Chapter Eight Nate

In my whole life, I’ve never been so nervous waiting for a person to open a door—and yet a few months ago, I stood outside a suite in one of Dubai’s premier hotels, awaiting a six-foot-five hulking Syrian arms dealer.

But at last the glossy wood door cracks opens, and Rory peeks out, her cheeks rosy, wearing olive-green linen trousers with a matching flowy tank that shows a sliver of tanned stomach—my favorite outfit of hers, which she purchased before our trip to Mexico City a couple of years ago.

My heart soars. I love her so damn much.

“Hi,” she says flatly. “What’s up?”

My heart stops its soar, stills in my chest, begins to deflate. “Uh… it’s on the schedule?”

“The schedule?”

“The itinerary, you know, the one Ginevra made? Breakfast in your room, just the two of us. Caro and Max are in the dining car already. I’m staying right next door to you actually.” I hear the clearing of a throat behind me, then servers holding silver trays weave a path between us.

“Oh.” The servers set down the trays and stream back out. “Okay. I guess—Wait, you’re staying next next door to me?”

“Next next door,” I confirm.

“Okay. Well, come in, then.” We are impossibly formal, like two people who have never met, let alone laughed together, lain together, once served as each other’s emergency contacts.

“Ror, I… Jesus.” My eyes take a wander. “This room is insane.”

“I know.” She avoids meeting my gaze. “I’m in the middle of my makeup.”

“Oh, sure. Don’t stop on my account. Even though you look gorgeous without.”

“Thanks.”

But her voice is clipped. She returns to the bathroom and I sit before the trays wafting their yeasty aromas. I stare out the window at the sea lapping calmly against the cliffs, the sun casting early lazy beams against the surface of the Gulf of Tigullio. The Italian Riviera—crazy that not so long ago, Rory and I dreamed of coming here. I glimpse Rory in the bathroom now, her familiar movements, the way she purses her lips when she curls her eyelashes, how she cocks her head at herself at the end of the whole procedure and gives herself a little smile. I used to sneak up from behind and wrap my arms around her waist and say, “The Mona Lisa is complete.” She’d groan, but still she’d kiss my cheek before telling me the million things she had to accomplish in the next hour and then striking off in a whirl.

Now she finishes dabbing on her lip gloss and sits on the velvet chair across from me, half smiles. “Hi. Ready.”

“You’re in the Roman theme colors.” I indicate her green outfit.

“What?” She glances down.

“I mean, you match the room.” I laugh, even though it’s not funny, and why did I even say it in the first place?

“Oh.” She glances around perfunctorily. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

“You don’t want to wear…?”

“What?”

“No, but I…”

“What? You don’t like what I’m wearing?”

“It’s not that I don’t like it. I do. I really like it. It’s just, we’re hiking today.”

“Oh.” She nods. “I’m gonna wear sneakers. This is my hiking outfit.”

“Okay.” Drop it, Nate. “Perfect.”

She narrows her eyes. “Like, we’re hiking, hiking? In all the Instagram pictures of Cinque Terre, people look cute.”

“You look cute in hiking gear. Very cute.”

“When did we go hiking last?”

The we does something to me, calms things. “Hollywood Bowl!”

She half smiles. “That wasn’t hiking gear. We wore athleisure. And I’d venture that linen is even more breathable.”

I raise my hands in surrender, find myself smiling genuinely. This feels like a conversation we’ve had many times before, and its normalcy untangles a few knots in my chest. “Your outfit is Indiana Jones approved, then.”

She nods, doesn’t give me another smile. “I just feel like wearing this.”

My chest tightens. I wonder if she’s trying to look cute for a special reason. For Gabriele?

“So wear that.” I try to imbue my tone with nonchalance. “Eggs?” I pass her the poached ones, her favorite.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

We serve ourselves, the gap between the people we once were and these new strange ones widening with every silent pour of coffee from the silver pot, every quiet spear of an avocado slice.

“You’re wearing the bracelet?” she asks, her eyes flitting toward my wrist.

“Oh.” I twist it around—woven blue, orange, and green threads, like kids in summer camp movies use to seal their friendship. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I?”

“You didn’t wear it when I gave it to you. That was like—”

“Two years ago.”

“Two years.” She shakes her head. “It’s atrocious.”

“It’s not! I like it. And I like the memory of it even more, how you were sitting by the coffee table, making it, trying to be mindful.”

That coaxes a smile out of her. “Right, my mindfulness phase. I must have spent a hundred bucks at the art store. And all that came of it was that awful bracelet. You can take it off now. Burn it. I give you full permission.”

I play with the end strands, knot them through my fingers. “Sorry. I’m attached now.”

“I can’t believe you kept it,” she says quietly.

“Ror, of course I did. You know, when you left… I mean, when we broke up, and the apartment was empty, and all I had anymore was your smell—”

“My smell?” She frowns.

“Your amazing smell! Like a fireplace. Like a sexy fireplace,” I hurry on. God, I’m bad at this. “It was really hard and—I don’t know—I was looking through old stuff, and I found the bracelet. And I haven’t taken it off since. I meant what I said yesterday, Ror. I have so many regrets. I’m so sorry for hurting you. So sorry. So.”

She puts down her fork. It feels like for the first time since we broke up, she really looks at me. Her eyes narrow, not angry per se but certainly not inviting either. “We had vendors, Nate. We had a date. I had to cancel it all, negotiate refunds. You remember that, right? I packed up every last dish in tissue paper for you. So you could take them to… I have no idea where you went after our lease ended, to be honest. Where you’re sleeping now, with that hideous painting that used to be in our bedroom—”

“Hey,” I say weakly. “You said you liked it.” She’s referring to my first and only art purchase that I got at a networking event gallery exhibition. Carting it home made me feel like a bona fide adult.

“I lied.” A hint of a smile curls her lips. “I was more than happy to concede it to you in our breakup. If I never have to see those creepy dancing people again, it will be too soon.”

“Well, you’re in good company. Garrett said the same thing.” That’s my little brother, who also didn’t mince words telling me I was a fucking idiot breaking up with Rory.

Rory nods. “I always liked Garrett.”

I swallow a perfect bite of egg, finding it impossible to savor. “I’m in therapy now, Ror.”

“Oh, yeah?” She says it with exaggerated nonchalance, like she hadn’t been suggesting it to me for years.

“Yeah. I finally did it.”

“Well, that’s good. That’s… I’m happy for you. So what is showing up here? Part of your treatment?”

“It’s not part of my treatment, no, although Owen—that’s my therapist—was supportive. I’ve learned so much from him. It’s kind of wild, Ror, a new language. And it’s not fun, really. Seeing the parts of myself I’m not proud of. Having to feel the triggers behind them. I’m not great with feelings. Hearing them, feeling them.”

“I know. I do know that.”

I nod. “Like, do you know about avoidant attachment?”

She stares at me like I have two heads.

I hurry forward before I lose my nerve. “Owen thinks that me being the middle child had a lot of implications, considering Mark has Down syndrome, and Garrett had all his addiction issues.”

“Sure.” Rory softens. “You were the kid who did everything perfectly. Your mom always says you didn’t give them an ounce of worry.”

“Yeah, but Owen has made me see that I closed something off inside me, had to ignore my own problems, my own needs, because my brothers had greater ones. Avoidant attachment means you’re always putting up barriers, creating distance. Denying your feelings. Denying mine, I mean.”

Rory tears off the corner of a crispy waffle and pops it in her mouth. “I can see that,” she finally says.

“When I feel needy, I want to push everyone away. That’s what I understand now. I needed space after everything that happened in Dubai. So I pushed you away. I was so stupid. I pushed you away right when you needed me the most.”

Rory blinks a few times. “I hardly even know what happened in Dubai. You barely told me.”

I chew on my lip, on a place that is tender from lots of previous chewing. “I lost him. Cesar. I was too late.”

She nods, her expression shifting into one more compassionate. “That much I knew.”

I continue to stare out the window because if I look at her, something will happen that can’t happen, something will break in me that I need to keep contained. Cesar was an idealistic nineteen-year-old kid who crossed from Turkey into Syria because he wanted to make a difference, wanted to help people in the most dangerous and depraved place on earth. The day after he arrived in Syria, he was kidnapped by a courier he trusted to ferret him from the border. Soon after, his parents got word of the demanded ransom.

How did I get involved? Well, it starts from my childhood, really. My father is a diplomat, and growing up, we lived in various places across the Middle East and Africa, with our home base in DC. I was always around people of different cultures, learning new languages. And my grandmother is a Syrian Jew; when I was a kid, she lived with us in DC and spoke only Arabic with me, which proved immensely useful later in my career. I knew I wanted to work in the international sphere, like my father. I got my master’s in international relations, then spent the first few years post graduation in big-firm project-finance practice in DC, where most of my work was in developing nations, helping them to emerge from poverty; pay down debt; and develop new political, economic, and judicial systems. Soon I transitioned to working for an international foundation, helping developing nations create democratic structures, and even mediating in war zones.

I travel often—though crisis mediation is anything but glamorous. And when the Arab Spring erupted, I got involved in mediating between the war sides. In 2012 and 2013, I traveled to Syria a few times a year, trying to negotiate a cease-fire; but later, when the Russians got involved and Assad had the upper hand, I worked from afar. People are often surprised I don’t still live in DC, or at least make it my base. I did for a while, but then the long distance between Rory and me became too hard, and I moved to LA, because it was important for Rory to be there for her own career aspirations. And I’ve always supported Rory’s rising star, been her biggest cheerleader. Plus, even if I’d lived in DC, I would have been on an airplane most of the time, anyhow. It’s strange work, difficult to explain to people on the outside of it, but deeply fulfilling.

Then, six months ago, I received a call from a colleague: “My friend’s son is missing in Syria. You have experience in Syria. You know the lay of the land. Will you help?”

What did I know of hostage negotiation? After a sleepless night, though, of course I said yes. I could make zero promises, and I wouldn’t be involved in the payment of ransom or trading favors with terrorists, but I would try my absolute hardest to get Cesar out. What ensued was the wildest two months of my life. I conducted meetings in Paris, in Istanbul, in Dubai. I chased leads throughout the Middle East. I met with sheikhs, drug lords, and arms dealers to pursue the truth. To find Cesar, dead or alive.

In the end, it was dead.

Cesar didn’t make it. Which absolutely wrecked me. And it was more than just Cesar—it was also the teenage girls I met in Dubai, who were sold by their Syrian fathers into the sex trade and transported to Dubai by the drug lord who ordered Cesar’s kidnapping. They met with me at great risk to their lives. They gave me crucial information that ultimately led me to discover what happened to Cesar. After it was all done, I spent every waking moment trying to extract the girls from their horrific circumstances—but doing so required coordination with several governments and organizations.

Finally, two weeks ago, it happened. The girls have new identities and homes in Europe. They’re safe.

“Rima and Youmna, we got them out,” I tell Rory.

“The girls. God, I’ve thought about them a lot.”

I nod. “They’re safe.”

Rory exhales deeply. “That’s incredible news.”

“I can finally sleep again.”

“Wow. So—”

“I was a total asshole, Ror. I was so caught in my own storm that I didn’t see what you were going through.”

She puts her fork down, stares at her lap. “What happened with Cesar and Rima and Youmna… I get how awful it all was. But you shut down, Nate. You completely shut me out. You’d barely speak to me. Barely look at me. I felt like everything I did infuriated you. When I was humming while doing our laundry, you acted as if I was, like, trying to deliberately irritate you.”

I nod, remember it. The whole world felt like a bleak, black hole. I took it out on her. I realize it now. “I’m so—”

“And it’s more than that. I know that you were going through something crazy and horrible, but at the same time, I feel like—I don’t know how to say this without being a jerk, but it wasn’t a solitary incident. You were always, I mean—”

“I was always involved in one crazy work situation or another. That’s what you mean? I get it, Ror. You have every right to say it. I can be too… involved, I guess. Emotionally, maybe.” I manage a wry smile. “Can’t say I’m not ever emotional, hey?”

But instead of taking the easy entrée onto a bash-Nate train, to my surprise Rory says, “I get it. Like the world is on your shoulders alone.”

I nod and feel a ballooning in my chest, how she knows and accepts me so completely. And I’m not always an easy person to live with, to get. I can’t believe I let it go—let her go.

I can’t believe I made so many mistakes.

“I feel it, too,” Rory says, “like when the horrible news is pummeling, and it’s all so urgent and important, and I feel like maybe I can make a difference. Or at least, that’s how I used to feel.”

“You’ll be back there in the newsroom again soon. They were total assholes to fire you over such a stupid mistake.”

She shrugs. “I deserved to be fired. I didn’t check my source. That’s, like, rule number one. I broadcasted a story that wasn’t accurate at all.”

“People make mistakes! It’s not the end of the road, Ror. Trust me.” I know how hard she is on herself, because it’s how hard I am on myself, too. We’re perfectionists, both of us. Driven to excel. Hate—hate—when we let anyone down. It’s why I blew us apart so spectacularly, I suppose. In hindsight I see it, how I couldn’t face her, or face myself, when I failed.

“Things have a way of working themselves out,” I tell her, and I feel like I’m telling it to myself, too. Hoping it. “It’s not the end.”

“Maybe it is the end.” Her face adopts a strange, calm look. “Maybe I want it to be.”

“With your career? Or with us?”

She stares at me blankly. “I don’t know.”

I feel fear rise up my throat that my apologies, my promises—even this incredibly romantic trip—won’t be sufficient to fix the things I’ve torpedoed. “Ror, I was an idiot. A total and complete idiot, to ruin what we had.”

“What did we have?”

I study her, to see if she’s being angry or sarcastic, but she just cocks her head at me, curious.

“We had love. So much love, Ror. I love you. It’s always been you. And we had fire! We both have passion in spades. We chase success. We go after what we want, and we try to change the world for the better. You make me want to be a better person, Ror. And I hope I did the same for you. And we had all these plans. I know I fucked them up, but I want the… What’s that show you like?”

Shit. I feel like I’m messing it up, misremembering it. Rory always loved these wholesome TV Land black-and-white sitcoms. There was one about a saccharine family and this perfect, ideal mother that Rory always watched, but I’m forgetting its name. With kids embroiled in the most PG of scrapes, with parents who kissed perfunctorily when the husband came home from work. It always surprised me a little that Rory wanted something so simple. So trite. She loves all those kinds of shows—Get Smart, I Dream of Jeannie, I Love Lucy. Almost aggressively wholesome.

“Leave It to Beaver.” I can tell she’s peeved I’ve forgotten it—that there’s a minus in some column she’s using to keep tallies on me now, when I was aiming for a check.

“I want that kind of family,” I tell her. “With you.”

She grimaces. “I don’t want that kind of perfect family. It’s a show. It’s an act! You’re misunderstanding why I like that show. It’s just simple. It makes me think of pure, simple times. I just think there are a lot of hard things in the world. We know that.”

I frown. I do know that.

“And I wanted kids with you,” she said. “I wanted a family with you.”

“And now?” I feel myself hold my breath.

“I don’t know.” She smiles at me, but I can see it’s an effort. “I think what I miss most are the quiet moments. You know? Like the meme of let’s look at our phones, but next to each other. Sometimes, in the middle of all our craziness, we could just sit and not talk. I think I need more of that in my life. And you know… what you said before, about how we both want to be better? Well, maybe I don’t want to be better. Maybe I don’t want to succeed anymore. Maybe I want to live a quiet life in the country somewhere and stare at the leaves in the wind and have a couple of kids and live a life that’s not so complicated.”

I laugh—the leaves-in-the-wind thing again—but when she doesn’t join me, I shut my smile down. “Okay. You’re serious.” I try to wrap my head around that, get my bearings, that Rory who loves—loves!—being on air, the adrenaline and the bustle and making a difference, suddenly wants to retreat to nowheresville and become one with trees. “I can do quiet. I can do country. I can do trees.” I summon conviction.

Rory gives me a humored smile. “Sure. Sure, you can, Mr. Negotiating with Syrian Arms Dealers. Look, I appreciate your coming on this trip. Apologizing for what happened with us. Telling me what’s been going on with you, but my head is spinning a bit. It’s not just you; it’s everything. Did you read the book?”

“The book?” My shoulders stiffen. I meant to read it last night, but then after the first page I nodded off. Jet lag, but also the weeks of sleepless nights, missing Rory, wondering how I’ll ever make it right. And I slept past my alarm this morning, with barely enough time to get ready, let alone read the book.

I need to read it. Obviously, I do. “The author’s book?” I ask, still playing for time. Has she read it? Fuck. Does she know?

No, can’t be, I reassure myself. If she knew, she’d have said so right off the bat.

“Yes.” Rory looks at me curiously. Not accusatorily. Thank the Lord. “Ginevra’s book.”

“Haven’t read it yet.” I try to sound nonchalant. “I think I passed out the second I got back to my room last night.”

“Oh.”

“What? Did she write something… bad?” To be honest, I thought it was insane, Rory agreeing to be this main character. I mean, lots of people read Ginevra’s books. Even lawyers I know, and diplomats, who hardly ever read anything but dry biographies. I’m not inclined to fiction myself, but I’ve seen Ginevra’s books in every airport, the star of every massive display.

Still, ever since I agreed to be interviewed, I’ve lost sleep about it. Could Ginevra have figured out… put in a line about…?

No. I didn’t say anything, so how would she know? But then, she did all those interviews, with each of us. No, no chance. But still, I should read this book immediately. Maybe I’ll have a quick flip through before our hike.

“I don’t know if bad, just weird. Something struck me as… I don’t know, off. I mean, you haven’t read it, so never mind.”

Off. Shit. I feel heat creep up my neck. “I’ll bring it to the beach today. I want to read it.”

She nods. “No pressure.”

“It’s a book about you, Ror. Of course, I want to read it.”

“Okay. Just look, Nate, I—I need you to give me time. I need to think. I didn’t expect you to show up here, say these things. You were… we were, well, great, you know? And then you ended it, and I had to make peace with that.”

“And you did? You made peace with it?” My voice has fallen to a whisper.

“I don’t know. I need time.”

“Okay. Of course.” I feel sick. Angry at myself for how severely I’ve messed things up.

Rory nods, uncrosses her legs, looking supremely huggable. God, I want to hug her so badly, but I don’t feel entitled to.

“Nate…”

I feel a sweep of hope. “Yeah?”

“Can you… I need a few minutes before we go.” She motions to the door.

“I… oh. Yeah, of course. Sure.” I fumble up to a stand. “I’ll just… so…”

“I’ll see you out for the hike in a little. We have the whole day ahead of us. The whole trip. Try to be patient with me, okay?”

“Okay,” I agree, because what else is there to say? “I’m really sorry.”

“I know.” She shakes her head sadly.

And suddenly the door inches open and then Rory isn’t banishing me from her suite, exactly, but still I feel an invisible wave of energy propelling me to step back and back some more until I pass the threshold, holding my breath, hoping she will say Wait. Don’t go. But her mouth doesn’t eject words. Instead, it morphs into a firm but soft smile—her master of ceremonies smile, the smile that kindly, assuredly deters anyone from getting too close. I’ve seen her give it to colleagues, acquaintances, the guy at our regular coffee shop who could skew excessively chatty and personal.

And now, with one last flex of her master of ceremonies smile, Rory closes the door in my face.