The One That Got Away by Bethany Chase Page A

good for you to learn Spanish,” he said. “It’s not a hard language. I’ll help you.” He went out the next day and bought a set of language CDs. And, true to his word, he was a patient tutor, tirelessly quizzing me with flash cards and correcting my pronunciation. The first time I came home from work and announced that I had understood an entire extended conversation between two tile installers, he glowed with pride. “Look at that, my girl is bilingual!” he said, and kissed me.
    “They’ve been calling me La Güera,” I complained.
    “Yeah,” he said, tapping the end of my nose, “I bet they have.”
    Since then, I’ve had cause to be grateful for the skill almostevery day I’ve been on the job. Grateful to Noah. And, as always, grateful
for
him.
    “Wow, honey,” says John when he steps into the great room of the house. “This is gonna be something else. You lucked out, my friend,” he adds, nudging Eamon with his elbow.
    I can feel myself beaming. I already knew the house was going to be fantastic, but it still means a lot to hear John’s praise. I pull out the samples of all the materials we’ve chosen so far: fudgy wide-plank walnut flooring, pale gray lacquer kitchen cabinets, poured concrete for the counters, smoky blue handmade glass tiles for the backsplash. I chose the palette carefully, wanting it to be sophisticated and appropriate for a man, but not so masculine that it would feel oppressive to whatever Cowboys dancer or
Sports Illustrated
model Eamon eventually marries. Although, so far, there hasn’t been so much as a hint of a girlfriend. I would have noticed.
    John is unexpectedly subdued as we say goodbye to Eamon and drive back to my house. When we pull into the driveway, he is still staring out the passenger-side window.
    “Well, so what do you think?” I’m not fishing for compliments; he will tell me negative observations just as readily as positive ones. I’ve always learned even more from those.
    When he turns to me his cheeks are trembling, and his blue eyes are glossy with tears. “Your mama would be so proud of you.”
    As I hug his reassuringly burly frame I think, not for the first time, how much harder it’s been for him than for me. Missing her. For me, moving to Austin after college was like amputating a crushed and dying limb: a clean, surgical break with my life in Virginia. But John has been pacing the same floors, and listening to rain drum the tin roof of the same empty house, for ten years. Surrounded by all those artifacts of the life that used to be theirs together, the things she used to touch every day. Sleeping in thebed he used to share with her and looking at her blank pillow, night after night. He’s dated a few people over the years, the longest lasting a couple of years, but it was always kind of halfhearted. Inevitably his lady friends figured out which way the wind was blowing.
    “Let’s go inside,” I say after a moment. “I’m starving.”
    He chuckles, as I knew he would. One of my more colorful childhood nicknames, due to my disproportionate capacity for food, was Gaping Maw. From the smile tickling his lips, I can see that the wave of sadness has receded. Until next time.
    If my mother’s guilty television pleasure was daytime soap operas, John’s is Tim Gunn. He doesn’t have cable at home, so whenever he comes to visit me he works his way through an entire season’s worth of
Project Runway
, consumed in four-hour increments over the three or four days he’s here. Though the actual craft of clothing design is unfamiliar to him, he appreciates the skill that goes into it, and the ingenuity of the designers. And he treasures Tim’s trademark combination of paternal doting and blunt critique.
    We are three episodes in, sprawled out on the couch with a single ice-cold slice of pizza staring us down. After the opening credits roll, Heidi Klum struts onto the runway in a short sequined number that Noah would absolutely love. When I say