“I date.”
“I mean, long enough to have a sexual encounter.”
“Not all women are easy as you, Zia.”
“Sad,” she said, giving my arm a playful punch.
Zia and I slept together once—and we both knew that it would never happen again. It was how we met. We hooked up during my first year of medical school. Yep, a one-night stand. I have had my fair share of one-night stands, but only two have been memorable. The first led to disaster. The second—this one—led to a relationship I will cherish forever.
It was eight o’clock at night by the time we got out of our scrubs. We took Zia’s car, a tiny thing called a BMW Mini, to the Stop & Shop on Northwood Avenue and picked up some groceries. Zia chatted without letup as we wheeled carts down the aisles. I liked when Zia talked. It gave me energy. At the deli counter Zia pulled a call number. She looked at the specials board and frowned.
“What?” I said.
“Boar’s Head ham on sale.”
“What about it?”
“Boar’s Head,” she repeated. “What marketing genius came up with that name? ‘Say, I have an idea. Let’s name our premium cold cuts after the most disgusting animal imaginable. No, check that. Let’s name it after its head.’ ”
“You always order it,” I said.
She thought about it. “Yeah, I guess.”
We moved to the checkout line. Zia put her stuff up front. I placed the divider down and unloaded my cart. A portly cashier began to ring up her items.
“You hungry?” she asked me.
I shrugged. “Guess I could go for a couple of slices at Garbo’s.”
“Let’s do it.” Zia’s eyes drifted over my shoulder and then jerked to a stop. She squinted and something crossed her face. “Marc?”
“Yeah.”
She waved it off. “Nah, can’t be.”
“What?”
Still staring over my shoulder, Zia gestured with her chin. I turned slowly and when I saw her, I felt it in my chest.
“I’ve only seen her in pictures,” Zia said, “but isn’t that . . . ?”
I managed a nod.
It was Rachel.
The world closed in around me. It shouldn’t feel this way. I knew that. We had broken up years ago. Now, after all this time, I should be smiling. I should feel something wistful, a passing nostalgia, a poignant remembrance of a time when I was young and naïve. But no, that was not what was going on here. Rachel stood ten yards away and it all flooded back. What I felt was a still-too-powerful yearning, a longing that tore through me, that made both the love and heartbreak feel fresh and alive.
“You okay?” Zia said.
Another nod.
Are you one of those who believe that we all have one true soul mate—one and only one preordained love? There, across three Stop & Shop checkout lanes and under a sign readingEXPRESS LANE —15ITEMS OR LESS , stood mine.
Zia said, “I thought she got married.”
“She did,” I said.
“No ring.” Then Zia punched my arm. “Oooh, this is exciting, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Exhilaration city.”
Zia snapped her fingers. “Hey, you know what this is like? That crappy old album you used to play. The song about meeting the old lover in the grocery store. What’s the name of it?”
The first time I’d seen Rachel, when I was a lad of nineteen years, the effect was relatively gentle. There was no big boom. I’m not even sure that I found her overly attractive. But as I’d soon learn, I like a woman whose looks grow on you. You start off thinking, Okay, she’s pretty decent looking, and then, a few days later, maybe it’s something she says or the way she tilts her head when she says it, but then, wham, it’s like getting hit by a bus.
It felt like that again now. Rachel had changed but not by much. The years had made that sneaky beauty harden maybe, more brittle and angled. She was thinner. Her dark blue-black hair was pulled back and tied into a ponytail. Most men like the hair down. I’ve always liked it tied back, the openness and exposure of it, I guess, especially with Rachel’s cheekbones and neck. She wore jeans and a gray blouse. Her hazel eyes were down, her head bent in that pose of concentration I knew so well. She had not seen me yet.
“ ‘Same Old Lang Syne,’ ” Zia said.
“What?”
“The song about the lovers in the grocery store. By Dan Somebody. That’s the title. ‘Same Old Lang Syne.’ ” Then she added: “I think that’s the title.”
Rachel reached into her wallet and plucked out a twenty. She began to hand it to the cashier. Her gaze lifted—and that was when she saw me.
I can’t say exactly what crossed her face. She did not look surprised. Our eyes met, but I did not see joy there. Fear, perhaps. Maybe resignation. I don’t know. I also don’t know how long we both stood there like that.
“Maybe I should move away from you,” Zia whispered.
“Huh?”
“If she thinks you’re with a chick this hot, she’ll conclude that she has no chance.”
I think I smiled.
“Marc?”
“Yeah.”
“The way you’re standing like that. Gaping like a total whack job. It’s a little scary.”
“Thanks.”
I felt her hand push on my back. “Go over and say hello.”
My feet started moving, though I don’t remember the brain issuing any commands. Rachel let the cashier bag her groceries. She stepped toward me and tried to smile. Her smile had always been spectacular, the kind that makes you think of poetry and spring showers, a dazzler that can change your day. This smile, however, was not like that. It was tighter. It was pained. And I wondered if she was holding back or if she could no longer smile like she used to, if something had dimmed the wattage permanently.
We stopped a yard away from each other, neither sure if the proper protocol called for a hug, a kiss, a handshake. So we did none of the above. I stood there and felt the hurt everywhere.
“Hi,” I said.
“Good to see you still have all the smooth lines, ” Rachel replied.
I feigned a rakish grin. “Hey, baby, what’s your sign?”
“Better,” she said.
“Come here often?”
“Good. Now say, ‘Haven’t we met before?’ ”
“Nah.” I arched an eyebrow. “No way I’d forget meeting a foxy lady like you.”