by Cecilia Lyra
Elle blinks, confused.
But before I can tell her that she’s basically a blond version of what Julie looked like growing up, I notice Julie walking to the other side of the room, where Craig is standing, his eyes still fixated on her.
Of course. If Elle and my father are a couple—Mr. Mid-life Crisis meets Miss Daddy Issues—then Craig is single.
Julie whispers something to him. The chemistry between them is buzzing, kinetic. For a moment, I wonder if they’re actually going to kiss in the middle of this overcrowded hotel suite. They don’t—obviously. But they do stare at each other, dreamy grins on their faces.
My father looks confused. “What the…?”
“Stay out of it,” I tell him.
He stares at me for a beat and then flicks his eyes back to Julie and Craig. “Oh, I see what’s going on here,” he says, sneering. And then, under his breath, “A slut just like her mother.”
The shift on Craig’s expression is instant. He looks up at my father, his face twisted in disgust, antagonism. He walks across the room slowly.
And then Craig punches him in the face.
Fifty-Six
Julie
Monday, July 23rd
Our first kiss is everything I thought it would be. Soft lips and hot breath. Tickle of tongues. His strong hands around my waist. My fingers laced around his neck, grazing his hair. A tingle that starts in my stomach and reaches every extremity in my body. A feeling of electrifying weightlessness, of overdue surrender.
“I’ve wanted to do this since the moment I saw you on the beach,” Craig murmurs, when our lips part slightly.
“That makes two of us.” I open my eyes to meet his gaze. Our foreheads touch and we both grin.
It’s our evening ritual—catching up on the porch with beers—but it’s also not. Because today we’re not sitting side by side on the Adirondack chairs. I’m curled up on his lap, staring into his honeyed eyes, his thumb and index fingers holding my chin. We kiss some more.
“I’m so glad you’re not dating Elle,” I say, laughing. The absurdity of my assumptions are coming back to me. It’s been an eventful day: finding the letters (I’ve confessed my snooping to Craig), seeing Dad, finding out that Elle is his girlfriend.
He chuckles. “I still don’t know what gave you that idea.”
“She was here,” I say. “Looking gorgeous and, I don’t know, at home. And she talked about maybe seeing you in the evening.”
“I told you, she came over to return my fishing rods and to borrow a surfboard. Elle was learning how to surf, like Ben.” I think back to my phone call with Dad (hadn’t he mentioned he’d gone fishing?) and to what Ben accidentally told me, about him and Elle catching waves at Ditch Plains. I wonder if my dad was learning how to surf, too. But I don’t ask because if I bring him up then we might end up talking about what happened at the hotel—and I’m not ready for that. I’ve said as much to Craig. “And as for our evening plans, she and your dad asked me out to dinner, but I said no because I wanted to spend time with you.” He shakes his head. “If I’d known you thought we were together…”
“This should teach you not to keep anything from me.” I pinch his stomach through his shirt. His abs feel like warm marble.
“I was following orders. Bertie left me very specific instructions. She said she’d haunt me if I didn’t keep my promise.”
I feel my mouth stretch into a smile. I can picture Nana making that threat.
“You promise there are no more letters?” I ask.
“Scout’s honor.” He gives me a winning smile.
Cassie and I still have to read Nana’s last letter to us, the one we never opened because we were too busy being shocked over the fact that Dad was on the island and that Craig knew about it. Craig explained that he would’ve given it to us on the very last day. Cassie and I agreed to wait until then. It feels right.
“You sure you don’t want to stay over?” he asks. “The kids are never up before seven.”
“I didn’t take you for a rule breaker.” I feel a buzz of excitement.
“Bertie would understand.” He gives me a magnetic grin.
I tip my head back, laughing. I don’t disagree—Nana really would understand. And there are ways around the rules. I could leave my phone back at the house. Cassie would cover for me if someone came over to check on us. But I should go home, at least for tonight. I should be with Cassie.
“Soon,” I say.
“See you tomorrow?”
I give him another kiss. He tastes like sea salt and beer.
“I won’t go into work,” he says. “We’ll spend the day together.”
I can barely contain my excitement. We won’t be able to kiss in front of the kids—it’s too soon, we don’t know where this is headed—but I’ll get to spend the whole day with him knowing that he likes me as much as I like him. The thought is enough to sustain me until sunrise.
And to give me the nerve to talk to Patrick.
Back at the house, Cassie is slicing tomatoes we bought at the farmers’ market. There’s an open bottle of wine next to her. The label reads Stag’s Leap Cabernet Sauvignon.
“We’re celebrating,” she says, when I walk in. “I’m making bruschetta. It’s the only thing I know how to make.”
“I like bruschetta. What are we celebrating?” I ask.
“You and Craig.” She shoots me a smile. “And Craig punching our father. I wasn’t sure about him before, but now he’s my favorite person in the world. Top ten, anyway.”
I study her expression for a trace of reservation, of hesitation. But none is there. Cassie’s feelings for Dad really are black and white: he is a bad father, she wants nothing to do with him. I understand where she’s coming from. I’m hurt, too. What he said was cruel, but I know he didn’t mean it—he was probably just being protective of Patrick. Men are often tribal like that, irrational and impulsive when they get jealous. And part of me still hopes he’ll apologize. I know he loves me—loves us—in his own way. I don’t want to give up on him. Cassie gave up on me for years. I know how that feels.
“Don’t keep me in suspense,” she says, handing me a glass of wine. I take it even though I plan on grabbing a beer from the fridge. “How was it with Craig?”
“It was…everything.” I feel my cheeks expanding. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this way about a guy. Come to think of it, this might be unprecedented. It’s not like I dated a lot before marrying Patrick—and with him it was always more about safety than passion.
“That’s great, Jul,” Cassie says. “I’m happy for you.”
I am, too. But I’m also mindful of my situation: I’m still married.
“Is it all right if I call Patrick before we eat?” I ask. “I don’t want to put this off any longer.”
“Go ahead, there’s no rush.” She begins to mince garlic, humming to herself.
Once I’m in my room, I close the door and call Patrick. He picks up after three rings.
“Hi, it’s me,” I say.
“Yes?” His tone is tense, but I can hear the undercurrent of expectation in his voice. He thinks I am calling to apologize. Unreservedly, too.
“There’s something I have to say.”
“All right.”
The Sky Princess is about to leave the king. She’s thought about doing this dozens of times before, speaking the words into the wind, not daring to say them when anyone was around, but feeling the need to utter them anyway, so at least someone—the trees, the skies, the universe—would know how she felt. In her heart, she never thought she’d have the strength to say them to him.
“I want a divorce. I’m sorry to be so blunt about it, but I know how you appreciate brevity.”
A loud sigh on the other end of the line. I recognize that sound: he’s annoyed. It’s 9:30 p.m., which is when he unwinds. He was probably watching a documentary on Netflix. Or reading a book, usually a political one. I’m interrupting sacred time. If I were there, I�
�d be nervously checking my appearance (I would not pass a body scan right now) or else fixing him a Scotch.
“You’re clearly not yourself. I spoke to your mother about this. We agree we should forgive you for going away. Your behavior was irrational, but I suppose that was to be expected. You’ve just lost your grandmother.”
I swallow my irritation. “Patrick, I’m leaving you. I hope we can do this amicably.”
A beat. “Is this about me not picking you up for the party?”
“No.”
Another sigh. “What is it then? Why the drama?” He sounds displeased, but calm. Patrick is always calm. He’s incapable of raising his voice, of losing control.
There is so much I could say. Objective reasons: his behavior at the benefit, his refusal to have a child with me, his fixation on controlling me. But it isn’t about any of these things, not really. It’s about him not wanting to be happy. Because that’s what I’ve realized: Patrick has no interest in happiness. He’s ambitious and driven and brilliant. He’s generous, quick to compliment me, skilled at making me feel safe. But what he wants out of life is easily measured. Money. Awards. To become name partner. He has no interest in slowing down, in living in the moment. No desire to explore the unknown together or to listen to me tell a story. To him, I’m not a storyteller. I’m a prop. A beautiful, cherished prop.
But I don’t say any of this. What would be the point?
“I want a divorce. I’ve made up my mind.”
“Are you expecting to get half of what I have? Because that’s not happening.”
“I don’t want anything.”
“You don’t—” He stops short. “OK, now I know this is a joke.”
“This is not a joke. I want nothing.”
“Good. Because that’s what you’ll get.”
And then he hangs up the phone.
I place a hand to my heart. I feel my chest rise and fall as I take a long, deep breath. Despite my conviction, I had expected to feel mournful over the end of my marriage. Instead, I am experiencing a sense of weightlessness, of calm. A taste of something sweet in my mouth. A pleasant buzzing from head to toe.
Freedom.
Fifty-Seven
Cassie
Monday, July 23rd
It’s a simple affair, bruschetta. Diced tomatoes simmered with a mix of minced garlic and onions, olive oil, basil, and a sliced loaf of Italian bread. It pairs wonderfully with red wine (my favorite) and can be served as both party and comfort food (today it’s both). It’s not an impressive dish—but it’s delicious and easy.
My phone pings as I’m setting the table. A text from Daniel: a heart emoji with a question mark. Shorthand for how are you feeling? I text him back: two hearts. Code for all good. Not a lie—I feel liberated after confronting my father (and watching him get punched). But not the whole truth, either. Tatiana’s words are still nagging at me. I don’t think it’s true, I really don’t. But I still want to ask Daniel about it—about Jill, if she even exists. Just not over the phone. Certain things need to be done in person.
“I did it,” Julie says.
For a moment, I think she’s referring to her look. She’s changed into a long, gauzy turquoise skirt and a white crop top. She looks young—younger, anyway. Like she’s seventeen again. Her face is different, too. Fresh and luminous, more so than usual. I notice she’s not wearing any makeup.
“You look great.”
She blushes, looking down. “It’s from Nana’s closet. The skirt.” She looks at me expectantly, as if seeking permission. “Is that weird?”
“Why would it be weird?” And then: “Come, eat.”
She eyes the plate of bruschetta, picks one up and takes a bite. “This is good,” she says, her mouth still full. She chews slowly. “I asked him for a divorce.” She delivers this matter-of-factly.
“How are you feeling about it?”
A shrug. “Fine, I guess. It was less momentous than I expected.”
“What were you expecting?”
“I don’t know. That he’d put up a fight? He didn’t. Anyway, I’m relieved.” She takes a sip of the wine and makes a face. “I don’t like this.”
“You’re incorrigible.” I roll my eyes. “There’s beer in the fridge.”
A smile. Then another bite of the bruschetta. She makes her way to the refrigerator, takes out a green bottle, opens it against the counter. “He hung up on me.”
“I’m sorry.” I take a seat at the table. It should feel too big for the two of us, but it doesn’t. Julie joins me, beer in hand.
“And told me I wasn’t getting any of his money.”
“Did you sign a prenup?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then I’m pretty sure you’re entitled to something.”
“I don’t want anything.”
“Are you sure?” This is surprising. I’m not suggesting that Patrick’s finances were the reason Julie married him, but it had to be a factor. Money is always a factor in relationships. People only like to pretend that it’s not because it sounds unromantic.
“I’m going to get a job,” she says. “Any job.”
It’s something we’ve discussed, albeit briefly, her finding a job. She’s excited about it. I am, too—excited for her, that is. I’m also worried. In a sense, it’s like she’s only now growing up. Paying one’s bills is an essential part of adulthood.
She continues, “I thought about asking for alimony, but it would make me feel, I don’t know, like a child. Which I think was sort of the problem in our marriage. In a strange way, he was like a parent to me: deciding what I could wear, what I could eat. If I take his money, I’ll still be dependent on him. I’ll still feel like a child.”
“Can I help?” I offer. I’ve been mulling this over in my mind: I’ve always had more economic privilege than Julie. As a kid, I was powerless to do anything about it. But I’m not a kid anymore. And I’ve been financially independent since my mom passed away—her death meant that the trust I’d get when I turned twenty-one kicked in when I was seventeen. I explain this to Julie now. “It would be a gift. Not a loan.”
She looks touched. “Thank you,” she says. “But I couldn’t. I’m going to figure this out on my own. I have a few ideas. I don’t need much. I thought I did. I thought it would bring me happiness, having a feeling of plenty. But it didn’t. I guess I’m still figuring out what makes me happy.”
“Cheers to that,” I say, lifting my wine glass. We clink, bottle to goblet.
“And to Nana,” she says. “For bringing us here.”
“To Nana,” I say. “Even when she’s wrong, she’s right.”
She sips her beer. “What does that mean?”
“Our father,” I begin. “It was wishful thinking on her part, expecting us to come together as a family. That I’d forgive him, anyway. But, in a weird way, I’m glad he came. I needed to say those things to him. I needed to get it off my chest. It felt…cathartic.”
Julie tilts her head to the side. There’s a sadness in her eyes.
“I know you love him,” I say. I almost add, And that’s OK, but I don’t. It’s true, obviously. She doesn’t need my permission, my blessing.
“Sometimes I wish I didn’t,” she says, softly.
“I’m not judging you. You know that, right?”
“I know.” She sighs, looks down at her beer bottle. I watch her run her thumb over the label. “And, just so you know, I’m not blind to his faults. My relationship with him is different from yours, but it’s still not great. I feel like I’m always calling him, not the other way around. And even when we do talk, he doesn’t listen to me as much as he should. He needs to be better.” She looks up at me. “If he apologized, would you forgive him?”
It’s a senseless question. Our father does not apologize. She knows this. But I’ll indulge the hypothetical. I owe her as much.
“I like to think that I would,” I say. “For my own peace of mind. But I wouldn’t want him in my l
ife.”
A shadow passes through her face. She’s worried about something. What?
“You do know I have no problem with him being in your life, right?” I add.
“I know.” She’s peeling off the beer label. “I mean, I think I know. I want to believe that. But I worry. Not just about Dad. I worry there won’t be space in your life for me when we leave this place. You’ve got so much going on. Your practice, the show. Your friends. You and Daniel might start a new phase in your relationship, and then you’ll be a stepmom. What do I have?” She puts the bottle down and looks around, as if there’s an answer waiting for her in Nana’s living room.
It occurs to me that Julie spent her childhood waiting for our father to show up. Because he didn’t live with her, she only got him in intervals. As an adult, she’s still waiting. Except now she’s waiting for him to be better, to give her the steadying love she’s been craving since she was a little girl. It was the opposite for me. I spent my childhood looking forward to his so-called business trips. His absence meant that there was no shouting, no destruction. All I had to worry about was making sure my mom didn’t drink too much. This is why I am comforted by his absence now. And why it’s so difficult for Julie to accept it.
“You have me. And yourself. Your creativity, your curiosity. There will always be room for you in my life.” I pause, gathering my thoughts. “In fact, there’s been a Julie-shaped hole that’s been empty until now. Which is my fault, I know.”
She cups my hand. “Not your fault. Never say that.” A flash of something passes through her eyes: an emotion I can’t quite place. A variation of fear.
“The point is that I’ll always have room for you.” I graze Nana’s long reclaimed wood table with my hands. “As much room as this giant table.”