Marriage Mistake

by R. S. Lively

  When I was standing there on the porch that day, and he was wishing me luck in school... that's when I did. He made me feel so low, and so disposable. I felt like something he had just tossed away because he was finished with it."

  "You didn't make it seem like he was mean to you that day."

  "He wasn't," I say. "He was really friendly. Completely casual. That made it even worse, I think. It just didn't even affect him. That was the problem. He was entitled to me, and I had no right to think we would be anything else. I should have known my place. I should have just known I was lucky to have the two weeks with him I did, and that he would be moving on with his real life when he felt like it. I'd never felt beneath anything or anyone before that moment. Not only did he take away my hope of being with this guy I had pined for, for since I was a freshman in high school, but he also took away a little part of me. I questioned myself a lot more after that, and I know I made some really bad decisions because I was trying not to ever feel like that again. That one choice was the start of a long line of bad choices. I don't just blame him, I blame myself too. But being angry at myself just makes me angrier at him."

  "It sounds to me like he's still under your skin," Judy says. "Maybe you don't actually hate him as much as you think you do."

  Not wanting to answer that, I reach into my pocket and take out the key I got when I signed the lease. I've been so busy I entrusted Judy with meeting the landlord at the house to look at it, and turning in my application. I told her as long as it wasn't falling apart, and there weren't any obvious signs of murders or bodies being concealed in the floorboards, I'd take it. The landlord had met me at the school on an afternoon when I had three different meetings, let me sign the lease, and handed over the keys. It was a glimpse of the friendly Magnolia Falls I remember. This is my first opportunity to see the inside of my new home. Unlocking the door, I push it open, and we step inside.

  "Well," I say. "Here it is."

  "Welcome home," Judy says.

  I look around, taking in the empty space. It's extremely similar to the home I grew up in. We went back to work unpacking the rest of the truck, and carrying the boxes and bags inside. There are few pieces of furniture in the garage at my mother's house I'm going to be moving in later.

  Finally, we've unpacked everything from the truck, and I've gotten a few things in place in the house so it doesn't just look like a cavernous empty space. I'm plugging in the coffeemaker in my kitchen when I hear a car door slam outside. I left the front door standing open to bring in some of the fresh fall air through the screen of the storm door, and I back up a few steps into the dining room to look through the living room and outside. A sleek black car has pulled up to the curb. It's at the house next door, so I can only see the back, but that doesn't make me not able to recognize it. I know that car. I saw it through the rain the day I came back here.

  "What is Grant doing here?" I ask.

  Judy's head pops up from where she was poking through a box, her eyes wide.

  "What?" she asks.

  I start across the living room, and notice out of the corner of my eye Judy has grabbed her jacket and is scurrying along behind me.

  "Grant," I say. "Grant Laurence, that's his car. Next door. He was supposed to be spending the week in town with his brothers for Homecoming. But what is he doing here?"

  "He's not really here," Judy says as we walk out onto the porch. "He's next door."

  I look at her suspiciously.

  "Why do you say it like that?"

  "Emma?" Grant walks around from the back of the house, looking at me questioningly.

  I look at Judy, who is shrugging into her jacket as she slips past me to run down the porch steps.

  "Because he's your new next door neighbor. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. You were so excited to find a house."

  "Where do you think you're going?"

  "Walking home. Fresh air."

  "Traitor."

  Grant swaggers over to me, and I feel my heart pounding heavily in my chest. I can't believe this is happening. All the houses on the island, the one that becomes available is right next door to Grant. Even the other one was across the street. I'd still technically be his neighbor, but I wouldn't be sharing a property line.

  Now, Grant steps right over that property line and walks up to me.

  "You're going to be living here?" he asks.

  There's a disbelieving note in his voice, and it makes my spine stiffen.

  "Yes," I say. "Judy helped me out by coming and looking at it for me when I was busy. What are you doing here?"

  He points at the house where his car is parked.

  "That's my house," he says.

  I stare at it for a few seconds, recognizing it.

  "Isn't that Alma Mae Sutter's house?" I ask.

  "It was," Grant says. "I bought it a while back after she died. I wanted my own space when I came back here. How about you?"

  "What do you mean, how about me?"

  "I thought you were staying with your mother."

  "I wanted my own space, too."

  The thought of Grant owning the house beside the one I'm renting is aggravating, and yet there's a bit of a thrill in the back of my mind knowing he's so close.

  He nods.

  "Well, I guess it will be convenient to have you so close while we're doing the plans," he says. "Speaking of which, let's get together and go over what we've been doing over the last few weeks. I know we've talked, but I'd like to see everything."

  "Sure," I say.

  There's something sad in his voice rather than the usual terseness, but he doesn't offer any explanation.

  "Fine. Bring everything over here around eight."

  He turns to walk inside.

  "To your house?" I ask, surprised for reasons I can't really put into words.

  "Yes," he says shortly, turning around to look at me. "To my house. Would you rather go all the way up to the school, get the key, and meet there?"

  He is being sarcastic, but part of me would actually much prefer that.

  "I guess it makes more sense to meet here."

  "Fine. Eight."

  There was no rude comment. No reminder that he's the professional one. No veiled lascivious hint about our past. He didn't even roll his eyes along my body the way that makes my spine shiver how he usually does, even when he's glaring at me. For some reason, I'm disappointed.

  I spend the rest of the day piecing my new house together as much as I can, then sit in the middle of the living room floor and go over some of the project proposals given to me by the seniors I teach. I'm supposed to have my comments ready for them before the holidays so they can work on improving the showcase pieces before spring performances. I remember the pressure of the senior showcase piece, and I want to do my best to give each one of the students as much feedback as I can. These pieces are like a part of them, and most have poured months, if not years, of emotion and thought into crafting the short scene that would be their concluding contribution to the department. Some of them are nothing short of cringe-worthy, simultaneously heavy-handed and fragile, obviously trying too hard to be brilliant. Others actually achieve that goal, and are poignant, beautiful, and sometimes heartbreaking glimpses into the people themselves.

  I'm so wrapped up in them, I lose track of time, and when I take a second to check my phone, I realize I'm supposed to be at his house in less than half an hour. Scrambling to my feet, I run into the bathroom for my inaugural shower in the house. Stuffing myself into a pair of black leggings and a baggy sweatshirt, I throw on my makeup, run a brush through my hair, and run out the door. I'm almost across the yard when I realize I didn't get any of the papers I'm supposed to be showing to Grant. I run back to the house, gather everything, and rush back. I ring the doorbell at exactly eight.

  Grant comes to the door barefoot, in fitted dark jeans, and nothing else. He's holding a rocks glass in one hand, and gestures for me to come inside with the other. My mouth is watering so much I can'
t even respond.

  Shit. He looks even better than my inadvertent daydreams had sketched him. I'd had plenty of opportunities to look at him through his clothes, but what I'm seeing now doesn't even compare to those images. This would be so much easier if he didn't look like I could take him out back and do laundry on his stomach. There are enough muscles there for me to do all of my delicates at once, and there's so much heat radiating off him, I could just hang them to dry on whatever might be around.

  I have a few ideas.

  Forcing myself to snap out of the trance he's put me into, I follow him into the house. The layout is a mirror image of my house, but it's far from newly moved into. In fact, several of the pieces throughout the rooms we passed through look like they belonged to the woman who lived here before him, almost as though he had just worked his own life in around what was already there. Every so often there is a small detail or item that obviously came with Grant, making a space that is oddly juxtaposed and comforting at the same time. He guides me through the living room and dining room, and into a hallway that leads to the two downstairs bedrooms. Butterflies swarm through my belly, but quickly head right back into hibernation when we step into one of the rooms, and I see it has been converted into an office.

  I chastise myself for the reaction. There is no reason for the butterflies. It wouldn't matter even if this was a bedroom. He could have brought me into his room and tossed me on the bed, and the butterflies still shouldn’t be there. This is purely professional.

  Grant takes a long swallow from his glass and turns to give me a view of his chiseled back muscles, and the elaborate tattoo inked into his smooth skin.

  Completely professional.

  I spread everything out on the large desk in the middle of the room, and hear Grant give a short chuckle.

  "What?" I ask.

  "It just looks familiar," he says.

  My eyes scan over the papers, swatches, and samples, and remember the drawings that used to cover the table in the Laurence living room. I laugh.

  "I guess it's pretty similar," I say. "I was designing props and sets for plays, but isn't that sort of what we're doing here, too? Creating a backdrop for them?

  Grant nods.

  "Yeah," he says.

  He still sounds dry and withdrawn, and I decide to push ahead through all of the work we've already done. It's obvious he isn't feeling social tonight, and I want to get through the meeting as fast as possible so I can get back to my work.

  "I called a few of the vendors you mentioned. They seem interested, but I still really think we should be using local people. This is supposed to be a celebration of one of the most recognized citizens of Magnolia Falls. It's to celebrate him, but also a point in history of the village. Don't you think it would be better if we gave other people of the village the opportunity to be a part of it, not to mention the business?"

  "There aren't any good caterers in Magnolia Falls," Grant says without hesitation.

  "There might not be any caterers like there are in the city, but we're not talking about a multimillion-dollar wedding, or some ridiculous Last Supper Extravaganza. We're talking about a class reunion and prom for a handful of elderly people wanting to recapture a day of their youth."

  "And you don't think they deserve good quality catering?"

  There's the attitude.

  "That's not what I said," I respond.

  "This isn't just some little gathering," Grant says sharply. "This is extremely important to Mrs. Burke, not to mention Mr. Bernheimer."

  "I know it is, Grant," I say. "But it is also important to all of the other people who went through that fire. Not to mention all the people who have been impacted by not just that experience, but also by Mr. Bernheimer, which is essentially everyone who lives on the island. As many people as possible deserve to be able to be a part of honoring him. There are plenty of people on this island who would love to be involved. Cooks, bakers, seamstresses. It would be more meaningful, not to mention more cost-effective, to use their services."

  "You don't need to think about it being cost-effective. That's none of your concern."

  I feel my hands clench.

  "Of course, you wouldn't think it is," I mutter.

  "Look, I'm the professional. This is what I do. Mrs. Burke asked you to help, but it’s my business and my name that's going to be on the final product."

  "Fine," I say.

  If he doesn't understand the significance of using local vendors, I'm not going to be the one to baby him through it. We go over a few more of the plans, but Grant seems disinterested. I'm showing him a mockup of an invitation designed to match the crepe paper he wants to use to as closely replicate the decorations of a prom of that era as possible when his phone rings. He picks it up, and walks out of the room with it. I hear the rumble of his voice in the living room, but I can't make out any of the words. A few seconds later, he stomps back into the room, looking even angrier.

  "What were you saying?" he asks.

  I shouldn't care what the call was about, but the pull from deep in my chest is still there, and I can't help but worry about the tightness in Grant's jaw, and the lines etched around his eyes.

  "Are you alright?" I ask.

  He looks at me from over the brochure he's picked up to read.

  "I'm fine," he says.

  "You don't look fine."

  "My brothers aren't coming this week."

  "Is everything OK?"

  "Apparently Seth broke his leg and a couple of ribs."

  "Oh, no!"

  "Don't feel too bad for him. He's the one who volunteered to be the first person to test his client's custom-designed roller coaster. That's on him. He'll be fine in a couple months. Archer apparently had an influx of animals in his sanctuary, and needs to make sure they are all fine and settled in, and doesn't want to leave them. Preston went to help him with all that. I didn’t know he even liked animals, but there you go. And Dean is in fucking jail again. They said they're keeping him for a week out of principle."

  "What?" I ask, shocked.

  Grant waves his hand like he's brushing the question away.

  "It happens. He's used to it."

  He sounds exasperated and hurt, but he's covering it with anger.

  "I'm sorry. I know you were looking forward to seeing them."

  "It's not a big deal," he says. "It's just Homecoming. I haven't seen Preston or Seth in more than six months, anyway."

  "I actually think that makes it a big deal," I say. "I know the five of you have always been close."

  "Well, things change when you're all grown up, don't they?" he asks, looking into my eyes in a way that tells me those words are meant as much for me as they are for his brothers. "It's harder to get together as often when you're busy, and live all over the place. Sometimes things just don't turn out the way you think they're going to."

  We look at each other for a tense, heated beat, and I look away, employing my old diversionary technique to keep him from seeing the longing in my eyes.

  I wish I had my colored pencils.

  "I haven't heard much about them over the years," I say. "How are they doing?"

  The Laurence family has been largely immune to the rapidly churning rumor mill that has its vortex down at Miss Paula's I'll Cut You. Once they left Magnolia Falls, the updates came few and far between, which sat just fine with me. I didn't need the reminders about them. Now, I'm suddenly curious.

  "They're good," Grant says. "They work all the time, just like I do."

  "I know they work, and apparently break and incarcerate themselves in the process. But what else? Married? Families?"

  "No," he says, shaking his head. "No time for either. Maybe no desire for either is closer to accurate."

  "How charming," I say.

  He walks over to the bar on the side wall of the room, refills his class from a cut crystal decanter, and fills a second glass. Offering the glass to me, he gives a slight shrug.

  "It's the truth," he sa
ys. He takes a sip. "What about you?"

  I take a deep swig.

  "Divorced," I say.

  He nods.

  "What happened?"

  There isn't a shred of hesitation in his voice, and his eyes are locked securely on me. I try to think of what to tell him, but I can't get the words to come out. I chose a crappy husband who cheated on me, then traded me in for his upgrade. I can't bring myself to even give him the simplified explanation. Instead, I put the glass down, and reach for a scan of a photograph from prom the year before Mr. Bernheimer's senior year.

  "I want to try to find other pictures from this prom," I say. I point at the corner of the picture, to a hint of the door beyond the washed-out black and white image of a smiling couple dancing. "It looks like there is a decoration around the door, but I can't make it out. If you want to try to recreate the way the school decorated for proms then, this would be an important detail."

  Grant continues to stare at me for a few seconds, then nods, the corner of his mouth twitching up slightly.

  "I'll get my research team looking into it," he says.

  I glance up at him again, and feel my breath catch in my chest. I swallow hard against the feeling, and look back at the picture.

  "Perfect."

  Chapter Eight

  Grant

  Homecoming Week…

  Monday

  "I really have to get back to the theater. I have fifteen teenagers in there by themselves, and there are way too many dark corners."

  I fall into step beside Emma, who hurries down the hallway toward her classroom.

  "The Historical Society was finally able to get me copies of those maps," I say, holding out a printout of the scans emailed to me this morning. "It looks like the location of the original school isn’t where we thought."