The Lies That Bind

by Emily Giffin

“Okay. But what if you had been married to Matthew when you met what’s-his-name? What would you have done then?” I told her that was an easy question. That I would never have progressed past pleasantries with him—or anyone. That no matter how much chemistry we shared, my mind would not have been open to the idea. “And that’s a good thing?” she asked. “Uh, yeah, that’s a good thing. It’s also the right thing,” I said. “Really? Is it?” she pressed. “It’s a good thing to be walled off to possibilities? And new experiences? In your twenties? The time when you should be exploring who you are?”

Our conversation went on like that for a while, as we discussed all sorts of things, including her view of feminism, which is all about empowerment and independence from men, whereas my view of feminism has more to do with choice. Women in the twenty-first century (which still sounds so funny to my ears) have options. We can marry or not marry; have children or not have children; be stay-at-home mothers or have careers. So yes, I told her, I want to get married, and yes, I want to find a life mate sooner rather than later, but that didn’t make me a bad feminist. It just made me determined to have it all—one of the reasons I came to New York in the first place.

I would be lying if I said Matthew never crossed my mind, at least in the form of an occasional stab of shame and confusion that I could go from one guy to the next so abruptly and completely. But I tell myself that life and love sometimes don’t make sense, and it isn’t something I need to dwell on.

I’m with Grant and everything feels different with Grant. Somehow more vivid and significant. I try to think of a metaphor, but the closest I can get is that Matthew and I were spectators of a sport—watching and cheering together—while Grant and I are actually playing in the game, together.

“Maybe…or maybe you just couldn’t love me the way I need to be loved.”

I can’t help wondering why I never saw this kind of passion while we were together.

He loves me, and he wants to be with me. But with conditions. And I love him back, but with reservations and unfulfilled wishes—not in the unbridled way I want to love someone. Maybe that doesn’t exist—it certainly wasn’t real with Grant. But then again, maybe it does. I have to find out.

cautionary

tale to always follow your heart, but never stop listening to your head, either.

As I pass St. George’s, the church where I once hoped to marry Matthew, I feel detached pity for the twentysomething girl I used to be. The girl who hadn’t yet learned to trust her gut. Who cared so much about what others thought and couldn’t make a move without consulting her friends. Who wanted the fairy tale more than actual fulfillment.

I was in her exact same position.

And in that moment—for what feels like the first time ever—my head and my heart are telling me the very same thing.