorrow, when I’d be engaged.

“I love your dress. Perfect for tonight!” she said.

So she knew. Excellent. “Well,” I said, feigning innocence, “white for a clean start.”

She pressed her lips together so as not to blurt out the news. Her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know what he’d do without you, Ainsley,” she said. “You’re a treasure.”

“Oh, Judy,” I said, my voice husky. I gave her a hug, and my sister aimed her camera at us. Kate did take the best pictures.

“Where’s my second-best girl?” Eric’s dad asked, joining us. “You look beautiful, darling. Both of you do.”

The Fishers were the best. “You’re a daughter to us,” his mother had been saying for the past decade. They had the kind of marriage I wanted—affectionate, open, happy and fun. My boyfriend had great role models, that was for sure. We went on vacation with them every year, and we always had a great time, a fact that befuddled my friends.

Judy and I would go crazy planning the wedding. It could be Jewish, since that would be important to them, and would win me even more points as best daughter-in-law ever. We’d have the canopy and the breaking of the glass and the fun dance with the chairs...

I looked over at my honey. He stood next to the huge montage of pictures of himself he’d put up. Eric before cancer, a little chubby. Going into the hospital for surgery. Lying in the recovery room afterward. Hooked up to an IV bag. (He asked me to take all these, for the record.) Just after he shaved his head. Wearing his Fuck You, Cancer T-shirt, sitting in his favorite chair, seven prescription bottles next to him.

He met my eyes and smiled, then clinked a fork on his champagne glass.

Oh, God, it was time. I looked around, my heart revved up and my toes clenched in the red shoes. Jonathan and Candy were talking in a corner. The frat boys were doing shots. Rachelle was taking a picture of Kate and Nathan, calling them Kate and Nate, and asking Kate about camera settings.

“Folks, if I could have your attention for a minute,” Eric said. I swallowed hard. Everyone quieted and gathered around, ripples of laughter and conversation fluttering out. I hoped Kate would get a picture of the big moment. Oh, man, I was nervous! All these years waiting, and I was shaking!

“Folks,” Eric said again, “I just want to thank you all for coming to this party. As of noon today, I am officially cancer free!”

A cheer went up, and glasses were raised, and I felt tears slipping down my cheeks.

“It’s been a long, hard road,” he said, “and I wouldn’t be here without all of you. So this party is for you, all my friends and family who stood by me in this dark time. To life!”

“To life!” we all chorused back.

“L’chaim!” Aaron said. So Fiddler on the Roof! I loved that musical!

“And if you’ll indulge me here,” Eric continued, “there are a few people I need to thank specially. My parents, of course, the best people in the whole world. I love you, Mom and Dad. More than I could ever say.”

Judy sobbed happily, and Aaron wiped his eyes. “Love you, too, son,” he managed.

“My awesome team at St. Luke’s, Dr. Benson, Dr. Ramal, Dr. Williams, and all the incredible nurses and staff at the infusion center.” A round of applause followed, though none of the team had been able to make the party.