by Liz Fenton
“Here it is,” the redhead says cheerily, presenting it to me as if it’s one of those giant checks you receive when you’ve won the lottery. “You can try it on in there,” she says, and points to a white beveled door in the corner. “Champagne?” she asks, and my mom and I say yes in unison.
I grip the padded hanger tightly, holding the dress up so the bottom of it doesn’t brush the floor. I close the dressing room door and hang it on a hook on the wall, the emotions of the morning after the rehearsal dinner rushing through me in a violent wave. As I pull the zipper down to remove the dress, the sound takes me back to the moment Jules sealed my gown inside its garment bag and called the concierge, agreeing to pay God only knows what to have it shipped to her house so I’d never have to lay eyes on it again.
I push the memory aside and step into the dress, calling for the salesgirl to help close it in the back before walking backward, away from the mirror. “It’s still amazing,” I say more to myself than to her, but she nods excitedly in agreement as she helps me slip my feet into the heels I bought.
“Oh my God,” my mom says as she’s drinking her champagne, nearly spitting it out as she chokes a little on her words. “You look beautiful.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say as I step onto the platform and twirl around, admiring the dress from the back, then catching my mom’s reflection in the mirror, the tears she promised now spilling down her cheeks. As I watch her watching me, mine glisten too, imagining my future daughter one day doing the same, saying a silent prayer that her heart will be sure as she spins on her platform, that she’ll choose a man worthy of her. That she’ll get it right the first time.
“Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“You seem really happy.”
“Of course I’m happy for you, honey.”
“No, I mean there’s something about you that’s different. Lately, you seem—”
“—lighter?” my mom offers.
“Exactly.” I smile, thinking of the man she’s been dating. “Is it Bill?”
“Oh, no, I told him we can’t see each other anymore.”
“What?” I knot my forehead. “Why? I thought things were going so well.”
“They were, but we, well I, quickly realized that we didn’t have a damn thing in common other than living next door to each other,” she says with a laugh. “You know about the only things he likes to do are grill out in the backyard and tinker with that old Chevy in his garage? I’d die from boredom!”
I study her face for a moment. “So then why are you so happy?”
“Because dating him was the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.”
“But it didn’t work out,” I say, taking a careful sip of my champagne as I hold the flute away from my body, curious for her answer.
“I don’t know how to explain it exactly,” my mom says, holding out her glass so the associate can fill it again. “I feel like a huge weight has been lifted, because even though he wasn’t the one, I had a great time figuring out he wasn’t. It gave me hope that the right guy for me might be out there.” She walks over and stands next to me in front of the mirror, putting her arm around my waist. “I think I’m ready to finally move on.”
“Really?” I ask.
My mom nods before answering. “I was devastated when your dad left. And I worried for a long time how it would affect you.”
“Me?”
“I guess I didn’t want you to fear marriage because ours had failed.”
“I don’t, I mean I never did. Sometimes people just outgrow each other,” I say, wondering about my own relationship with Max, wondering if we’d outgrown each other and not even noticed.
“Anyway, it took me a long time to figure out who I was without your dad. Even longer to actually like the person I was without him.” She laughs awkwardly.
I shiver, goose bumps covering my bare shoulders and arms. I’d said similar words to Liam last night.
“Maybe my only daughter getting married has made me really think about my own life, but I’m starting to lament spending so much of my time focusing on my regrets,” my mom adds as she takes another sip of her champagne.
“I’m really happy for you,” I say, still shocked that I’m finally hearing the words I’ve been waiting for her to say.
She puts her arm around me and we stare at each other in the mirrored wall in front of us. “Now this doesn’t mean that I’m going to be Facebook friends with your dad and—”
“—the wife?”
“Leslie,” my mom says slowly, and I give her a short smile. “It’s time for me to finally let go of what could have been.”
“What could have been?”
“I think I was so stuck on what life could have been like if your dad hadn’t left—all the things we would’ve done together, so bitter that he was doing those things with someone else—that I really wasn’t living.”
“Wow,” is all I say, happy for my mom’s breakthrough, but sad thinking about all the years she lost.
“I know, right?” she says as she points at herself. “I’ve been putting all this time and effort into keeping this body fabulous and then not even using it!” She laughs as I cringe, the thought of her being sexual with someone making me want to gag. “The point is,” she continues, “even I know when it’s time to give up and move on to something better.”
I walk back to the dressing room, replaying my mom’s words. Of course she picks today to finally decide to start living her life again. I debate whether it would be selfish for me to go back now, knowing she might not have the same realizations next time. As I step out of my dress, it feels heavier this time, like a weight bearing down on me—the understanding that there were more lives than my own hanging in the balance.
• • •
“Welcome to Starbucks,” a peppy, fresh-faced girl greets my mom and me. We’ve decided to stop for a coffee before I drive her home, our heads still buzzing slightly from the champagne.
After we order, we’re making our way to a table in the corner when I think I see a familiar face. Before I can get the words out of my mouth, my mom cuts me off, “Isn’t that Callie, your old college roommate?” She scrunches up her nose as if trying to decide.
“I think.” I study her as she stands in line, rubbing her protruding belly as her two children demand cake pops and Cotton Candy Frappuccinos. Through gritted teeth, she barks, “For the fiftieth time, the answer is no,” the lines around her eyes deepening as she says it. But her kids’ begging is relentless, and when they reach the cash register, Callie finally gives in, mumbling something about how they should just take all the money in her wallet and buy whatever they want because they always do anyway.
She leans on the counter as her children feast on their treats, her younger one dropping the cake pop on the floor before picking it up and shoving it furiously into her mouth, Callie just shaking her head in defeat as she attempts to wipe the face of her son, who pulls away dramatically. Callie finally looks up and catches me watching her, her pale cheeks reddening as she recognizes me, me hoping my thoughts aren’t written across my face. These kids look nothing like the little angels I’d seen on Facebook last week, running down the beach holding hands.
“Callie?” I say hesitantly as I advance toward her. She gives me a weak smile as she nods and pulls me in for a hug, holding it for a beat too long.
But when she steps back, she’s recovered, grinning widely and making jokes about her kids being obsessed with sugar because she never gives it to them normally. I am amazed how quickly she has transformed from a normal tired mom with unruly kids into her Facebook persona. That even here, in real life, she feels like she can’t show me, an old friend, her true self.
It had been so long since we’d shared a dorm room, so many years since we’d even had a live conversation, that it didn’t feel right for me to tell her that it was o
kay, that she could bitch at her kids and I wasn’t going to judge her. I knew she’d never understand how, after everything I’d been through, seeing her act like a human being made me like her so much more. So instead I tell her what I hope she needs to hear, that she looks beautiful and her kids are adorable, as she politely shuffles her brood out the door, mentioning something about a birthday party at the trampoline place down the street.
“Whew!” my mom sighs after Callie is gone. “She really has her hands full with those two. The exact reason why I only had one.” She laughs.
“It was really good to see her,” I say as we sit down.
“I’m not sure she’d say the same about seeing you—she seemed pretty embarrassed. Almost like she wanted to crawl under the table when she saw you watching her.”
“I know,” I say, taking a sip of my coffee, thinking about how I would’ve felt if I had run into her in Starbucks the morning after I got back from Maui, when I felt like a shell of myself. I probably would have reacted the same way she did, assuming she was going to judge that I had come so undone, that I had fallen so far from where I thought I’d be. Not unlike Callie, I had often spent a fair amount of time manipulating the way others saw me on Facebook. Now I wondered if we’d both be a lot happier if we spent more time cultivating relationships with the people right in front of us.
• • •
The smell of garlic envelops me when I walk in the front door. I slip off my shoes and follow it into the kitchen, where I find Max opening a bottle of red wine. “What’s all this?” I ask as I look around, the table set, a pot of something that smells delicious simmering on the stovetop, chopped tomatoes, basil, and garlic on the cutting board for his signature bruschetta.
“Do I need a reason?” He smiles and kisses me.
“No, I just wasn’t expecting—”
“Exactly why I did it. I knew you probably didn’t eat today because you were with your mom . . .” He pauses and I nod my head to let him know he’s right. “And I thought I’d surprise you with your favorite—eggplant Parmesan and bruschetta.”
“Thank you,” I say, happily accepting a piece of bread from him. I take a bite and close my eyes as it melts in my mouth.
“It’s been too long since I cooked for you,” he says as he mixes the garlic, basil, and tomatoes, sprinkling salt and pepper before spreading the mixture on the toast he just pulled from the oven. “Too long since I’ve done a lot of things,” he adds, and I know last night is still on his mind—that the bruschetta is a peace offering.
“Well, I’m glad you’re cooking for me tonight. This is delicious,” I say, spooning some of the mixture out of the bowl. I debate commenting on the last part of what he said, knowing that after I make my last wish he won’t remember the conversation anyway.
But I will—I’ll take every single memory with me. The way Max and Courtney seemed to come together no matter how hard I tried to tear them apart, the way Jules and Ben’s marriage began to unravel, and the look in Liam’s eyes when I told him I didn’t think I could live a life without Max, that I couldn’t give Liam the chance he wanted. I’ll never forget the way my heart broke a little bit when I realized that I was crushing his.
I watch Max as he scurries through the kitchen, pouring the wine, finishing the last touches on our meal, trying to memorize every detail of his face, the way he tilts his head when he’s concentrating, the way his brow furrows as he tosses the salad. I swirl the red wine in my glass and bring myself to ask the question that needs to be answered.
“Max?”
“Yeah?” he responds, still concentrating on the wooden mixing bowl.
“Why do you love me?”
His hands are still clenching the salad tongs and he slowly looks up at me. “Why are you asking me that? Is this about last night? Because—”
“No,” I interrupt, and the forcefulness of my answer makes him flinch a little. “I just want to know.”
He grabs a towel and wipes his hands. “I love the life we’ve built together. We’re a great team, Kate.” He walks over and kisses me. “I love you. I want to make you happy.”
“I know,” I say, unable to meet his eyes. I knew he meant his words. I had witnessed his determination in putting Courtney aside for me, all in the name of our happiness. I grab him and pull him in tight, burying my face in his neck, drinking in his spicy smell, trying to freeze this moment in my head.
Finally, I pull back and Max stares at me, waiting for me to say more. “I want you to be happy too,” I say as I kiss him, forcing the corners of my lips into a smile as I turn toward the stairs.
“Where are you going? Dinner’s ready!” he calls after me.
I give him one last look. “There’s something I need to take care of,” I say. “I’ll be right back,” I lie as I head up the stairs and grab my phone off the dresser before I can change my mind.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Back where it all began. #wouldnthaveitanyotherway
I sense the change in scenery even before pulling open my swollen eyes, remembering the way the fluffy white down comforter had wrapped around me like a cocoon that morning, no doubt Jules’ handiwork after I had finally passed out the night before. I sit up slowly, inhaling the salt in the air through the slightly ajar sliding glass door and look over to my right, where I already know I’ll find Jules slumped in a stiff wingback chair in the corner, watching me intently.
“Oh, honey,” she says, her tear-stained face softening when she sees I’m awake.
I swallow, my throat dry and scratchy, and I reach up and rub it.
It worked. I’m right back where it all started.
I hold my body still, waiting for the crippling emotion to cascade through me as Jules perches on the edge of the bed, her bloodshot eyes regarding me. I force my eyes away from her, to the area of the room where I’ll locate the one thing that will signify this is actually happening.
“Kate?” Jules’ voice sounds raw.
Feeling as if I’m watching a movie of my life, I look toward the closet, my chest seizing for a moment when I fixate on my wedding dress hanging there, steamed and waiting to be worn. I stare at it for several seconds, bracing myself for the fear to set in, waiting for the panic to be unleashed, the doubt to ensue. But the only emotion I feel is relief.
“Say something, please,” Jules tries again, and I cover her hand with mine and smile. “You’re smiling?” She half laughs.
I nod. “Everything’s going to be okay,” I say.
“Isn’t that what I’m supposed to be telling you?” Jules frowns and places the back of her hand against my forehead like she had when Evan had strep throat last month. “What were in those pills your mom gave you last night? Because this is not at all how I thought you’d react when you woke up this morning.”
“Me either,” I say, thinking how, when I decided to bring myself back to this day, I had been sure the feeling of losing Max all over again would hit me hard and fast like the snow from an avalanche. I never imagined the opposite would happen, that I would feel as if my lungs had expanded so I could finally breathe.
When I’d lumbered up the stairs last night, I’d known what I had to do—that I had to finally let Max go. I’d debated changing my mind as my fingers hovered over the keyboard, but his words to me in the kitchen hung in the air like red flags. All this time, I’d been fixated on Courtney, as if she were the real problem. But when I’d finally mustered the courage to ask Max why he loved me, my temple pulsed as I heard my own doubts echoed in his answer—knowing in that moment, I had to stop hiding from the truth.
Yes, Max would have married me this time, I was sure of it. His eyes would have been moist when he watched me stride down the aisle toward him. I could imagine him twirling me on the dance floor and carrying me through the doorway of our suite at the end of the night, throwing me down onto the bed as we laughed. He woul
d have done a great job of convincing himself he’d chosen the right girl, and I’d have done an even better one of pretending I’d made the right decision too. But deep down, I knew he would never love me the way I deserved to be loved. And for me, he’d always be a prize I’d fought for, but never really earned.
“Is he gone?” I fling back the comforter, startling Jules.
“Yes—Ben just texted me that he saw him at the desk checking out,” she says slowly, as if she’s trying to take the sting off the words.
I fling my legs over the side of the bed and rummage through my suitcase.
“Are you going to try to stop him?” Jules asks, and even though my back is to her, I know she’s looking at me like I’m batshit crazy. “Kate.”
“No,” I say as I pull on a pair of jeans and a tank top and quickly run a toothbrush over my teeth.
“Then why—”
“I’ll explain later,” I yell as the door to the hotel suite clicks closed behind me. I rush down the carpeted hallway in my bare feet, hoping to stop him before he leaves, needing to say things to him that can’t wait another minute, that have waited too long already.
When I get to the reception desk he’s not there and I stop running, bracing myself for the fact that I might have missed him. But then I see him stepping into a cab out front. “Max!” I call.
He turns when he hears my voice, his face ashen, probably expecting me to yell at him, or worse, beg for him to stay. I think of the last time when Jules told me he was gone. I hadn’t asked any more questions about Max. Instead, I’d started questioning her about the guests and the wedding details, worried about what people were going to think, what I would say in my own defense of how I let a relationship I had portrayed as perfect detonate like a land mine. That day felt like a lifetime ago.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” I ask when I reach him, now standing stiffly outside of his taxi, running his hand through his hair, and I want to pull it away from his head and tell him he doesn’t need to be nervous. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to try to change your mind again.”