by Kelly Rimmer
I desperately wanted Paul to explain to me the real story behind the vacation house, and now that he has, I feel awful, guilty and uncertain.
And most of all, it’s Sunday night, and I remember Paul saying he was here until tomorrow. I should be pleased that he’s leaving. I should be pleased only that our little experiment this weekend has resulted in us clearing the air and becoming friends again, but instead, the knot in my gut has returned.
It’s a different kind of knot now.
I do not want to say goodbye.
Paul holds the door open for me, and I step inside to find the bar is surprisingly busy. Just as I recognize the trivia setup, I also remember Darby’s invitation on Friday.
“I forgot they do trivia here on Sunday nights,” Paul says, scanning the room. “It’s so busy... Oh, wait. There’s a booth free over there.” The hostess approaches us, and Paul flashes her a smile. “Two for dinner, please. Do you mind if we take that booth?”
“Sure,” the hostess says, handing us some menus.
“Hey there, Izzy! Didn’t think you were going to make it tonight.”
My stomach drops in slow motion as I turn to face the source of that very familiar voice.
“Hey, Darby,” I say, as brightly as I can. I’m aware of Paul stepping back to stand beside me, and so I wave vaguely between the two men. “Darby, meet my...this is my...friend Paul. Paul, this is Darby, also my...friend...from the gym here.”
I glance hastily at Paul’s face to find that the happy, slightly tired smile he was wearing when we stepped inside has faded, and now he’s adopted a completely neutral expression. He extends his hand and shakes Darby’s.
“Hi,” Paul says.
“Great to meet you, Paul,” Darby says, his smile easy. His gaze flicks back to me, then to Paul again, then he says warmly, “Welcome to the team.”
Paul shoots me a confused look, and I hasten to clarify. “Paul and I are actually here for dinner, Darby,” I say apologetically. “I totally forgot about trivia, I’m sorry.”
“Ah, sorry. I just texted you a while ago to remind you, so I figured you were here because of that. But no problem at all, guys. Enjoy your meal. The burrito bowls are good tonight.” He winks at the hostess. “Just make sure you ask for extra guac—Bob is working the kitchen and he’s stingy with his avocado.”
“Darby,” the hostess chastises him. “If we loaded up the guac on every burrito bowl the way you like it, we’d go out of business real fast.”
Darby laughs, waves at Paul and me, then heads back to his friends. Paul and I stand in stiff, awkward silence, both watching his retreating back.
“That Darby is such a character,” the hostess laughs, shaking her head. “Have you ever seen someone so friendly and well connected? I swear he knows the whole town, even during the peak season he’s making friends with the tourists.”
“He sure does seem friendly,” Paul says, not a hint of animosity in his voice.
When the hostess starts to lead us toward the table, I catch Paul’s arm. “He’s just a friend—”
Paul interrupts me carefully, “You really don’t have to explain and I definitely don’t want you to feel like you have to lie to me.” He points at the booth, then waves vaguely at the crowd. “We really need to get that booth before it goes or we’ll have to wait for someone to leave.”
I follow the hostess and Paul and slide into the booth. The hostess takes our drink orders, and as soon as she leaves, Paul says, “For what it’s worth, he seems like a nice guy. I mean, even the hostess seems to recommend him.” He gives me what appears to be a genuine smile. “And friends meet each other’s dates, right? This is just one of the things we have to adjust to if we’re going to stay in each other’s lives now.”
“I’m not dating Darby,” I say defensively. If the way he avoided my kiss wasn’t clear enough today, this moment confirms it. Paul is definitely, completely over me.
I’m sitting here all but drowning in regret that we’re really, truly over, and Paul is completely at ease with the idea of watching me date someone else.
“But you’ve thought about dating him,” Paul says, after a pause.
“What makes you think that?” I ask him.
“I told you, Isabel. I am capable of picking up subtext when I’m paying attention. So...what’s the story?”
“There’s nothing going on. Really. But we’ve had coffee a few times,” I say, my voice very small.
But he wasn’t you. And even when I was angry with you, I still felt loyal to you. Because maybe I was always still in love with you, and maybe after the last twenty-four hours, I know that I could love you more than ever.
Paul reaches across and he rests his hand over mine, then squeezes. When I raise my gaze to his, he gives me a slightly stilted smile.
“This is weird as fuck for me, too, but it’s okay.”
We’ve been silent on and off all day, but it’s never felt like this—thick with an awareness of how things between us have changed and can never, ever be the same.
Even if we want them to.
When the waitress finally returns with our drinks, Paul raises his beer toward me. I lift my Moscato, and we knock the glasses together gently.
“To friendship. To moving on, together but apart,” Paul says. He smiles at me, and his gaze is bright, as if he’s already passed that stiff moment of awkwardness just now, and he’s back to being completely comfortable with everything that’s going on between us.
I echo the words as brightly as I can, but I’m distracted as hell.
Paul and I have finally made peace with one another, and now I just can’t think of anything worse than moving on with my life and leaving him behind.
* * *
PAUL DEVOURS A double serving of crab cakes. I pick at my burrito bowl, but my appetite has disappeared again. He then cajoles me into splitting the tropical fruit sundae with him like we used to. I take a few bites but sit back to let him finish it off. He savors every mouthful, completely focused on the task of eating and enjoying the food.
I like watching him when he’s present like this.
I like this new and improved Paul. I like him maybe even more than I liked the old version of Paul at the beginning, and that was a lot.
I don’t like the sudden shift in my thoughts. I don’t like how my gaze follows the movement of the spoon from the bowl to his lips. I don’t like how strong his forearms suddenly look, or how much I’m enjoying the fact that we’re together right now and things aren’t just peaceful; after that amazing day on the boat, the mood is actually fond between us again. I don’t like how desperate I am to stay in this moment or how miserable the thought of watching him leave tomorrow is making me feel.
“Did you taste the pineapple? It’s so sweet...” he says suddenly, and he raises a spoonful of dessert to me. I definitely do not like how desperate I feel to share the intimacy of putting my mouth on a spoon that’s just left his lips. I eat the pineapple but barely taste the fruit because all I can taste is him.
I want to kiss him. I want to taste the fucking fruit salad right out of his mouth and then slide my way down his body and taste the rest of him.
“Have some more?” he suggests, pushing the bowl toward me.
“It’s great, I’m just full.”
“You seem... You’re upset about something, aren’t you?” His eyebrows knit as he stares at me, then lift in surprise. He’s trying to figure me out, and it’s hard for him, but he’s making an effort.
And when it all boils down, that’s all I ever wanted.
It hits me with a burst of painful clarity. I never wanted Paul to become a people person. I just wanted him to try to connect with me, on his terms, in his way. And I understand now that even in the past when he did try to support me, when he did try to connect with me, I didn’t always see it.
But I can see it
now.
“I’m fine,” I lie weakly.
Paul pauses for a moment, then he turns his attention back to the dessert. He eats in silence for a moment, finishing off the last few mouthfuls, then he pushes the bowl aside and raises his gaze to mine. There’s a strange little pause before he speaks, and I watch his neck as he swallows.
“You know, Isabel, I thought I might head back to the house.”
The announcement is so sudden and abrupt that I’m shocked enough to sink back into my seat. “Okay, I guess we’re done, so—”
“Ah.” He clears his throat. “Ah, no. I meant... I might head back. Alone. We’ve had such a great day, maybe...you know...maybe it’s time for some time apart now.”
His gaze flicks past me, and I frown as I follow it.
Darby.
Paul is looking at Darby. Then he looks back to me, and his expression is completely blank.
“Paul,” I protest. “Please. You really don’t have—”
He gives me a somewhat forced smile and he’s already rising. I’m panicking, because this is kind of like watching a train wreck happen, right before my eyes. It turns out the second last thing in the world I want is for Paul to leave me here, and the very last thing I want is for Paul to push me toward another man.
“Paul, please don’t go,” I say, but he seems quite determined. I see him wave at Darby, calling him over—dear God, no, Paul—then he flashes me a weak smile.
“See you later.” Finally he looks a little uncomfortable as he adds, “Or, you know. Or not. That’s...you know. That’s fine, too.”
I feel my face flush and I close my eyes in horror as he walks away. I draw in a deep breath, collecting myself, and as I open my eyes, I see Darby taking his place.
“So,” Darby says with a wry smile. “Is that your ex-husband, or the guy you’d like to be your next husband? I was watching you two together and I couldn’t quite figure it out.”
“Ex-husband,” I croak. It’s not really a lie—in less than seventy-two hours, that term will finally be accurate.
“Now I understand why you’re not up for dinner with me,” Darby says, flashing me a charming smile. “Not quite over him yet?”
“I was sure I was,” I admit, but then I’m rambling, and I can’t seem to stop myself. “I mean, it’s been awful...not amicable at all these last few months and I thought I really hated the man but...we ended up here together accidentally this weekend and we talked. I mean, we really talked, and somewhere along the line we’d stopped doing that and...now I’m just so confused. I didn’t think I had a shred of warm feeling left toward him, but this weekend has made me question everything.”
Darby surveys me curiously. “If you had to sum it up in one word, what was broken enough between you that you decided to divorce?”
I ponder this for just a moment, then I admit heavily, “All of this time I thought he was the problem, but I can see now that we both messed up. We just weren’t communicating well. Or at all, really.”
“And tell me about your communication this weekend?”
“It’s... Well, the thing is that we understand the problem now, and we understand each other better than we ever did. That has made it so much easier to relate to each other.”
Darby gives me a proud therapist smile, as if I’ve just had a breakthrough.
I frown at him. “But things were so broken, Darby! You probably can’t even imagine how bad it was. It seems simple right now but believe me when I tell you I was miserable when I left. How do you even put that much pain behind you?”
“When pain is caused by behavior, and that behavior genuinely changes, it’s a simple matter of forgiveness. After that, moving on together isn’t as hard as you might think, because one rule is absolute in life and relationships—you never have to let the past define your future. Not ever.”
You review the code. You figure out why it keeps looping back over itself, then you change it.
“I don’t know what I want, let alone what Paul wants.” I rub my forehead.
“Forgive me for being presumptuous, Izzy...but I think that maybe you do know exactly what you want. Perhaps you’re just afraid to admit it to yourself.”
“He didn’t seem to want me to follow him just now, and I can’t tell if that’s because he was trying to be altruistic and he thought I wanted to be here with you, or he didn’t want to spend any more time with me today.”
“What a perplexing mystery. If only there were some way you could find out the answer to that question,” Darby says wryly.
I swallow the lump in my throat, then glance toward the door. It’s still raining out there, so Paul’s probably already in a car on his way home. I wonder what he’s thinking. I’m also painfully aware now that there’s only one way I’m going to find out.
“I have a feeling you’re an excellent therapist, Darby,” I say, glancing back to the man in the booth with me.
“I’m a good friend, too,” Darby laughs. “Can I buy you a drink, or are you just going to head home?”
“I’ll have another drink.” I sigh. “I’m going to need liquid courage before I attempt this conversation.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Paul
I’M SURE I’M doing the right thing. I’m certain I’ve read that whole interaction with Bel right.
She was quiet. She was staring at the table. She seemed distracted. It sounds like they’ve been spending time together, so she must like him. And she’d already made plans with him for tonight, long before we agreed to spend today together.
In short, something was on Bel’s mind, and the obvious conclusion seems to be that the guy she liked was in the bar with us and she wanted to be with him, not with me.
It makes sense. We’ve already confirmed that we’re just going to be friends. If Isabel is really ready to move on, then as a good friend, I should encourage her to do so.
And I should be feeling pleased. In one single weekend I’ve managed to move from burning anger toward her to genuine goodwill.
The problem is that as I push through the door and step out into the street, instead of feeling pleased, I feel like I want to smash something. In fact, there is so much unbridled energy pumping through my veins, I’m positively vibrating with it, and it’s all I can do to stop myself from turning around, storming back across the restaurant, picking up that smug bastard and throwing him through a window.
Residual jealousy. This doesn’t mean anything. Just keep a calm head and get used to the idea of Bel being with someone else, because she’s probably feeling better about things, too, now that she’s found some closure and moving on with her life will almost certainly mean dating other men.
An image pops into my mind uninvited. I see Isabel on our wedding day, with the late evening sun filtering through her wild halo of ringlets as she floated down the aisle toward me. Only the image in my mind takes an awful turn, and I see that guy standing there, waiting for her at the end of the aisle instead of me.
It turns out that after a lifetime of living in my head, a mental image like that is more than enough to make me run on pure feeling for just a moment. I spin on my heel and turn back toward the bar but manage to stop myself again at the door. I take several slow, calming breaths, then spin again and walk away.
Heavy rainclouds are still hanging over the village and it’s sprinkling on and off. I was going to catch a cab, but now I’ll walk. I need to do something to burn off all of these loud emotions.
The problem is that every step feels heavier than the last, and while intellectually I am sure I have made the right decision in encouraging Isabel to stay with her...friend, my heart is racing and my gut is churning.
I’m so focused on my inner turmoil that I don’t notice the sound coming from within my backpack at first. When I finally realize it’s my phone ringing, I curse and drop the backpack to the gr
ound so I can fish around inside to withdraw the device.
I notice the time before I notice Dad’s name on the screen. It’s 7:35 p.m., Sunday night. I’m thirty-five minutes late for my regular dinner with him because I completely forgot to tell him I’m out of town.
“Dad,” I say as I pick up the call. I’m now pacing on the sidewalk, unable to convince my legs to begin the journey toward the house—or more specifically, away from Isabel.
“Son! You’re late. Everything okay?”
“I’m so sorry. I forgot to tell you I went to Greenport for the weekend.” Added now to the turmoil in my chest is guilt. Dad will have cooked a meal for me. What will he do with the excess food?
“Greenport, huh?” Dad says thoughtfully. “One last time before the house goes to Izzy?”
I barely even hear him. Now I’m imagining Dad inviting his girlfriend to sit at the table to eat the food he’s prepared for me.
“You have a girlfriend,” I say, and I hear Dad’s sharp intake of breath.
“How do you know that?”
“Isabel is here. We got to talking and she mentioned it. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Wait...you and Izzy talked?”
It says a lot about how hard our separation has been on the people Isabel and I care about that they all seem to react with shock when I mention we’re in the same place at the same time.
“It’s a long story, Dad. And don’t change the subject. Why wouldn’t you tell me you’d met someone? And why tell Isabel but not me?”
“Well, in my defense, I didn’t mean to tell Izzy either,” Dad says. “I guess she told you I’ve been working out with her a bit.”
“Yeah.”
“Elspeth was training with me at the gym, and Izzy asked me if there was something more going on than just a friendship. I have no idea how she knew, but I couldn’t really lie to her.”
“Why didn’t you want to tell us?” I ask stiffly. “Didn’t you realize we’d both be happy for you?”
“Son...” Dad sighs heavily. “When I fell in love with your mother, it was like I’d been struck by the very best kind of lightning—like something exceedingly unlikely had happened. I’d met someone who was brilliant and beautiful and kind and giving. How many people do you know who meet criteria like that? And then she fell in love with me? I’m far too right-brain to believe in ‘the one,’ but I do believe in statistics, so I was reasonably certain that the odds of someone like me meeting a woman who fit me as well as your mom did were astronomically small, and then the odds of her loving me back? It was miraculous.”