The sun’s almost set over the horizon. Closing my eyes, I envision my childhood from a different perspective. Even now, I recognize that they were amazing parents. We went hiking and fishing each summer. They encouraged and supported my interests. They were there to guide me and catch me when I fell. But I can’t remember what they did together not involving me. We went to dinner as a family. We watched movies as a family. Their life together revolved around me. Dad built furniture and Mom liked to read and knit, but these things they did on their own. What did they have together, as a married couple, not as parents?
Opening my eyes, I vow to call Dad tomorrow and ask some of these questions. The prospect of such an intimate conversation is intimidating but feels important. So important, I’m tempted to call now. I’ve always held their marriage up as the gold standard, and now I worry it might only be gold plated.
The sky is electrified by a burst of crisp white light that pops and dances in the shape of a star before falling delicately to the horizon. Another loud succession of bangs and booms follows, and a trail of red fireworks traces its way across the purple sky. The air is too thick for stars to shine through, but the fireworks sparkle against the velvet backdrop. I close the windows and blast the AC, turning the radio up high.
Looks like Cassidy and I won’t be watching the fireworks on the beach this year. Another tradition forgotten. A few red-white-and-blue bursts stab across the sky, falling like tears into the ocean.
♦ 18 ♦
CASSIDY
After
July 12
“NAMASTE.”
“Namaste,” I murmur in chorus with the dozen other women in class. When I open my eyes, the air stirs as a few people rise from Shevasana to wipe and roll up their mats. I don’t lift my head, preferring to remain horizontal a few extra minutes to allow my heart rate to steady and my body temperature to normalize while the room cools from a toasty 105 degrees back down to a more humane ninety or so.
Groaning, I shrug my way up onto my elbows and revel in the not entirely unpleasant wave of light-headedness swirling around my body as I reenter the real world again.
Tara is busy spritzing her hot-pink mat with a dose of lavender detox spray. Despite ninety minutes of intense sweating, she looks invigorated and ready to start class all over again. I wish I looked as radiant after yoga; I imagine I resemble a wet sheepdog in need of a bath. Tomorrow I’m sure I’ll regret signing up for the advanced-flow class, since my muscles are aching in protest already, but I felt guilty canceling on Tara for the fourth time in a row. I thought I was still in relatively good shape after my brief pregnancy, but by my third downward dog I realized that even if my body hadn’t changed much, my ab muscles sure remembered what happened.
“Coco Leaf or the Juicery?” Tara asks, gracefully hopping to her feet and stretching all five foot eight of her lithe body toward the ceiling.
“I could go for a burger and milk shake,” I joke, provoking a jaunty eye roll from my devoutly low-carb-, low-fat-loving best friend. Model thin, even in college and grad school where we survived on pizza and beer, Tara sticks to a mostly vegetarian and decidedly boring diet. She jokes that she prefers to save her calories for alcohol, but deep down I know it stems from something less innocuous. We all have our demons. “Fine, I’ll settle for something with a side of bacon,” I add, my stomach growling loudly. Tara wrinkles her nose. “I hear bacon is very keto friendly.”
She reaches out a perfectly manicured hand to help me up from the floor. “Well, we did just burn like five hundred calories,” she says, weighing the consequences of indulging in a meal more substantial than a green smoothie. I can almost see the calorie cogs turning in her mind. “I suppose we could try Tuesdays,” she offers, a compromise in the form of a better-than-diner type breakfast establishment catering to the Sunday brunch crowd and offering an assortment of twenty-dollar eggs Benedicts and four different types of hash.
I take comfort in how easily we fall back into our old routine. In the months following my pregnancy announcement, she pulled away, sending fewer texts and calling less often. At first I was hurt by the distance growing between us. Hurt, but not surprised. Tara was just being Tara. In her mind I’d broken the promise we made over a decade ago while drinking boxed wine in the dorm rooms of Tufts University, back before we had any idea what we truly wanted out of life. Tara is a throwback to a carefree time when I dreamed all the dreams without marriage or babies muddling things up. Somewhere along the way our paths forked, but Tara refuses to acknowledge the change.
She looks at me for a response and I smile and nod my head, tucking my mat under one arm and linking the other through hers. “Tuesdays sounds perfect,” I say, feeling a second wind at the prospect of bacon. “That’s the place with the Bloody Mary bar, right?”
* * *
Seated at a cozy corner booth at the retro-kitschy restaurant, we’re surrounded by people enjoying their overpriced but undoubtedly delicious food and reveling in the hipster-cool atmosphere of the hot spot. Most of the tables are filled with twentysomething women, the “bruncher” crowd, but a few families with small children in tow are parked at bigger tables near the kitchen. One lovely couple feeds an infant sitting in a wooden high chair. The parents talk while the baby babbles, unconcerned that she’s covered in sticky maple syrup. My heart aches and I pull my eyes from the infant long enough to take a long sip of my loaded Bloody Mary. Since the miscarriage, I haven’t drunk much, and the vodka goes straight to my head.
“Come on, be honest,” Tara says, catching my eye drifting back from the baby. “How much did you miss this?” she teases, sipping her own drink after maneuvering the straw from behind a strip of crispy bacon. She delicately lifts a jumbo shrimp from the rim of the glass and considers it before plopping it onto her napkin, wrinkling her pert little nose.
I swallow, the spicy liquid hitting my empty stomach. Tara toys with the strip of bacon before breaking off a small piece and shoving it into her mouth like a thief. I try to suppress a laugh.
“Just eat the whole thing.” I pop half a piece into my own mouth and swallow deliberately. “Your scrawny ass will thank me.” Tara’s less-than-robust behind has tormented her since college. No amount of squatting or Pilates could change the fact that she resembles a twelve-year-old boy from the back, albeit a really tall one.
Sticking out her tongue, she nibbles a little more. “You can’t tell me it doesn’t feel good to be drinking,” she repeats. “Your body is your own again,” she adds, slurping her drink until all that’s left is tomato-stained ice.
Exhaling, I smile through gritted teeth. She means well, I remind myself. After being married so long, it’s tough putting myself in Tara’s decidedly single shoes. Tara never pretended to want kids, content to live the life of the wild aunt swooping in to spoil her friends’ kids before handing them back to their rightful owners. Men are a different story. Plenty of potential mates have come and gone, none lasting over six months except the One Who Got Away. Everyone thought Paul was the one. After a year of dating he took her on a romantic trip to Turks and Caicos, and we all predicted she’d come back engaged.
To our surprise, she came back ringless and the relationship fizzled shortly after. She insisted she didn’t see herself with Paul long-term. Only I knew the real truth. Tara couldn’t forgive Paul for not popping the question. He was devastated. A few months after their breakup, I messaged him on Facebook, and he confided that he’d bought Tara a ring a month before the doomed trip. Sensing she saw a proposal coming, he wanted to wait so she didn’t feel the pressure to say yes. He probably dodged a bullet. His error in judgment only proved he wasn’t the right man for Tara, who both expected and desired a showy display of affection. Either way, Tara decided he’d missed his chance, and we’ll never know.
“Sure,” I concede, more to keep the peace than anything else. “I missed the occasional cocktail,” I admit. While pregnant I was jealous of Owen’s weekend beers and Tara’s
Instagram story, which was flooded with trips to wineries and girls’ nights out I wasn’t invited to. After one failed attempt at hanging out, I realized being the sober girl in the bar wasn’t fun at all. In fact, it was hardly bearable. She stopped asking me to come after that.
“Please,” Tara snorts. “Occasional cocktail? Don’t pretend you didn’t take five tequila shots to pregame the shots you’d take at the bar!” She cocks her arched brow at me, daring me to disagree. I nod, recalling some barely remembered nights out with Tara. “Remember senior year when we vowed to never have kids?” she asks, still laughing, but with a hard note in her voice. “We planned on being career women who’d conquer the world.”
Pushing my half-finished drink away, I suddenly don’t feel like reminiscing. The tomato juice is too spicy, and I’m dizzy from the vodka. Drunk is different now.
Alcohol has loosened my lips in the worst of ways, and I’m not strong enough to resist the bait she dangles before me. I should let the comment die. But the vodka makes it impossible. “Well, we’re both doctors, so I’d say we’ve done a pretty good job conquering shit,” I say, only half joking.
She shrugs and looks around for the waitress, pointing at her drink and signaling for another. Maybe the waitress will bring some waters with this round. My mouth is dry and sour. “True. But that isn’t enough anymore.” The last few words in her statement tilt upward. Her habit of turning every sentence into a slight question has always been irritating, but it’s even more annoying today.
“Are you asking me this or telling me?” I say, aware this is exactly how a certain professor used to address Tara whenever she made the mistake of talking to him in her singsong manner. Tara worshiped our microbiology professor to the point of blatant obsession. She claims she never slept with him, but the rumor was actively making the rounds by the end of senior year. Regardless, my comment hits the mark, and she’s practically bristling across the table.
Tara flashes me a radiantly white smile, but there’s no kindness behind her eyes. She might as well be baring her fangs at me. She shrugs and twirls a strand of icy-blond hair around her finger. Always the coolest girl in the room, Tara had the low-key stare down before she was out of diapers. Instantly I’m transported back to the first day of orientation our freshman year. I was the nerdy horse girl standing awkwardly in my boot-cut jeans and non–Abercrombie & Fitch sweater, surrounded by a group of peers infinitely cooler than me. At the front of the room the RA covered some basic floor rules, but only half the residents paid any attention. Instead we all eyed each other in the way only teenagers can—with equal amounts curiosity and disdain.
My eyes were drawn to a beautiful girl with impossibly long and tan legs sitting cross-legged on the couch to the right of the RA. Dressed in a pair of barely-there denim shorts and a baby tee with the ridiculous slogan Trust Me, I’m a Doctor plastered across the front, she looked straight out of the pages of a Hollister catalog.
This girl settled her bright-blue eyes in my direction and my cheeks flushed pink, but I couldn’t look away. Rather than rolling her eyes or elbowing the pretty brunette sitting beside her, she tilted her delicate head and winked at me. Emboldened by her attention, I feigned boredom at the RA’s speech, even though the goody two-shoes in me actually wanted to hear the rules. After we shared a smirk, my heart swelled with hope that I’d actually made a friend on campus. As soon as the RA finished her lecture, I hurried across the room before I lost my nerve or, worse, she forgot about me.
Despite our obvious differences, we bonded over our shared loved of Grey’s Anatomy and frozen coffee drinks. Within a few minutes we’d determined we were both biology majors, and even though I was intent on veterinary medicine and Tara was leaning toward human medicine, we’d still share most of the same classes. Back then, Tara planned to focus on emergency medicine but admitted it was only because she loved a certain trauma doctor on our favorite show.
Fast-forward to sophomore year when Tara learned she could handle blood and guts on the TV screen but not so much in real life. Unfortunately, this lesson came at my expense. A drunken accident on the quad resulted in me slipping and busting my mouth open, painting the snow bright red. Tara promptly passed out at the sight and hit her own head. After this incident, she swiveled her career ambitions toward clinical psychology.
The waitress reappears with another drink for Tara and a notepad to take our order. My appetite is diminished by the bitter pit of resentment building in my stomach, but I order an omelet with a side of bacon anyway. The promise of food helps ease some of the tension at our table, but as we wait, I struggle to remember why we’ve remained friends at all. Like any longtime friends, we’ve had our share of difficulties but always found our way back to each other. Growing up often means growing apart, and we’ve had our share of that too. Still, I envisioned us weathering the storms of adulthood and calling each other BFF long into our old age. Even though I have a sister of my own, Tara’s always been my confidante, and I know that Tara, an only child, considers me the sister she never had. Sisterhood is a bond transcending blood, and sisters are for life.
“How’s Owen doing?” Tara asks. She plucks an olive off the toothpick and bites into it, grimacing.
I shrug. “Owen is Owen,” I answer. One of the few topics I’ve learned to steer clear of is marriage.
Owen was a member of our friend group before we began dating, so when we made the leap into romance, I assumed Tara would be happy for us. Although supportive, she was quick to tease and acted as though it were some passing college phase that would undoubtedly end after graduation. Instead, Owen and I moved in together, and though we offered to find a place big enough to include Tara, I knew she’d never agree to a third-wheel arrangement. Her jokes faded, but the judgment sharpened. The night I invited her over to tell her “something important,” she showed up at my door with wine and ice cream, assuming Owen and I had broken up. When I told her we were engaged, she threw her arms around me and gushed about the ring—but not before I saw a quick flash of dismay darken her pretty face. Always a wonderful actress, she recovered quickly and pretended to be happy for me. I almost believed it.
Tara’s the psychologist in the group, but I don’t need a degree to see she’s jealous. Not jealous of me, but jealous that things didn’t turn out the way they should be. Everyone assumed Tara would get married first. Men fell over themselves for the chance to spend time with her, and for good reason. She was stunning and brilliant, with a big personality to match. Tara just happened to fall for the guys more interested in right now instead of the forever Tara desperately wanted but so vehemently denied wanting.
Tara spits the olive onto her napkin and wrinkles her nose. “Whoever said your taste buds change as you age is wrong,” she says, rinsing her mouth with water. “Seriously, I don’t know why I keep trying to like those things.” She sips some of her second Bloody. “I’m really a mimosa girl and should stick with what I like,” she adds, her voice taking on a particular tone I can’t ignore.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, sighing and looking toward the kitchen. Food would make this so much better right now. I’m too old for these silly mind games. Tara used to make me feel young and alive. Now she exhausts me. “I take it you aren’t actually talking about brunch drinks?”
She shrugs, tossing her hair over her shoulder with a flick of the wrist, a move she’s perfected over the years. “I’m just saying it’s hard to teach an old dog new tricks.” Owen would get a kick out of hearing Tara use one of his much-loved clichés. Might be the only thing the two have in common.
Crossing my arms across my chest, I stare at Tara, refusing to talk. I’ll let her break first. Silence isn’t something she’s comfortable sitting in. Great at analyzing others, she hates being in the hot seat herself.
“Jesus, Cass, lighten up,” she laughs, color rising in both cheeks. “Let’s just enjoy our drinks and freedom for a while, since it’s been ages since you could do either.”
> Typical Tara, able to strike where it hurts with a seemingly offhand comment. Best friends are great—you always have someone to share your secrets with. But they are also dangerous. They know all your weaknesses and exactly how to cut you.
“I’m so sorry I got pregnant and you lost a drinking buddy,” I sneer. Smiling, I pick up my own drink and take a long sip, the watered-down tomato juice bitter in my mouth. “I’m sorry I got married and you lost your wing woman,” I add. My straw hits the bottom and I wipe my mouth, not taking my gaze from my best friend.
Unflappable, Tara just laughs and rolls her eyes. “I’m only looking out for you, Cass. Seems like you’ve lost sight of who you are the past few years. Just trying to remind you.”
Years? I recoil as though slapped, nearly spilling my drink. I thought Tara was annoyed I’d been MIA while pregnant. Clearly, my life choices have bothered her not for weeks or months but years. My mind races to recall the daily texts and weekly calls. Even though they were less frequent while I was pregnant, I never failed to check in on her or send her a funny meme or “like” her stupid Instagram posts. Obviously, we don’t talk for hours each night like we did when we were nineteen, but I thought we’d done a damn good job of fitting each other into the complicated puzzle of our adult lives. Evidently, I’m mistaken.
What We Carry Page 11