Page 11 of We Could Be So Good
December1958
Nick arrives at the last possible moment. Which, on New Year’s Eve, means half past eleven. He can’t believe he let himself get talked into going to Andy’s father’s ritzy party.
Although, looking back, Andy hadn’t so much talked him into it as calmly said that he’d personally like it if Nick made an appearance.
And so Nick put on the dinner jacket and black tie that he had, like a fool, bought for the occasion, and because of which he’ll be eating beans and spaghetti for a month. But, for reasons he doesn’t want to think about, he hates the idea of looking scruffy in Andy’s father’s Upper East Side apartment.
When he enters, he’s hit with a wall of expensive perfume and music from a live band. Who the fuck has space for an entire live band in their apartment? Andy’s dad—Nick’s boss—that’s who. Andy’s own apartment, only a few blocks away, seems modest in comparison.
He snags a shrimp and makes his way across a marble-floored hall as if he has somewhere to be, but that’s the number one rule for not looking like a fool: act like you know where you’re going. The place is clogged with men twice his age and women wearing enough jewelry to give them a backache and Nick suddenly feels very young and very out of place.
Emily, sharp as ever, sees him first and calls his name. She has on a floor-length gown made of pale blue chiffon dotted with tiny sparkling crystals, which Nick recognizes because she described it to him at great length last week when they went to seeCat on a Hot Tin Rooffor the second time. (Nick is realizing that there are distinct advantages to having a friend who knows he’s queer, and one of them is discussing Paul Newman.) She looks even morebeautiful than usual and he feels his mouth tug up into a smile just at the sight of her.
Beside her is Andy, and—well. He’s staring. Nick adjusts his stupid bow tie before he can think better of it. Andy probably just isn’t used to seeing Nick as anything other than rumpled and in need of a shave. Or, worse, maybe Nick looks ridiculous in his suit, like some kind of dockworker who’s been scrubbed up and crammed into a tux.
“Youdoclean up nice,” says Emily, kissing him on both cheeks.
“Wish I could say the same for you,” says Nick. “Too bad you’re such an eyesore.” Emily pinches his arm and then drifts off.
As for Andy, he always looks sharp. Nick doesn’t know where he buys his clothes and suspects he doesn’t want to know, and that he especially doesn’t want to know what they cost. Andy looks like he’s made for black tie. Nick begins to suspect that Andy has something done to the rest of his suits, because if he went around looking like this all day, nobody would get anything done. TheChroniclewould grind to a halt and there wouldn’t be a single progressive paper left in New York.
Someone taps a spoon against the side of a glass and shouts something. It’s apparently one minute to midnight.
“I’d better see where Emily’s got to,” Andy says. For a minute he looks like he’s about to bring Nick along, but instead squeezes Nick’s arm and takes off.
Nick remembers staying up late as a kid, back when they still lived in the old apartment in Flatbush. At the stroke of midnight, people would throw their windows open and make a racket with whatever they had on hand—pots, pans, wooden spoons. It was a far cry from champagne and a live band and a suit he can almost afford. He feels the usual mess of relief that he isn’t there anymore mixed with an utterly misplaced nostalgia.
Somebody starts counting down, and then everybody else joins in, but Nick lights a cigarette and looks out the window, at the checkerboard of light and dark windows across the street, at the barely visible stars in the sky, at the streetlights below and the reflection of the red ember at the end of his cigarette. Anywhere but at Andy and Emily kissing as 1958 gives way to 1959.
When he turns around, they’re still together, foreheads almost touching, Andy murmuring something and digging in his pocket, and—that’s a ring. Of course it’s a ring. Then Emily is laughing and planting little kisses all over Andy’s face, and Andy is wrangling the ring onto her finger, and Nick feels like he should be anywhere else.
He pushes down whatever he’s feeling before he can give it a name. He’s always known how this story ends. They’re crazy about one another. They’re lucky, and he’s happy for them.
And, selfishly, Nick knows that Emily is the best possible person Andy could marry, because Emily likes Nick.
Nick will always have a place in Andy and Emily’s life. They’ll invite him for dinner, let him play with their kids. They won’t care that he doesn’t golf or have a yacht or speak with the right accent. Even when Andy moves on from the newsroom to greener pastures, there will be a place for Nick in his life.
He makes his way to where the couple stands.
Part II
Andy
Chapter One
March1959
Nick’s on the phone when Andy gets back from lunch. From the way Nick is drumming his fingers and the depth of the crease between his eyebrows, Andy guesses it isn’t going well.
Nick looks up, and whatever he sees in Andy’s face must not be good. “Can’t hear you,” he says into the phone. “Line’s gone bad.” He drops the receiver into the cradle and gets to his feet.
Andy sinks into his chair at the desk across from Nick’s. “Who have we alienated now?” he asks, trying to sound normal.
“You look like shit. What happened? How’s Emily?”
“She’s fine,” Andy lies. His entire goal in life is to delay this conversation until after they leave the office, preferably until they’re somewhere dark and with a liquor license and where nobody can watch Andy fall apart. Well, nobody other than Nick.
“Yeah, well, you sure aren’t. What’s the matter?” Nick is still standing, his hands braced on the desk as he leans forward, almost looming over Andy. “You know you’re going to tell me eventually, so just spit it out.”
