Husband Material

by Emily Belden

  to work and chances are, there will be new problems for you

  to solve. Problems you get to check off the list and move on

  from. I wake up tomorrow and that urn is still my problem and still not going anywhere.”

  “I’ve offered a solution for rehoming the urn,” he reminds

  me. “You’ve ignored it.”

  “Buying a crypt at some fancy place doesn’t just make my

  problems go away. You can’t just solve them on the spot for

  me.”

  “Hey, I didn’t buy it. And I said you didn’t have to go with

  that, remember?”

  “Then why did you even put a hold on it in the first place?”

  “Because for some reason, you seem stalled with this whole

  urn thing. You’re a strong person. The strongest I know. And

  it pains me to see you this way—stuck. I was just trying to do

  something—anything, really—to show you moving forward

  is actually a possibility here. And I’m not just talking about

  9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 230

  1/14/19 1:44 PM

  Husband Material

  231

  helping you with things with the urn either. What about your

  meeting with Warren? How’d that go?”

  “My meeting with Warren? Holmgren? How do you know

  about that?”

  “Warren’s kid was a patient of mine before he moved their

  entire family up to San Fran. I knew he was in tech and saw

  on Facebook he was in town for the weekend for Hamilton, so I called in a last-minute favor and he did me a solid by calling your work and pretending to have just happened upon you in a

  magazine. I thought he could help you with your app thing.”

  “My goodness, why are you trying to do everything for me?

  I didn’t grow up like you and Decker, okay? I’m not used to

  things just getting handed to me and I don’t want to start

  that now. If you talk to your buddy again, do us both a favor

  and tell him he doesn’t have to take on this charity case, will you? And also, I’m calling bullshit. I don’t think you think I’m strong at all. In fact, you clearly think the exact opposite. That I’m just a weak little girl who had a bad thing happen to her

  and now she needs things delivered to her on a silver platter.

  I mean, really, what are you compensating for?”

  Brian walks away into his bedroom and a minute later re-

  turns with the urn. He sets it down on the coffee table.

  “You know, I finally figured you out, Charlotte Rosen.

  You just want to look at a computer screen—or a wall with

  a bunch of sticky notes on it—and go with whatever it spits

  out, even if that means rewriting history. Even if that means

  ignoring actual reality.”

  “I’m quite in touch with reality, thankyouverymuch.” I put

  the urn in my Birkin. “How else would I have been able to take

  my own husband off life support if I didn’t understand reality?”

  “You’ve got to stop routing back to that day. Not every-

  thing is about that decision you made five years ago. This sure as hell isn’t.” He gestures to my Post-It bracket.

  9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 231

  1/14/19 1:44 PM

  232

  Emily Belden

  “This is about preserving Decker’s memory.”

  “This is about manipulating information to fit the narrative you want to hear. What if Gemma was in love with me? What if Decker had a kid and chose not to tell you about it? Life is messy. Life is complicated. I want you to be free of these nu-merical, mathematical shackles you put on everything. Real

  relationships and real-life situations have an actual arc to them and sometimes chips fall where they may.”

  I assess the web of sticky notes I’ve slathered on his wall like an oil spill. I hate to admit it, but I think Brian was right to get real with me just now. Sure, this relationship map looks

  like it’s about Gemma, but it’s really about me. It’s about the way that I’ve set up rules—so many of them for so long. I’ve

  put stakes in the ground and roped off restricted areas every

  which way regarding how to move on, with whom, when,

  where, and why. And I’ve done an excellent job—especially

  this last week—convincing myself it was never Brian and

  could never be Brian.

  I start to peel off the stickers one by one and Brian steps

  softly into my peripheral.

  “Hey, don’t worry about those right now. Let’s sit down,”

  he says.

  We make our way over to his signature comfy couch. If

  every therapist I have ever seen had a couch like this, I prob-

  ably would have kept a weekly appointment.

  “You’re right,” I say. “This is dumb.”

  “It’s not, Charlotte. You’re passionate about the truth and

  that’s a good thing. More people should be like you. So don’t

  apologize. In fact, I should be the one apologizing. I didn’t

  mean to infer that you didn’t care about my patient. I know

  you do,” he says. “And I’m sorry for the soapbox about the way

  life is just now. It’s not the same for everyone and I shouldn’t 9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 232

  1/14/19 1:44 PM

  Husband Material

  233

  have freeballed like that. I guess that’s the problem with going with your gut sometimes, you know?”

  I’m looking into his brown eyes, a little sleep crust in the

  corner of them. All I can think in this moment is how good

  it feels to sit next to someone so comfortable with taking ac-

  countability and apologizing.

  That and how he is my 95 percent match.

  Last night, in the midst of all my research, I ran him through

  my algorithm. Not to trace him back to Gemma, but to see

  where the two of us would land. That’s when I saw we would

  make a near perfect couple. I don’t know if I can—or should—

  ever do anything about that. Why? For starters, it feels like

  we just got into a fight and we’re in that tiptoe peacemaking

  phase. Secondly, he may not have yet stated his direct opin-

  ion on the Decker-Gemma bombshell, but Brian sure made

  it clear that he and Gemma had some type of a thing. And finally, Brian said it himself and I happen to agree: maybe I’d

  be better off divorcing myself from numbers and percentages

  for a while. Clearly, it’s gotten to me.

  I look at him for a moment more and before he can look

  away or say another word, I kiss him—this time on the lips,

  this time on purpose.

  A second or two passes and he springs back, blinking his

  eyes hard like he’s waking up from a dream. A second or two

  passes and he’s still speechless. The guy who has always known

  what to say to me and when.

  I grab the urn while he’s still sitting shocked on the sofa and let myself out. For as quickly as I made the decision, I flood

  my own mind with doubt. That’s the problem with going

  with your gut sometimes.

  Back home, I lay in bed with Leno curled between my

  legs. Casey isn’t home but she was. At least that’s what the

  9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 233

  1/14/19 1:44 PM

  234

  Emily Belden

  note on the fridge that says “Sups annoyed with you. Need

  to talk” tells me.

  It’s the start of my second week off from The Influencer

&nb
sp; Firm and I feel no closer, no more at peace with things since

  Decker’s urn came back. In moments like this, I dig for ther-

  apy advice and beg for it to come to the surface. Right now,

  the mantra that rises is, “Let it crumble.”

  I’ve caused a defect in every relationship that could possibly

  offer me support or solutions in this situation. With Casey, I

  kept her at arm’s length on purpose. With my parents, I re-

  fused to move home or even visit semifrequently. With Mon-

  ica and Zareen, I was all business. And with Brian, I sent him

  mixed messages followed by bolting the one time the two of

  us needed to talk most. If relationships were binary things—1

  or 0—I have always picked 0.

  Like branches on a tree, I’ve snapped them all off one by

  one. And now what’s left is a naked stump. I didn’t set out to

  do this, and it is no one’s fault except my own.

  I go to pull up the schedule for a grief group, but I get

  stalled seeing that the internet browser on my phone is still

  on the page I left off in my research from last night: the pic-

  ture on Facebook of Brian dressed up as Superman for Hal-

  loween with the adorable Clark Kent kid standing by his side.

  I’ve seen this photo before. But right now, recognition hits

  me like a crack of lightning. Brian isn’t the only person in this picture that I’ve seen before.

  I enlarge the photo, expanding it to full-size on my screen,

  and zoom in on the caption, which I’ve actually never read. It

  says, Trick or treating with my best little buddy, Aiden.

  This isn’t just some patient. This is Aiden. This is Gemma’s

  son. And it’s also the same kid from Debbie’s pool party last

  week. The one who charged into the house, like he knew his

  way around the place, and requested a pool noodle.

  9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 234

  1/14/19 1:44 PM

  Husband Material

  235

  The revelation that Brian knows hits like a dodgeball hurled

  straight to the stomach. He claimed he knew Gemma, but I

  didn’t think he stil knew her. It takes away any appetite I may have had and replaces it with a sickening emptiness instead. I

  look again at the photo. Now I know what Brian was com-

  pensating for—and who he was covering for.

  I screen shot the photo and get ready to fire the smoking

  gun off to Brian. How could he not mention this? He saw me

  struggling to piece this all together and this whole time he

  knew? All this time and I was never worth the truth?

  Let it crumble rises once again to the forefront of my thoughts and I set the phone down on my nightstand, taking a few deep

  breaths in through my nose and out through my mouth. I’ve

  finally figured out who the “they” were that Gemma referred

  to. I thought it was just two people. Debbie and Kurt. But it

  was Brian too.

  I’m so mad, I begin to cry. Hysterically. I cry the way I’ve

  wanted to cry since the urn came back, but was too afraid to

  be heard. I don’t care anymore, though. I’m so mad, and even

  more so because I’m not entirely sure at whom. The picture

  confirms what I didn’t want to believe: people who I thought

  were in my corner this whole time were working together to

  keep a huge secret from me for years.

  All because of Decker. Decker who had a kid and kept it

  from me. This is his secret mess that others have been cleaning up and hiding from his wife. But are you even allowed to

  be mad at someone who isn’t alive anymore?

  I wipe my nose on my forearm and head over to my laptop.

  The homepage of my algorithm is pulled up. The cursor is

  blinking at me, taunting me. I’m only a few keystrokes away

  from exporting the results of a “Decker-and-Charlotte-stats.

  xls” report. A part of me is curious to know what percent

  match we truly were.

  9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 235

  1/14/19 1:44 PM

  236

  Emily Belden

  The thought of running a script I’m so familiar with against

  a person who I was already in a relationship with has never

  crossed my mind. Not until everything I knew about him

  imploded before my very eyes. Of course I’ve worked with

  the algorithm enough times that I can sit here and make a

  fairly educated guess where the two of us would shake out,

  but frankly, I could see it going both ways. We married each

  other, therefore we could—and probably should—be a 100

  percent match. Then again, Decker was a guy who got a girl

  pregnant and never told anyone. But does it matter now any-

  way? He’s already dead, it’s not like divorce is an option.

  I look over at the urn just sitting across from me on my

  nightstand. I thought I’d feel lighter having cracked the case, but instead I feel like I’m in the throes of some sort of weird emotional hangover. My husband’s ashes needing to be rehomed was complicated enough. But now, the urn’s return

  has managed to unearth things I think a lot people thought

  were done and dusted. And at this point, Brian and Debbie

  have no idea that I. Know. Everything.

  Perhaps I should circle back to confronting Brian, the au-

  thor of the twenty-two—make that twenty-three—frantic text

  messages sitting in my inbox, but after letting things crumble, I’ve decided I’ve got nothing to say to him right now.

  So instead, I lean into the emotional wave I’m on and let it

  take me somewhere I haven’t been in ages.

  9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 236

  1/14/19 1:44 PM

  21

  “Hi. I’m Lucy,” says a Martha-Stewart-looking middle-aged

  blonde woman who stands up from her chair

  “Hi Lucy,” the room responds in unison.

  I treat going to grief group like a visit to the gynecologist:

  an uncomfortable hour wherein you know you are doing

  something good for your health, so you just suck it up and

  make a personal agreement to reward yourself with a giant

  ice cream after—and not the fat-free frozen yogurt kind but

  a double scoop of malted cookie dough from Salt & Straw. In a chocolate-dipped waffle cone.

  The first available drop-in grief group being held this morn-

  ing is in a meeting room in a Los Angeles Public Library

  branch off Laurel Canyon Drive. I’ve never been to this exact

  meeting, it’s women-only. Most of the attendees here appear

  to be a bit older than me, but I’m used to that being the case.

  I sit quietly, respectfully, and listen to Lucy’s story in preparation for any words of comfort to grab on to. The kind I so

  desperately need right now.

  9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 237

  1/14/19 1:44 PM

  238

  Emily Belden

  “I lost my husband of twenty-three years when he was killed

  last November in a workplace explosion,” announces Lucy.

  The room lets out a series of gasps and a few members start

  to tear. They must be newbies. Sure it’s gnarly to picture, but a workplace explosion doesn’t shock me. It just tells me there’s another person in the room to whom I can tell what happened

  to my husband and she won’t be horrified either.

  “I saw
a therapist this week for my grief. My husband’s death

  anniversary is next month and so summers are always really

  tough for me. His death anniversary is even harder than our

  wedding anniversary. Does anyone else tend to ride the death anniversary train like I do?”

  Several people raise their hands. I raise mine, too. The

  sound of the air-conditioning kicks on. The room needed a

  little white noise.

  “Anyhow, my therapist explained something about grief

  last week in a way that really resonated with me. It’s amazing

  how you can read every book on the subject, scroll through

  every online forum, and keep coming to these groups, yet still

  be able to learn something new about how to process our fa-

  vorite emotion.”

  A whir of low-volume laughs breaks up her somber intro-

  duction.

  “So I thought I’d share it with you all in case anyone else

  might find what I learned helpful.”

  Lucy pulls out a sheet of yellow paper from a legal pad with

  the stages of grief written in a circle: anger, hurt, confusion, etc. It looks as if each of these words is a number on a clock.

  “You’re probably all very familiar with each of these. For

  years, I tried to work through them one at a time and con-

  quer each individually.” Lucy taps her pen from one emotion

  to the next, like it’s the ticking second hand.

  “But that’s not how it works. It starts right here in the

  9781525805981_TS_BG_txt.indd 238

  1/14/19 1:44 PM

  Husband Material

  239

  middle of it all, in what the therapist called No Man’s Land,

  where you don’t really feel any of these. You just feel numb.”

  She makes a dot in the middle of all the words and begins to

  draw a circle that fans out like a spiral, bigger and bigger with each loop of her pen. “Then, it starts to get real.”

  Her pen strikes through the middle of every word. She ex-

  plains that grief is about bouncing around from emotion to

  emotion with no real rhyme or reason. Some days, you’ll be

  overcome with anger, others it will be more about the denial.

  There’s no method to the madness.

  “Grief isn’t like a storm you can track. You never know

  what will trigger it or how severe it will be. For me, when I’m driving in my car and I’m all alone and in the quiet, BOOM. It

  hits me there. And also, much like a tornado touching down,