"Go where?" Greg sprang from his seat before Robin could get her bearings. "Back to that asshole?"
Robin pivoted to face Greg. "His name is Barney."
Greg's upper lip lifted enough to allow a flash of white teeth. "I know his name. Trust me, Robbie, I am never going to forget your ex-husband's name. I've heard it too many times. I was the one," Greg thumped one fist, twice, against his chest, "who held you when you found out he knocked up some bimbo half his age. He wasn't even man enough to tell you, himself. No, he made Ted do that, but I'm the one you came to; I'm the one who had to pick up the pieces."
Her mouth tightened. Even now, she remembered excusing herself from the restaurant, after Ted broke the news. How every fiber of her being shifted into maintaining her calm, not only because they were in public, but because it was Ted. She was happy for Barney, really. He'd be a great dad. She'd delivered it straight-faced enough for him to buy it, held herself together for the trip from Manhattan to Montauk. She couldn't handle falling apart like that in front of Ted. He'd have tried to make her feel better; Greg knew that wouldn't be possible, because he'd been through the same thing. Greg understood. He should understand this. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Don't bring Ted into this." Ted would have stepped in if he were here, told Greg Robin could see anybody she wanted, then turned around and given her some speech about the universe and fate and destiny and following her heart, but Ted wasn't here. She'd have to handle this one on her own. The beer in her stomach soured. She didn't want to go back there, back to the deck of Greg's beach house, back to strong arms around her and the tortured animal sound that wrenched itself out of her gut the second Greg came to the door. The way she'd clung to him as though he were the only thing that could stop the world from spinning off its axis. Barney. Girl. Pregnant. Barney. Baby. Barney. Not me, not me, not me. The echo of words that would only come one at a time burned in the back of her throat. "Don't."
Greg's arms spread wide. "Look, I get it. I've been there. Divorce sucks. Hell, I even chased after my ex, and you know how that turned out."
She did. He'd told her the whole story, complete with pictures, because no Greg story was ever complete without pictures. An abandoned bouquet, its paper crinkled and petals scattered in the light from a streetlamp. The shape of another man behind closed curtains. A stark self portrait, weary and haggard, all of them black and white, now hanging on a gallery wall. "This isn't about you. I'm not you. Barney isn't Pam." He wasn't. Barney hadn't left her for another woman, because that other woman could give him the children she couldn't. Ellie was an accident, the product of a casual hookup. There was no wedding, no relationship. No second date. The girl didn't even stick around after Ellie was born, and Barney…he...he...dammit. Robin kneaded at her forehead until bright spots of light appeared Even her firmest pressure did nothing to ease the throbbing ache behind her eyes. "He isn't."
"The hell he isn't." Greg's voice carried in the night air, cut through the sounds of the work crew, carting away equipment, readying trailers to depart. Robin didn't know enough Spanish to follow the workers' conversations, but they'd be better than this one. "Sure, he comes off all charming and says all the right things. That's what he does. He looks good, yeah, I'll give him that. If I were doing a men's fashion spread, I would fight to get him. Man knows how to wear a suit, but underneath that?" Greg's eyes narrowed. His voice dropped. "Underneath that, he's the same douchebag who lied to you and walked out on you. Who didn't even fight for your marriage. "
The ache pulsed, harder. "You don't even know him."
"I know what he did to you." Greg slipped the Kodak's strap over his head. He rested the camera on the seat of the folding chair and crossed his arms. "Barney has a baby. She's a person, not a toy. He can't put her away when she's not convenient. She needs him. She's part of him. If you go see him right now, she's going to be there. He's going to be holding her. Taking care of her. Putting her to bed. Her, Robbie, not you. She's going to be there every damn day, for the next eighteen years. Maybe more. Every decision he makes, for the rest of his life, is going to have to involve her. Even decisions involving you."
Robin swallowed. She didn't want to think about Ellie. Didn't want to think about the distinctions between a Barney-and-Robin date and a Barney-and-Ellie-and-Robin-and-Alberta date. Didn't want to think about Barney bathing Ellie in the sink, making funny hats out of shampoo lather, that rumble of laughter from deep in his chest at his own creations. Didn't want to imagine him holding Ellie against his bare chest, skin to skin, while she drank from her bottle, like Ted and Marshall did with their babies after a bath. Didn't want to know what stupid nonsense lullabye Barney made up for Ellie when he put her down for the night in the apartment Robin had once called home. Right now, Robin had to focus on the two of them. Her and Barney. Only them. Nobody else, because nobody else mattered. Nobody else could matter. Not Ellie. Not Greg. Nobody else got a vote. She squared her shoulders. Her chin tipped upward. "I don't care."
"You care." Greg took a step closer, then another. He smoothed the hair out of her face with a gentle touch. She'd leaned into that touch, once upon a time. Closed her eyes. Let her head fall against chest or shoulder or pillow and allowed Greg to soothe the ache from head and heart and body. Allowed herself to feel something more than the gnawing emptiness that threatened to eat her alive. "Lie to yourself if you want to, but you can't hide it from me. I know your face. I know when you care and when you don't."
"Why are you telling me all this?"
"Because I'm doing what Barney wouldn't do. I came back to fight for you. For us." The scent of his cologne enveloped her. Cologne from the cobalt blue bottle on the shelf beneath the mirror, patchouli and amber and melon. The same fabric softener that smelled like Saturday mornings in Montauk, mixed with sweat and beer and dog and calm, always calm. Nights on the deck of the beach house, bare feet on weathered wood, loose limbs draped over each other, picking out shapes in the stars and shadows on the water. The pad of his thumb traced the shape of her cheekbone.
"Greg," she pushed his name past lips gone dry. "You and I, we can't-"
His breath fell warm on her ear. "What we had was real, Robbie. Don't pretend it wasn't."
Robin shook her head. "I wouldn't." She had too many things to remind her how real things between them had been. His jacket, still hanging in her closet. She hadn't sent it back yet. Her travel mug shaped like a camera lens. She'd had coffee out of it this morning. Her own actual camera, the kind that took film. Pictures in a portfolio. Pictures in frames. Pictures of her. Pictures of him. Pictures of them, even, because photographers knew photographers, and any gathering of Greg's friends could turn into a shoot that captured a single moment forever. Most of them did. The way an image could bring back the smell of woodsmoke in her hair, from nights by the bonfire, the taste of malt and burnt marshmallow on her tongue; she'd never lose any of that, thanks to him.
"It still can be. " His head dipped. His mouth covered hers, all promise and invitation. The taste of beer and orange mints threatened to pull her under.
One hand splayed across the soft-spun cotton of his t-shirt. She'd never felt shirts as soft as his. T-shirts and sweaters, the occasional sweatshirt, nothing that buttoned if there was any alternative. Her fingers curled into the softness of the shirt, the firm muscle beneath, bunched the fabric into her fist as one finger of her other hand hooked into the belt loop of his jeans. Jeans. Jeans, not suit pants. T-shirt, not button-front. Greg, not Barney. Her hand went slack. The phone dropped to the ground.
"I'm calling you tonight."
"There's no such thing as too late, okay?"
Unless there was. Unless she'd ruined everything. Unless this was cheating. Cold dread chilled her to the bone. She wrenched her mouth from Greg's, pushed away from him with all the force she could muster. "Stop. I can't do this. I'm," she faltered there. Married perched on the tip of her tongue, but that wasn't true anymore. "I have a," she swiped a trembling hand over her mouth. Husband wasn't right anymore. Ex-husband didn't fit. Boyfriend? They'd had two dates. There wasn't any word for people who'd only had two dates. Friend didn't even begin to cover anything."I have a Barney."
"A Barney?" Greg rubbed at the back of his neck. "What the hell does that mean?"
"It means I love him." She retrieved the phone from the grass. Wiped it off on her trouser leg. Tightened her hold on it. Held up her other hand to stave off any objections Greg could possibly hurl at her. "I'm still in love with him. Everything you said is true. I'm not saying it isn't, but so is that. I love Barney. I tried to turn it off, and I can't. I'm sorry."
Greg's expression shuttered. His jaw tightened, mouth set in a firm slash until his lips went white. He'd never looked old to her before now, but every minute of the decade he had on her seemed to settle in, all at once. His arms crossed, muscles tense beneath the dusting of light brown hair on his forearms. Sneakered feet shifted on the ground. He had an entire wall of the canvas high-tops at home, arranged by color, light to dark, on shelves he'd installed himself, every pair with its own story. This would be this pair's. Someday, he'd take the left shoe off the shelf –always the left one- and let his words paint a picture of a summer night, lit by trailer lights, when a model he worked with once picked her ex-husband over him. Greg would be fine. He'd hurt and he'd take pictures and turn the memory of this mess into something beautiful. Whatever he made out of this would be more beautiful, even, than what would have happened if she hadn't left when she did, if she'd let him finish his question. She would have answered it, if he'd finished, and she would have stuck by that answer, whatever the cost. What the answer would have been, she still didn't know, and she wasn't going to guess.
She crossed her own arms, chafed the bare skin against a chill that had nothing to do with the weather, and swallowed the words she couldn't give voice. Say something.
His head tipped back, eyes closed, as his chest expanded with a breath so deep that Robin felt him suck the air from around her. Her heart thudded in the absence of his words. At last, he let out his breath and fixed her with a level stare. "Hard road ahead of you, Robbie. You don't want to be with me, okay. I get it. Message recieved, but do you have to go back to Barney? You went through all the hell of a divorce to get away from him. He has a baby. You still have the job he couldn't handle. What's going to make things better this time?"
"I don't kn-" Robin cut off at the sharp intake of breath behind her, and whirled to face the source of the sound.
Patrice, Alberta's leash in hand, froze in place. "Oh. Sorry. Should Alberta and I go around one more time, or can I tell the driver you're ready? Hi, Greg." Patrice offered a feeble wave in Greg's direction. "Did you get what you needed tonight?"
A sad smile played about the corners of his mouth. "Almost." He picked up the Kodak and slung the strap around his neck.
Robin put her hand out for Alberta's leash. "Car would be great."