During Angela's drive home from work that evening, her thoughts strayed once again to her relationship – or lack thereof – with Tony. While she ached for the courage to rile at Tony and ask him directly how he could do this to her when he knew full well their feelings had been deepening these past months, she also didn't know if she could muster forgiveness even if he fell to his knees and begged forviveness. She was still hurt, and she had to heal before deciding what the next move should be. Besides, did she really want the feelings she and Tony had for one another to be voiced in the shadow of such pain, regret and, yes, betrayal?
First, though, she had to decide once and for all what she felt for Tony. Was it love? And if so, was it the kind of love one built an intimate relationship on? She thought so, but she'd been wrong before. And losing what she had with Tony, as undefined as it was, would be unbearable. Yes, she loved him, more than she'd ever loved any man, but was that enough?
Finally home, sitting in the driveway, she experienced feelings very similar to those she'd had that morning – fear, apprehension, embarrassment. She dreaded facing him, but also wanted so badly to be in his presence, to talk to him and just enjoy his company as she did every day. But how could she reconcile those feelings with her pain every time she remembered what he'd done? She was the one who told him that maybe this was something they had to go through, but why did it have to be quite so hard?
Stepping out of the car, Angela resolved to act as though things were normal, and perhaps, in time, the act would become reality again. Fake it till you make it, right?
The living room was dark when she entered from the front door, and the house was quiet. "Hello, anyone home? Mother? Jonathon?" A beat, then, "Tony?"
No answer. She hung up her coat and dropped her briefcase by the desk. Walking toward the kitchen, she caught the scent of spaghetti sauce. She pushed through the swinging door, and there he was, seated at a table laden with pasta, salad, and garlic bread.
"Hi," they said in unison. Tony sat at the table; Angela stood motionless next to the counter.
"Where are the children?"
"With Mona."
"Oh?"
"I, ah, told her we needed some time – alone."
"Why?" This was not what she'd expected to come home to.
"To talk. We need to talk, Angela."
"Tony …" But she didn't know how to finish the sentence, and she feared she was too emotionally exhausted to have this conversation right now.
"Why don't you come and eat? There's no rush."
His face was so open and sincere. By contrast, Angela was wound tight as a spring, and her heart was beating so loudly it reverberated through her head, which is also where all of her blood seemed to have collected. "Tony, if this is about the other night, I thought we decided…"
"We were wrong," he said simply, "but let's eat first, okay, unwind a bit?"
Slowly, she took a tentative step toward the table. "This looks like quite a dinner," she said softly, sitting down next to him. The linguine with clam sauce was already plated, along with a chilled glass of white wine.
Tony stared at her, awestruck as always by the magnetism between them. The overhead lighting in the kitchen was hardly romantic or flattering, but it still managed to highlight the gold flecks in her eyes. She smiled sadly, wanting so badly to reach for him but knowing she couldn't. Tentatively, she twirled the pasta around her fork and sampled the linguini, half afraid she'd choke on anything she tried to eat. But the pasta and sauce nearly melted in her mouth. "Tony, this is wonderful. Why haven't you ever made this before?"
"Thanks, I got the recipe from Mrs. Rossini. She said it never fails."
"Fails to what?"
"Nevermind," he said quickly, and returned his attention to his own plate.
They ate in silence for a while, neither sure of what to say and wary of upsetting the comfortable truce they seemed to have forged. Eventually, Tony asked about her day and the campaign with Encanto Records. The conversation was friendly and light, but both could feel the underlying discomfort of the inevitable conversation to come.
Eventually their plates were empty, and Tony cleared them away to the sink while Angela poured the last of the wine into their glasses.
Tony was the first to speak.
"Angela, remember when you cooked dinner for me for our second anniversary – I mean the anniversary of my and Sam's arrival?"
"Of course," she recalled with a nostalgic smile. "I made that awful London broil laced with a silk tie, and you ended up at the hospital to have your appendix out. How could I forget?" she said, very nearly allowing herself to laugh at the memory.
He thought about bringing up what he's said while under the anesthesia, but decided to backtrack instead. "Yeah, that was quite a night. But before my appendix burst, we were talking about something, something that we decided was important enough to take a bottle of wine and head to the sofa to discuss in more depth. Do you remember that?"
Angela nodded, barely breathing, not sure where this was going, and not sure if she wanted to find out. But she remained silent and firmly planted in her seat as though an invisible weight held her there.
"It took us another four years to finish that conversation last summer in Jamaica."
She nodded again and waited for him to get to his point.
"I asked you to wait for me to be ready for something more between us." He took a steading breath, "but the other night, I betrayed your trust that our future was more a matter of when, than if."
And there it was, the reason for her devastation stated in plain English by the person who'd broken her heart. She had indeed believed they were waiting for when, not if. The sob came unbidden, and she covered her mouth with her hands, unable to hold back in the face of such open acknowledgement.
Tony kneeled down in front of her and placed his clasped hands in her lap. "I'm sorry, Angela. I'm so, so sorry."
She dropped her hands to his and met his eyes. She wasn't sure she was hearing him right. Was he sorry that he slept with Kathleen, that he broke her heart? Or was this some twisted, noble way of telling her it was over between them because he found someone else? She fought for the words and managed to rasp, "Sorry for what?"
"For hurting you. For allowing someone else to take the place that was reserved for you."
Her breathing was ragged, but she was regaining control. Before she could say anything, though, Tony continued, "I'm not going to see Kathleen again. She came here today, and I realized being with her wasn't what I wanted."
Angela tried to process his words but found her emotions were an inextricable knot of relief and anger. She wasn't sure how to respond, so she just went with the most obvious question: "Then why did you spend the night with her?"
His head dropped with the weight of his guilt, even as he pulled himself back into the chair beside her. Knowing it was an answer she deserved, he'd spent a good part of the afternoon after Kathleen left thinking about that very question. He owed her an honest explanation.
"She was the first woman in a long time who felt like my equal. Since moving here, Brooklyn has come to feel more and more foreign to me, but I also don't have the 'pedigree' for most of the women in Connecticut. And here comes Kathleen, with a working-class upbringing, putting herself through school in her thirties, like me. I felt a connection and didn't stop long enough to realize it was only superficial."
The pieces began to fall into place for Angela. Her and Tony's differing statuses had long been a barrier between them – a barrier he did not have with Kathleen. "So why did you break it off? Why not see if the connection deepened?" It was a hard question to ask, but a necessary one.
For Tony, this answer was easy – he just hoped she believed him.
"Because, Angela, I already have a deep connection with someone – with you – or at least I did. And I don't want to lose that." They were her words, said back to her. "I know I hurt you, but I hope you meant what you said last night about not wanting to lose what we have."
She couldn't stop herself. She touched her palm to his cheek and met his eyes straight on. "I did. I do," she corrected. "But it's going to take some time."
"That's okay, as much as you need," he assured her. They met each other's eyes with an electric intensity that seemed to signal the universe had righted itself once again.
Then Angela deadpanned, "So, I guess this means I should cancel my date with Peter on Friday."
Tony's jaw went slack. Was she asking him or telling him? How could he respond to that? Yes, he thought wildly, of course you should cancel it! But he knew it wasn't his call to make.
Thankfully, Angela released the tension with a small laugh and let him off the hook. "It was a statement, Tony, not a question."
"Oh, thank goodness," he sighed, then hurried to add, "But only if you want to cancel it."
"I do," she said, reaching out to cover his hand with both of hers. "I don't know what tomorrow looks like for us, but I can at least promise you there will be one."
His hand closed over hers so they were stacked between his on the table. "That's all I need to know. For now," he added impulsively.
"For now," she agreed softly. The moment dragged out as they savored the carefully forged truce.
Then Tony smiled once more, "Would a slice of homemade tiramisu help?"
Her eyes lit up with predictable excitement. "It certainly wouldn't hurt," she admitted as she met his smile with her own. "In fact, I think it's a very good start."
