The Island by Elin Hilderbrand Page B

I liked—clean cut, smart, bright eyed—and I smiled at him.
    He said, “You look happy to be here.”
    I said, “God, yes, I am. I am so happy!”
    His face lit up. Happy begat happy. “Let me buy you a drink, happy girl.”
    “Okay,” I said. It had taken five seconds, and I was his.
    The band had yet to begin, so we talked. He told me Princeton, Upper East Side (renting), started his own business (head hunting, not as violent as it sounded, he promised). He said Bergen County, New Jersey, parents still married, one brother, one sister. He said jogging in the park, food and wine, New York Times crossword puzzle, poker on Wednesdays.
    I told him Colchester, food editor at Glamorous Home, West Sixty-third Street (renting). I said New Canaan, Connecticut, parents just announced they were splitting after thirty years, one sister. I said jogging in the park, food and wine, reading, shopping, skiing, and the beach.
    He said R.E.M., Coldplay. He said Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, GoodFellas. He said Hemingway, Ethan Canin, Philip Roth.
    I said Death Cab for Cutie, Natalie Merchant, Coldplay. I said The English Patient, Ghost, American Beauty. I said Toni Morrison, Jane Smiley, Susan Minot.
    He said, “Are we a match?”
    I said, “You’re a man, I’m a woman. If you’d said your favorite movie was Ghost, I would have walked away.”
    He said, “You have beautiful hair.”
    I said, “Thank you.” This was a compliment I was used to.
    When I introduced Michael to Rhonda a few minutes later, he stuck out his hand and said, “I’m Chess’s boyfriend, Michael Morgan.”
    I swatted him. I said, “He is not my boyfriend.”
    Michael said, “I’m her fiancé.”
    The band started playing. I had heard that they were good, and they were good. Michael led Rhonda and me through the mayhem to the front row. That was when I got my first look at Nick. What to say? My heart melted away. He was beautiful in a brooding, rock-star way. He had light brown hair that fell into his eyes, which were blue. His nose was a little crooked, as if it had been broken. He was wearing a Death Cab for Cutie T-shirt. He was tall, though not as tall as Michael, but he was leaner and more fit. His voice was a mystery, it was textured and rich, husky at some moments and clear as a choirboy’s at others. At the time, I didn’t know he was Michael’s brother. I only knew he was the lead singer of the band, and he seemed focused on me. There was eye contact and I drank it in like cold water. He was singing a song that I thought must be called “Okay, Baby, Okay,” because those were the most oft-repeated lyrics, and when he sung those words, he looked at me. He sung them to me. Michael shouted above the noise of the crowd, “I think he likes you.” It was quite a position to be in: I had just met an amazing man custom made for my bright side, and I was face-to-face with a rock star who was sexier and more intriguing, a soul mate for my dark side.
    Michael, to his credit, didn’t try to touch me while the band was playing. He was into the music; he knew every word to every song.
    I said, “Are you a fan, then?”
    He grinned. “You could say that.”
    At the break, Michael said, “Let’s go backstage.”
    “Backstage?” I said.
    He said, “Nick, the lead singer, is my brother.”
    “Your brother?” I said. His brother? It was either good news or it was bad news, I couldn’t tell which. If the lead singer had been anyone else, he would have disappeared from my life and the next time I saw him would have been on VH1. As it was, I was going to meet him.
    Michael led Rhonda and me backstage. The band was sitting on the grotty greenroom sofas drinking bottled water and toweling themselves off. Michael shook hands with the other band members—Austin, Keenan, Dylan, we were all cursorily introduced—and then he hugged it out with Nick. Nick seemed much more interested in Rhonda and me.
    “Which is yours?” he asked Michael.
    “Chess is