The Status of All Things: A Novel

by Liz Fenton

  “Talk to me. Tell me what you’re thinking?” Max asks.

  “Honestly, how humiliating this will be to explain to everyone,” I say.

  “That’s what you’re worried about?” Max lets out an audible sigh.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I demand, feeling the muscles in my neck stiffen.

  “Never mind,” he says, forcing a smile when his cousin shouts an “attaboy” and slaps him on the back as he passes by. He reaches for my hand one last time and says gently, “I know this is going to be terrible. But I think it’s time to tell everyone. We can’t pretend any longer.”

  • • •

  The day my wedding should have taken place is beautiful, the sun blazing in the cloudless sky and the wind calm, just as Stella had promised it would be. I pry my eyes open, the tears that finally fell last night bonding them together like glue as I slept. Jules is sitting in the chair by the bed, her own eyes also swollen from crying. “Oh, honey—” Jules gets up and comes over to me.

  I struggle to form a thought, my mind foggy. After Max’s announcement to the guests, Jules, Liam, and my mom had formed a protective barrier as they led me away, the shocked crowd spreading like the Red Sea as we passed. My mom had dug through her purse until she found two small white pills. “Take these, now,” she’d demanded as we sped toward the elevator. I complied, desperately wanting the searing pain that filled my chest to subside. Liam pulled me into his arms as I sobbed into him. He whispered, “I’m so sorry,” over and over, as if he had been the one to let me down. Then he guided me as if I were a small child to my room and stood over me protectively as I fell into bed. I pressed my face tightly into the pillow until darkness overcame me.

  “Is Max gone?” I ask Jules.

  She nods and wipes a tear from her eye. “Are you okay? Sorry, don’t answer that. It was such a stupid question.” She shakes her head. “You know I suck at this. Saying the right thing.”

  “Where’s Ben?”

  “What? With the kids, why?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I want someone to be with their husband.” I choke on the word. “You know, since I don’t have one.”

  “Well, I want to be here—with you.”

  I notice my wedding dress hanging on the back of the closet door, the satin heels sitting neatly beneath it. The outfit I’ve dreamed about wearing for a year that will now be sold on some website for brides-to-be looking for a deal.

  “What now?” I ask, and Jules squeezes my hand, pressing my diamond into my palm. “Where do I even begin?” I ask as I twist the ring around.

  Do I take it off? Send it back to him? Hock it?

  “We need to get you home.”

  “I don’t even know where that is. Is he moving out? Am I?”

  “Let’s just take this one step at a time,” she says, and the look on her face matches the pity in the eyes of my family and friends as Max delivered the news that there would be no wedding. He had grasped my hand tightly the entire time, me feeling like one of those wives of a senator who’s been caught sexting with his assistant—standing behind him but not supporting him. As he spoke, I concentrated on a black mark I had spotted on the ceiling, while my guests searched my face for answers. Don’t look at me, I had thought. I don’t have them either.

  The digital clock on the nightstand reads 7:30 a.m. Shortly they would start setting up the white garden chairs on the oceanfront lawn. “Did Stella call and cancel—”

  “She took care of everything,” Jules answers before I can finish my sentence.

  Could she take care of my broken heart too? Was that in her job description?

  “Does everyone—”

  “Yes. Everyone knows.”

  I lie back against my pillow and stare at a picture of a palm tree hanging on the wall until the image blurs into a streak of green, reminding me of the finger painting Jules’ daughter made for me that’s tacked to my corkboard at work.

  My phone vibrates against the glass top of the nightstand and I grab it out of habit and click onto my Facebook page. Dozens of congratulatory messages flood my wall. My heart aches as I think about my dad not walking me down the aisle, Jules’ daughter not carrying the flowers, Liam not giving a hilarious toast at the reception, where he finally makes good on his threat to tell an incredibly embarrassing story about me.

  “Stop!” Jules reaches over and tries to grab my phone from my hand, but I hold it against my chest and protect it like a bird with a broken wing. “Just give me your cell and nobody gets hurt,” Jules says, a smile in her eyes.

  “I think it’s too late for that,” I deadpan.

  “I warn you, I will use force if I have to.” She crawls onto the bed and tries to pry my arms apart. “Remember the time I caught you drunk dialing that guy in college—what was his name? Started with a B—”

  “Bobby. Bobby Jenkins. You know he just posted that he sold his software company—he’s so successful he goes by Robert now.”

  “Makes sense—I don’t think I could invest in a Bobby,” Jules says.

  “Whatever—the point is, maybe if you hadn’t yanked the phone out of my hand that night, I would’ve married him and this”—I point at my wedding dress as if blaming it for last night’s events—“would’ve never happened.”

  Jules rolls her eyes and snatches the phone just as I relax my arms. “It’s not a good idea to read this stuff right now. I’m saving you from yourself. As your matron of—” Jules freezes as she catches herself.

  “Matron of dishonor now!” I force a laugh.

  “I’m sorry—I wasn’t thinking. I just don’t want you reading that. No good can come from it.”

  “What am I supposed to tell everyone? What’s my status report? Feeling sad. Got jilted?”

  “Come on, Kate. That’s the last thing you should worry about right now. Everyone will understand.”

  “People are going to feel sorry for me.”

  “No they won’t! They’ll feel sad for you. There’s a difference.”

  “Well, either way, I’m going radio silence. At least for now.”

  “That alone should tell them something awful happened!” Jules jokes. Admittedly, I was sometimes guilty of oversharing on social media—checking in at my Pilates class, uploading pictures of the models from a photo shoot at work, even posting links on Jules’ wall about the latest episode of Girls. I had never denied that I loved interacting with everyone online, that I enjoyed sharing all the best parts of my life there. But in my defense, I had always drawn the line at taking pictures of my food.

  “I like keeping in touch with everyone,” I argue weakly. “At least I’m not as bad as some people. You know who I keep thinking about?”

  “Max?” Jules offers.

  I cringe at the mention of his name. “Well, yes, but no. I mean Callie.”

  “Callie Trenton? From college?”

  I nod my head. “Her wedding pictures keep flashing through my mind. She just posted them in honor of still being ‘deliriously happy’ after ten years. Did you see the one of her and her husband jumping in the air on the beach? It was the perfect day. The perfect shot. The perfect everything,” I say, thinking back to the way my stomach tightened as I scrolled through her album, hoping I’d be able to capture the same sentiment at my own nuptials.

  “It was her wedding day. She’s not going to share the picture of her brother spilling red wine down the back of her dress or post how irate she probably was when her husband actually smashed the cake in her face. She’s going to make sure she looks picture-perfect.”

  “I guess I just wanted to have that too. Now I never will.”

  Jules puts her arm around me. “You will. Just not today.”

  “Will I? Or do I just not deserve it?” I shake my head. “Because I look at people like Callie. And it’s not just her wedding photos—it’s ev
erything. Her model-like kids, her exotic vacations—did you see the safari she went on? She kissed a giraffe! And I guess I want to know why some people have lives like that, while others”—I tap myself on the chest—“are sitting in their bridal suite with a gown they’ll never wear on a wedding day they’ll never have.”

  Jules considers this for a moment before responding. “I don’t think anyone knows why things work out the way they do, Kate. But one thing I do know for sure is that people’s lives are not always as perfect as the filtered photos or edited statuses they post on Facebook.”

  “True,” I concede, pulling the sheets tight around my body and curling up into the fetal position. “But wouldn’t it be nice if they were?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Who says you can’t drink seven mai tais on a five-hour flight? #passedoutatthirtythousandfeet

  I turn the key and push my front door open, watching it swing wide and settle against the wall. The entryway looks just like it did when we left—Max’s navy-blue windbreaker is hanging on a hook, right next to my black hoodie. We’d worn them to walk down to the wine store the night before we’d flown to Maui, deciding to splurge on a good bottle of red to celebrate. Why couldn’t he have voiced his doubts then, as we sat facing each other on the couch while we sipped the Pinot Noir we’d purchased, speculating about which family member would make the biggest ass of himself at the reception?

  As I step through the doorway, my heart folds inside my chest. This homecoming couldn’t be more opposite of the one I’d envisioned. I’d pictured Max dramatically scooping me up and carrying me over the threshold, me giggling as he nuzzled his face in my neck, kissing me just below the ear, sending electric charges through my abdomen. But as I drop my suitcase now, the thud from the luggage hitting the hardwood floor echoes through the vacant house, underscoring the emptiness inside of me.

  I draw my breath hard into my lungs and release it slowly, remembering Jules’ advice on our flight home: just take everything one moment at a time. I turn at the sound of her footsteps behind me. She’s gripping a suitcase in each hand and has a tote slung over each shoulder, looking like a Sherpa as she walks up. After I’d dissolved into tears as my luggage descended the conveyor belt at LAX, she’d demanded that she carry all of my bags, only letting me be in charge of one small carry-on.

  “I didn’t get very far,” I say as I reach out to grab the straw purse that’s sliding down her arm—the one I’d planned to stuff with magazines and books and take to the private poolside cabana Max and I had rented for the first day of our honeymoon on the island of Lanai.

  “You’re inside. That’s something.” She presses her lips together forming a slight smile, releasing the rest of my bags around her feet.

  I nod, my eyes resting on one of the pink luggage tags that reads Bride.

  “So”—she laces her fingers through mine—“let’s take a few more steps. If we’re diligent, we might get to the staircase by nightfall.” Her eyes are sympathetic as she nudges me with her elbow.

  I turn to face her, my hand still tightly gripping hers. “Thank you.”

  “It goes without saying.”

  “Well, I’d still be in a heap on the floor of the bridal suite if it weren’t for you,” I say. Jules had called the airline and changed my flight; she’d neatly folded and packed all of my bikinis, maxi dresses, and even my lingerie into my suitcase; and she’d put my wedding dress into the garment bag—the sound of the zipper sealing it inside making me feel nauseous.

  “You’re going to get through this,” she says, interrupting my thoughts. Then when she catches my skeptical expression, adds, “I promise.”

  “I’m going to have to trust you on this one, considering I’m not even sure how I’m going to lift my arms to brush my teeth tonight.”

  “I’ll help you. I’m staying over.”

  “Jules, you can’t. The kids. Ben—”

  “It’s already done. Ben loves you as much as I do and wanted me here with you. . . .” She pauses, amusement in her eyes. “Plus, better him than me dealing with the kids adjusting to the time difference!”

  We laugh. It feels foreign, almost like a betrayal of my pain, making me wonder how long it will be before the laughter rolls comfortably off my tongue like it used to.

  “Well, please thank him for me.”

  “Will you stop? It’s an unwritten rule that best friends take care of each other and best friends’ husbands understand. You’d do the same for me.”

  “Well, if Ben ever leaves you, I will kill him,” I say matter-of-factly. “I need you to know that.”

  Jules smiles wryly at my declaration and then regards me for a few moments, no doubt taking in my disheveled appearance—my oily face and the dark circles around my eyes exposing the stress of the last two days. My unwashed hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail and I’m wearing the same pair of sweats I’d woken up in yesterday.

  Finally, Jules says simply, “Well, you definitely look the part of someone who can wield a weapon.” She points to my puffy eyes and my sweatpants hanging low on my hips. Jules grabs my hand again. “Now, follow me. One foot in front of the other.”

  I walk in step with Jules down the hallway that spills out into the living room. The remote control rests on the glass coffee table where I left it after we’d watched an old episode of Project Runway the night before we left for Hawaii. Feeling tipsy from the wine, I’d told Max he should start wearing sweater vests and he’d pretended he hadn’t heard me. As Jules and I walk into the kitchen, the granite countertops gleaming—not so much as an errant water glass in sight—I have another flashback to the morning Max and I were leaving for the airport. I was gripping our freshly printed boarding passes tightly as I rushed around the corner, nearly tripping over the open dishwasher door. I’d wanted to be two hours early to LAX—at least—and Max had been hunched over the sink, his sleeves rolled up, running a round brush inside my cereal bowl that I’d forgotten to wash. He’d looked up unapologetically. “Can’t come home to dirty dishes.” Or apparently he hadn’t been planning on coming home at all.

  In the past twenty-four hours, I’ve thought about a dozen instances like the one that morning, wondering which marked the exact moment when he decided he couldn’t marry me. While I knew it wasn’t logical that he left me because I refused to rinse every glass and pan thoroughly before placing it in the dishwasher, I still wondered deep in my heart if it was part of what had factored into his decision. Had he finally grown tired of certain nuances about my personality that he’d once found endearing? Like my need to dissect the tribal alliances on Survivor every week? Or my inability to take out the trash before it was overflowing and too heavy for me to carry to the Dumpster? Or was it something bigger—maybe he wasn’t attracted to me anymore? I glance at my reflection in the microwave and cringe. From the way I look right now, I can’t say I blame him.

  He’d texted me several times since the rehearsal dinner, saying we needed to get together to figure things out—my hope rising each time his name appeared on the screen, only to fall again when I realized all he wanted was to settle things and move on. While sitting on the tarmac as I waited for the flight back to LA to take off, I absorbed the plush West Maui mountain range, the same one that Max and I had planned to take a helicopter ride over before departing for Lanai, and had finally written back and asked him what “things” he was referring to, my heart sitting in the base of my throat as I waited for his response, hopeful that he meant us, but knowing better. He’d texted me a list that had nearly made me double over in pain: the condo, the checking account, the credit cards.

  As I’d watched the wing of our plane start to move down the runway, my sobs rippling in the back of my throat like a hot spring, images of the honeymoon plans that would now never become real force themselves upon me: snorkeling on Molokini, hiking to Sweetheart Rock in Puu Pehe, and getting the couples’ massage Max had
insisted on booking for us. I’d made a bad Bachelor joke when he’d suggested it, but as we ascended into the blue, cloudless sky and the island of Maui became nothing more than a speck of green in the vast Pacific Ocean beneath us, I would’ve done anything to be side by side with him on those massage tables.

  I’d thrust my phone at Jules to show her the text from Max and she’d unbuckled her seat belt and wrapped her arms around me tightly, despite the warning look from the flight attendant. “How could he be so businesslike about this?” I’d sobbed into her neck.

  Jules shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t understand him at all right now. I thought I knew him better than this.”

  “So did I—”

  We’d sat in silence, both of us taking inventory of our memories of Max. I wondered what had become of the man I could always count on—the guy who once drove an hour round-trip to get me the only chicken noodle soup that sounded good when I had the flu, never questioning me when I told him it was something about the texture of the noodles and the taste of the broth. And doing it again a few months later, this time without even asking, when I’d been sick again. Where had the man gone that would always reach across and grab my hand while we lay in bed, folding it back over his chest and kissing each finger as I drifted off to sleep? And where was the guy who’d made my mom laugh so hard she’d cried the first time she’d met him, when he’d told her the story of how, after spending two months abroad in college, he’d excitedly hugged the wrong girl from behind at the airport, thinking it was his girlfriend. “Let’s just say my jokes about them both having a very nice ass didn’t go well.” As my mom dabbed at her eyes, he’d smiled and squeezed my hand, knowing how much her approval meant to me.