by Kelly Rimmer
Over the years I learned to go with the flow with Jess and Marcus when it comes to social engagements. I mean, left to my own devices, I probably would never have had much of a social life at all, so it only made sense to let them set the pace.
Everyone else had arrived, except for Jess’s mysterious friend. When the doorbell rang that day, I left the other guests out on the deck while I went to answer it. I threw the door open and everything changed.
Hi, I’m Isabel Parker. I’m Jess’s Pilates instructor and I have no idea why she invited me this weekend but I’ve never been to the North Fork before so I came anyway. It’s so nice to meet you, I’ve heard so much about you.
Paul, Paul Winton. And I’ve heard all about you, too, although Jess somehow forgot to mention that you’re the most beautiful woman on earth.
Okay, I didn’t say that last bit, but I sure as hell thought it. The truth is, I still think it. Did I ever tell her? Definitely not. It’s probably one of the many vitally important things that used to cross my mind on a daily basis but that I somehow never got around to saying aloud. I’m just not good with flowery declarations like that. I’m sure I felt the right sentiment, but translating it into poetic words was a skill I never mastered. Even when I did figure out what I wanted to say and the words would sometimes make it all the way to my tongue, I’d swallow them down before they could escape.
I was never sure that I could nail the delivery. My voice defaults to a flat tone sometimes, and I’m reasonably certain that you’re so fucking gorgeous doesn’t have quite the same impact when a robot says it.
“Paul.” Isabel is impatient now, and I try to rewind to her question.
I draw a blank. “Sorry. What did you ask?”
“Are you still living in our brownst—” She breaks off, then tries again. “I mean, are you still living at the place in Chelsea?”
The day we moved into that place I finally felt like I’d made it. Beautiful wife, successful career and now a magnificent family home ready to fill with noisy kids. It’s hard to force myself to leave work and head there each day now. It’s hard to call it “home” because it’s not home anymore. Without Isabel there, it’s just a stupidly expensive apartment. I still haven’t replaced any of the scant items she took when she left. I almost like the way my gaze sticks on the empty spot on the wall where the art she loved once hung. It’s a bizarre form of self-flagellation.
“I’m still there,” I say. “And you’re...in a place somewhere?”
“I have a little loft. It’s small, but it’s nice.”
“And is your job the same?”
“Mostly, but...” She trails off. The silence feels odd and I’m tempted to fill it with words, but I’ve been working on that, too, this year. I want to be a better listener, and I’m learning that sometimes “being a better listener” just means letting silence punctuate a conversation. After a minute, Isabel asks a most unexpected question. “Your dad hasn’t said anything to you?”
“Dad?” I repeat blankly. “What’s Dad got to do with your work?”
Dad’s a semiretired mathematics professor. I see him every Sunday night. He hasn’t mentioned Isabel to me at all since she left, other than to ask about our progress in mediation from time to time. Now that I think about it, that might be a little odd. Dad and I are actually pretty close, and usually he would pry.
“When Martin was diagnosed with diabetes, he asked me to help him lose a little weight and I started running some personal training sessions for him on my lunch breaks,” Isabel says.
“Oh,” I say, eyebrows high. “That’s kind of you. But no, he didn’t mention it.” I mean, he did mention diabetes, and I did notice the weight loss, and he did mention how much better his health is now. So it seems like a pretty big omission on his part, not mentioning that my wife was responsible for all of that.
“Well, soon he started bringing some friends along from his building,” she adds carefully. “First it was just John and Ira, and soon there were some others, including...” She breaks off. “Has Martin really not told you any of this?”
I’m not actually sure what’s going on here. It seems like Isabel is hesitant about something, but I can’t imagine what that might be. I frown at her. “He hasn’t talked about you at all.”
“The thing is...soon there were five of your dad’s friends, and then ten, and then I started a Thursday group, too, because he had invited so many of his friends that it was becoming unwieldy, so I realized I had to do something more formal. Well, Nick loved the idea, and so now I’m running a seniors fitness program at the gym. So your dad and his...uh, his health stuff ended up inspiring this whole new role for me and it’s going so well.”
“It is strange that Dad didn’t tell me any of this,” I say.
“But the thing is...” She clears her throat. Once, twice, three times. Now I’m certain there’s something she’s not sure she should tell me.
“The thing is...?” I prompt.
She swallows. “Martin didn’t mention... Elspeth?”
“Elspeth?”
Isabel looks away. “Maybe you should ask him about this.”
“Just tell me.”
“I really don’t think it’s my place to—”
“Isabel.”
“Your dad has a girlfriend, Paul,” she blurts. “I think the whole ‘help me get fit’ thing was a ruse to spend time with her because she was interested in fitness.”
“Dad? A girlfriend?” I repeat, then I laugh. “No. Definitely not.” When I glance at her, her gaze is steady. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“Why wouldn’t he...” But then I realize why he wouldn’t tell me. If my dad really is in love, he would hardly want to rub that in my face while my whole world was caving in. “Oh.”
Dad’s been single since Mom died—that means he’s spent twenty years alone. As far as I know, he hasn’t dated anyone in all of that time.
“Yeah. They’re adorable together. He seems very happy.”
He does seem happy. It’s just frustrating as fuck that I didn’t think to ask why he was suddenly taking better care of himself and laughing more. I’m sure I’m getting better at this interpersonal shit, but it’s still so much effort for me. I wonder if there are always going to be aspects to my relationships that I’ll miss until someone else points them out.
“That’s great for him.”
“Yeah.”
We walk in silence for a few moments as I digest this news. I’m not sure how long we can stay silent without it becoming awkward, though, so soon, I try to get Isabel talking again.
“And you’re enjoying this seniors fitness thing?”
“It’s challenging but fulfilling. I work a lot more than I used to, but that’s been good for me, I think.”
How odd that the year I learn to put hard boundaries around how many hours I work each week, Isabel learns to soften hers.
“I thought you might be planning to move here,” I admit, cautiously approaching the subject of the vacation home.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do with this place yet. My dad suggested I should lease it out.”
That surprises me, and I feel an odd sense of alarm at the very idea of strangers in our space. “If you need more money, I’ll—”
“I didn’t want this place for money, Paul.” She glances at me briefly, then avoids my gaze again. “I wanted it for the memories.”
“Ah.” I nod. “Oh. Okay.” I understand that better than she could ever know.
“Anyway.” She lifts her chin. “It’s all fine. I’m fine, you’re fine, we’re both going to be fine and after next week everything will be easier because it will all be final. Where should we sit?”
We’ve arrived at Mitchell Park, home to the marina and Greenport’s famous antique carousel and camera obscura. It’s quiet here ton
ight, with only a handful of people roaming here and there. Once summer comes and brings the crowds along with it, this place will be a bustling hub of activity at all hours of the day and night.
“On the grass,” I say, because that’s where we always sat. We often ate here when we were in Greenport, although tonight I settle at a well-lit spot, right beneath a huge streetlight. Generally, we used to sit in semidarkness, because after a while our hands would get bored and almost automatically, they’d start to explore.
I wonder if Isabel remembers those nights as vividly as I do—the way that the chemistry between us seemed endless and miraculous, like it didn’t even obey the laws of physics because it was perpetually recharging itself. Touching her only made me want to touch her more and I was in constant amazement at the infinite cycle of it all.
Just for a moment, I let myself wonder whether we would be divorcing next week if I had managed to tell her, even just once, how deep the awe I felt for her ran. But I know all too well that thoughts like that are circular. They lead only to more questions that can’t be answered...and that leads to still more misery. I refuse to let myself get sucked into a vortex like that tonight.
Isabel stretches her legs out and sets the parcel of food on her lap, then unwinds it to expose the fries and burgers within. I twist the cap of the wine we picked up, and then it occurs to me that of course, we have no glasses. Isabel looks at me, and then she bursts out laughing and reaches for the bottle. I pass it to her, and she lifts it between us and pauses.
“To moving on?” she says softly.
“To moving on,” I echo, but then I watch as she lifts the bottle to her mouth and she takes a drink, then passes it right back to me. There’s a simple intimacy in sharing the bottle that makes me feel all sorts of things I shouldn’t be feeling. There’s sadness in Isabel’s expression, but not even a hint of anger, and that about sums up my feelings right now, too. It’s shocking how much easier it is to be around her tonight than it has been through the settlement mediation.
Shocking, and...well, kind of confusing. Because from the moment I said goodbye to her on the sidewalk outside of our apartment eight months, three weeks and four days ago, we haven’t had a single civil conversation until this one.
“Why aren’t we fighting?” I ask suddenly. Isabel frowns.
“I don’t know.” She turns to me, and her eyebrows knit.
“I don’t want to fight,” I clarify. “It’s just that—”
“I know. I think it’s...” She starts to finish the sentence for me, but then she hesitates. “I think it’s because your guard was down when I woke you up and you were...” Her gaze is searching as she stares at me, concentrating fiercely.
I tell myself to let the silence stretch—but when she breaks the gaze to look toward the water, I’m too impatient to wait for her to speak and I prompt, “I was what?”
“You were vulnerable,” she murmurs.
I turn toward the water, too, thinking about this for a moment. Vulnerability? Well, that sure as fuck wasn’t on purpose—not this time. Isabel has hurt me. My guard should be up.
But I purposefully set out this year to learn how to be more open with people, and every time I force myself to do it, it’s worth it. This moment alone has proved to me that when I do pull my guard down, even god-awful situations can change for the better.
“This is kind of surreal,” she says suddenly.
“That’s for damned sure,” I agree.
I want to get her talking—I want to hear about her life now. I used to wake up in the morning and I would know everything about Isabel Winton’s life. The whole reason my body clock is stuck waking me up at stupid o’clock is that I always made a point to get up before she left for the day—and Isabel often has to be at work by 5:30 a.m. so she can set up for her early classes. I knew what she had for breakfast and what she wore to the gym and what her plans were for an evening, and I noticed every little thing about her, because she was the center of my world. Maybe I wasn’t great at telling her how much she meant to me—but at the deepest level of my existence, I lived and breathed for her.
And overnight, she was gone. One of the strangest things about this year was losing that window into her life. Even when I was most angry with her, I still cared, and I was still curious...and sometimes jealous, because a goddess like Isabel Winton does not stay single for long.
“So, dating anyone?” I say it lightly.
She gives me a rueful look, as if I’m making a pointed joke. “Sorry about that, before. I just... I don’t want to cross any boundaries.”
“It’s okay. I get it,” I say. Now that I’m thinking a little straighter, I almost admire her wanting to avoid complicating things for me. It shows she still cares about me, at least a little, at least on some level—although if that’s the case, what was behind her little game of let’s-fuck-Paul-over-as-much-as-humanly-possible since she left?
But then it strikes me that her assumption that I am dating might be based on a logical conclusion: she probably assumed I was dating someone because she is dating someone. For just a second, I’m so jealous it nearly overwhelms me. I clutch the bottle of wine so tightly in my hands that it almost slips from my grasp, and I have to juggle to catch it. “But are you seeing someone?”
She snorts, as if the idea is completely reprehensible. Relief floods me, and then we share an awkward laugh, because what else is there to do?
“Tell me about this new physique,” Isabel says suddenly, and she reaches for the wine and helps herself to a hearty swig.
“Ah, just a way to fill the hours outside of work.” I probably should also be embarrassed at how much time I’ve spent naked since I found her in the house, but I can tell she’s impressed, and I can’t help but take some pleasure in that. “I was trying to structure my life a little better. I’ve been lifting weights and boxing, and I still run with Marcus... It adds up, I guess.”
A standard work week for me last year was ninety or a hundred hours. Now, I use an app on my phone to track my work, and once I hit fifty hours, I stop. Even if I’m midway through a sentence on an email, or mid-conversation with an employee. My team is still adjusting to that change, even though I’ve promoted Audrey and hired a new coder to make up the deficit.
Maybe that’s part of the reason why the new version of the software is still such a mess. This new approach to my working life has left a fuck-ton of empty hours outside of work this year, most of which I’ve filled with working out and reading.
“It does add up,” Isabel says.
I grin at her. “Want me to take my clothes off again?”
“No,” she says hastily, and she takes another drink of the wine, this time, a longer, more determined gulp—like she’s a teenager at an illicit party, not a thirty-four-year-old woman in a serious conversation with another adult. But I can hardly judge her. The world’s edges are still a little blurry to me after the day I spent stupidly self-medicating and napping on the balcony. “And now Marcus and Abby are having twins. You’ll be a quasi-uncle soon.”
“You keep in touch with Abby much?” I ask, attempting to make conversation. I’m like a bloodhound on the scent for information about Isabel whenever she comes up in my conversations with Jess and Marcus, which admittedly hasn’t been often, but I know enough to know that Isabel, Abby and Jess still spend a lot of time together.
“Yeah. We’re still close.” Then she looks right into my eyes as she suddenly asks, “Are you glad I said no? When you wanted to have a kid?”
I haven’t even thought about that in years, but I did bring the subject up with her once. It wasn’t that I was desperate for a baby, more that it was something we’d talked about when we were dating, and when we moved into the brownstone after our wedding, I wondered if it might be time to start thinking about it. Isabel was totally unenthused about the idea, so I dropped it right away and that was that.<
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In hindsight, I probably should have asked a few more questions about why she didn’t even want to talk about it. Perhaps things had already started to derail for us, all the way back then.
I scrub my hand over my face, suddenly feeling weary. I like to tell myself Isabel blindsided me when she left, but when I really sit down and think about it, it’s pretty obvious that any “blindsiding” she may or may not have done happened only because I wasn’t paying any fucking attention to her. That is entirely on me.
“If you’d been ready for kids when I asked, we’d be negotiating custody arrangements now and if you think that financial settlement was hard to agree on...” I trail off, wary of bringing a topic so contentious into this peaceful conversation.
“Maybe. But at least if we’d had a kid, something good would have come out of our clusterfuck.”
I can’t help the scowl that forms on my face and in an instant, tension begins coiling tight in my gut. “You can’t possibly mean that. Do you really believe that nothing good came out of our marriage? We had good years, Isabel. We had the best years.”
She stares out at the water for a moment, then she shrugs and tosses some fries toward a greedy seagull.
“Sure, we had some good times in the beginning,” she says. Her voice is hard, and suddenly, so is her posture. “But if those years were really so great, it wouldn’t have been so easy for me to leave you, and I wouldn’t be so much happier now without you.”
She might as well have punched me in the balls. I’m so hurt and shocked for a moment that all I can do is lean back against the streetlight and try to remember to breathe.