The Idea of Him. Holly Peterson

pushed out the door, I laid my head against my front door, knowing my husband would deny all of it.

      With tears obscuring my vision and judgment, I walked over to Wade’s work alcove and feverishly riffled through every single piece of paper my husband had ever come into contact with. I encountered nothing unusual, except this fresh ache in my heart signaling we were headed nowhere good fast.

      A FULL HOUR later, I slumped onto my corner sofa, feeling defeated and sucker punched, with a wrinkled-up photo in my hand of Wade and me taken from the night we met. When I found it, I’d crumpled it into a ball and thrown it into the trash can across the room. I loved that photo. It was black and white and taken in the moments after a screening. We’d been talking only about ten minutes, but he was craning his neck toward me as if he were completely transfixed by my very presence. I had retrieved the photo from the trash, and now I flattened it out on a big book in my lap. Then I just stared at it, at us.

      I then watched the light beams of a dozen flickering votives meld together on the windowsill and told myself this: at the ripe age of thirty-four I did have to grow up and start facing realities I didn’t want to accept. One thing would never change: I would charge Wade up and he would, in turn, charge out the door to conquer and seduce the world. Problem was this: he was just too damn good at that seduction and unable to resist its bounty.

      The photo in my trembling hand had been taken the night Hillsinger Consulting was working pro bono to promote a project to benefit veterans’ causes; we were launching a gorgeous little gem of a World War Two documentary and book series that would win several awards the next winter. With all the press I’d convinced to show up, the buzz in the room was radioactive.

      At some point during the afterglow, Murray introduced me to my future husband, then wandered off into the movie lobby to revel in the accolades for my hard work: I’d gotten every important person in New York to the event. Wade and I fell into a deep conversation until the guy trying to sweep away the complimentary popcorn nudged us out. In our now crumpled first photo, we were in midstep, heads focused on each other, walking the aisle like we were already a done deal.

      Wade had moved with an awkward charm as he escorted me out of the screening room and into the sea of guests, demonstrating a tender shyness I would never again see in him. “You must be hungry after pulling off this great event?” he asked, and I nodded. “We can get a table next door at the Gotham. Unless you would prefer the bar.” I liked the way his arm felt on my back as he guided me through the room. He was a good height for me, and lanky—the complete opposite build of James, the lifelong soul mate I would leave for Wade, who at that point was on month eleven of inoculating children in East Asia.

      Truth be told, I didn’t really like lanky, but I thought maybe I could fall for this Wade guy anyway. The shoulders were strong and confident, which helped. His blondish long hair hinted he might be cool like the guys on the docks I grew up with; but he was also urbane: everything rolled up into one neat package I’d left my small seaside hamlet for. The city and its sophisticated inhabitants were there to save me, and I was as willing as I’d ever be. I was also trying hard to be as single as I could with James off discovering the world instead of my body.

      We had walked into the bright lights of Gotham restaurant, a place bubbling with that exact sharp, pulsing New York City energy I’d grown to love. A pack of mortals waited at the bar—hedge funders, models, fabulous gay fashion editors, all looking very worthy of commandeering any table at any restaurant in New York. Yet the hostess led us swiftly past all of them to a romantic little corner complete with a lone red candle and a tasteful bouquet of purple poppies. Three people tried to get Wade’s attention on the way to our seats.

      “What do they want?” I asked, as if I didn’t understand why on earth they would even want to talk to him. His magazine was crackling with popularity back then and I saw no need to massage his ego.

      Now I’d put him in a position where this Wade Crawford I’d heard so much about would have to brag. And this was a little test: either he was going to be discreet about his placement on the New York totem pole, or he was going to be one of those insecure douche bags Caitlin and I always laughed about—the ones who felt compelled to highlight their prowess in yellow marker.

      “I guess they want to be in the magazine,” he said, pulling out my chair and handing me my napkin. “Maybe they think it’ll help their careers. Who knows?”

      That passed muster. Honest enough without showing off.

      Before we could get settled into our unplanned date, a slick-looking thirtysomething in a shiny Hugo Boss suit sidled up to the table and slapped Wade on the back too hard.

      “Hey, man, did you get the book? We’re already shopping it in Hollywood; I’m telling you, it’s The Perfect Storm meets Friday Night Lights. A race around the world that—”

      “Joe. I got it. And I get it.” Wade winked at Joe, a man I guessed to be an agent. “And you know what?” He tilted his head toward me. “I’m on it too, but I’m in the middle of something here.” He high-fived the guy and turned around before Joe could say anything else.

      During our nonstop conversation that night, Wade listened to me intently, fixing his gorgeous hazel eyes on me, nailing me with a crazy look on his chiseled face like he was completely smitten. “So I just commissioned a story on this company down in Texas that has really screwed over a lot of people,” he said while attempting to loop an olive out of the bottom of his lowball. “They were manipulating energy prices all along California by—”

      I placed my head on my hand in mock disgust. “Corruption for $400. And the answer is: What is Enron?”

      “So you know about …”

      My laugh was light and happy. “Wade, I’m thrilled to have dinner with you, but, really, you just laid your cards on the table big-time.”

      “What do you mean?” he asked, flustered, which, though I barely knew him, I surmised was a new feeling.

      “You’ve obviously been dating women who don’t understand what you do. You don’t need to be surprised I’ve heard of Enron. It’s been front page in the New York Times for a week now. And by the way, you’re a little late jumping on the story.”

      “I was just trying to …”

      “I know, you were being polite, but, like I said, you’re kinda busted. You’d have to be a Victoria’s Secret angel not to have heard of Enron.”

      He laughed out loud and looked at me like he was going to propose right then and there. “You got me,” he said with a devilish half-curved smile. My smallish breasts and short legs weren’t exactly the angel material he’d apparently been accustomed to, but I pressed on.

      Despite his reputation for being an inveterate mover and shaker, only twice during the meal did I notice Wade scan the room. And though this may have been a record in restraint for him, he got up only once, to say hello to a table filled with young Hollywood somethings.

      “I’m sorry,” he said as he returned. “I didn’t think I had to do any work tonight, but I have to whore myself out sometimes. Just tried to convince a young Hollywood schmuck he’s gotta do my cover instead of People magazine.” Wade looked a little desperate, like he’d taken the shafting personally. It was clear this guy’s ego was completely wrapped up in whom he could secure for his magazine, like a hostess fretting over the RSVP list for her party.

      “Did he bite?”

      “Not sure. The ugly truth is I now have to kiss the asses of a bunch of idiots a fair amount of the time to get what I want out of them.”

      “What were you doing before you were kissing idiots’ asses?”

      He choked a little on that one. “You know, sadly enough, that’s exactly how I spend most of my day. But it wasn’t always like this. I started out in my twenties working for the Boston Globe, which was a much more scrappy kind of journalism, and something I thought I’d always stick with. You know, not to sound too righteous, but the great