Nicholas Sparks: Two by Two

Emily still lives in the area, and over the years, I’ve seen her out and about. She was the first woman I ever loved, and since romance and nostalgia are often intertwined, I still think about her. Emily was a bit of a Bohemian; she favored long flowered skirts and sandals, wore little makeup, and had majored in fine arts with an emphasis on painting. She was also beautiful, with chestnut hair and hazel eyes that were flecked with gold, but beyond her physical appearance, there was more. She was quick to laugh, kind to everyone she met, and intelligent, a woman who most thought was perfect for me. My parents adored her, Marge loved her, and when we were together, we were comfortable even when silent. Our relationship was easy and relaxed; more than lovers, we were friends. Not only could we talk about anything, she delighted in the notes I’d place under her pillow or the flowers I’d have delivered to her workplace for no reason whatsoever. Emily loved me as much as she loved romantic gestures, and after dating her for a couple of years, I made plans to propose, even putting a deposit down on an engagement ring.

And then, I screwed it up. Don’t ask me why. I could blame the booze that night-I’d been drinking with friends at a bar-but for whatever reason, I struck up a conversation with a woman named Carly. She was beautiful and she knew how to flirt and she’d recently broken up with a long-term boyfriend. One drink led to another, which led to more flirting, and we eventually ended up in bed together. In the morning, Carly made it clear that what had happened was simply a fling, with no strings attached, and though she kissed me goodbye, she didn’t bother giving me her phone number.

There are a couple of very simple Guy Rules in this sort of situation, and Rule Number One goes like this: Never ever tell. And if your sweetheart ever suspects anything and asks directly, go immediately to Rule Number Two: Deny, deny, deny.

All guys know these rules, but the thing was, I also felt guilty. Horribly guilty. Even after a month, I couldn’t put the experience behind me, nor could I seem to forgive myself. Keeping it secret seemed inconceivable; I couldn’t imagine building a future with Emily knowing it was constructed at least in part on a lie. I talked to Marge about it, and Marge was, as always, helpful in that sisterly way of hers.

“Keep your stupid trap shut, you dimwit. You did a crappy thing and you should feel guilty. But if you’re never going to do it again, then don’t hurt Emily’s feelings, too. Something like this will crush her.”

I knew Marge was right, and yet…

I wanted Emily’s forgiveness, because I wasn’t sure I could forgive myself without it, and so in the end, I went to Emily and said the words that even now, I wish I could take back.

“There’s something I have to tell you,” I began, and proceeded to spill everything.

If forgiveness was the goal, it didn’t work. If trying to build a long-term relationship on a foundation of truth was another goal, that didn’t work either. Through angry tears, she stormed off, saying that she needed some time to think.

I left her alone for a week, waiting for her to call while moping around my apartment, but the phone never rang. The following week, I left two messages-and apologized again both times-but she still wouldn’t call. It wasn’t until the following week that we finally had lunch, but it was strained, and when she left the restaurant, she told me not to walk her to her car. The writing was on the wall and a week after that, she left a message saying it was over for good. It crushed me for weeks.

The passage of time has lessened my guilt-time always does-and I try to console myself with the idea that at least for Emily, my indiscretion was a blessing in disguise. I heard from a friend of a friend a few years after our breakup that she’d married an Australian guy and whenever I caught a glimpse of her, it appeared as though life was treating her well. I’d tell myself that I was happy for her. Emily, more than anyone, deserved a wonderful life, and Marge felt exactly the same way. Even after I’d married Vivian, my sister would sometimes turn to me and say, “That Emily sure was something. You really messed that up, didn’t you?”

I was born in Charlotte, North Carolina, and aside from a single year in another city, I’ve lived there all my life. Even now, it strikes me as almost impossible that Vivian and I met in the place where we did, or even that we ever met at all. After all, she, like me, was from the South; like mine, her job required long hours, and she seldom went out. What are the odds, then, that I’d meet Vivian at a cocktail party in Manhattan?

At the time, I was working at the agency’s satellite office in Midtown, which probably sounds like a bigger deal than it really was. Jesse Peters was of the opinion that pretty much anyone who showed promise in the Charlotte office had to serve at least a little time up north, if only because a number of our clients are banks, and every bank has a major presence in New York City. You’ve probably seen some of the commercials I’ve worked on; I like to think of them as thoughtful and serious, projecting the soul of integrity. The first of those commercials, by the way, was conceived while I was living in a small studio on West Seventy-Seventh between Columbus and Amsterdam and trying to figure out whether my ATM accurately reflected my checking account, which showed a balance with just enough funds to purchase a meal deal at a nearby fast-food place.

In May 2006, a CEO of the one of the banks who loved my vision was hosting a charity event to benefit MoMA. The CEO was seriously into art-something I knew nothing about-and even though it was an exclusive, black-tie event, I hadn’t wanted to attend. But his bank was a client and Peters was my do-what-I-tell-you-or-else boss, so what could I do?

I remember almost nothing about the first half hour, other than that I clearly didn’t belong. Well over half the people in attendance were old enough to be my grandparents, and practically everyone was in a different stratosphere when it came to our respective levels of wealth. At one point, I found myself listening as two gray-haired gentlemen debated the merits of the G IV when compared to the Falcon 2000. It took me a while to figure out that they were comparing their private jets.

When I turned away from the conversation, I saw her boss on the other side of the room. I recognized him from late-night television, and Vivian would later tell me that he considered himself an art collector. She’d wrinkled her nose when she said it, implying that he had money but no taste, which didn’t surprise me. Despite famous guests, his show’s trademark humor was best described as lowbrow.

She was standing behind him, hidden from my line of sight, but when he stepped forward to greet someone, I saw her. With dark hair, flawless skin, and cheekbones that supermodels dream about, I was sure she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.

At first I thought she was his date, but the longer I watched, the more confident I was that they weren’t together , that she instead worked for him in some capacity. Nor was she wearing a ring, another good sign… but really, what chance did I have?

Yet the romantic within me was undeterred, and when she went to the bar to get a cocktail, I sidled up to the bar as well. Up close, she was even more gorgeous.

“It’s you,” I said.

“Excuse me?”

“The one the Disney artists think about when they draw the eyes of their princesses.”

Not great, I’ll admit. Ham-handed, maybe even cheesy, and in the awkward pause that ensued, I knew I’d blown it. But here’s the thing: She laughed.