I climb the stairs at the side of the driveway and open the wrought-iron gate to the backyard. I walk past the deck outside Aaron’s parents’ bedroom, an addition they built when he was in high school. I continue to the main portion of the deck, where they keep an outdoor table and chairs, the grill. Gladys comes into view now beyond the far end of the deck, lounging under an umbrella in a chair set back from the freeform pool. She’s wearing one of those big, floppy hats that make me think of sea creatures like stingrays and jellyfish. I think she might be sleeping, but because of the distance I have yet to cover before I reach her and the large sunglasses hiding her eyes, there’s no way to know.
I cross the slate stones that lead from the deck to the brick patio surrounding the pool and continue making my way toward her. My flip-flops snap under my feet, preventing any sort of stealth arrival.
“Meredith!” Gladys sits up as I approach, her copper-colored hair long and loose under the hat and a large smile illuminating her face. “Oh, I was so glad you called. Come, sit.” She pulls the adjacent lounger a little bit closer to her. “Let me text Suzette that you’re here, and she’ll bring out some iced tea for us.” She’s already tapping away on her phone.
Suzette is the Antiguan housekeeper who’s been working for Aaron’s family since he was an infant. She’s nearly seventy years old, and Gladys adores her. She was hired as a babysitter for Aaron and his younger brother, Cole, but Gladys grew so attached to her over the years that she convinced Suzette to stay long after there were any children to care for.
“Why don’t I just go and get it?” I start backing toward the house.
“No, sweetie, it’s fine. Suzette and I are practicing our texting with each other. I’m trying to catch her up with the times, you know?” She shrugs prettily, looking younger than her years. Now that her face is tilted up toward me, I can see her cheeks beneath the hat. She has applied too much rouge.
I sit on the long lounge chair next to her, kicking off my flip-flops and crossing my legs into a pretzel in front of myself.
“So, I guess you haven’t spoken to Aaron?” I ask, cutting to the chase.
Her face falls as she looks at me.
“He might have broken up with me last night.”
“Broken up.” She repeats it, as if trying to determine that meaning of the phrase.
I can only nod.
“Oh, honey, that can’t be.” She straightens like she’s about to stand, to run off to go fix this misunderstanding. Her floral cover-up rises along with her, giving me a glimpse of the dark bathing suit she has on underneath. But then her posture slackens again as she settles back into her seat and asks, “Something with Wesley?”
“We kissed.” I wince as I add, “And then some.”
She swallows but otherwise shows no immediate reaction. I might have preferred for her to flinch or slap me. I’m ready to be punished.
“And?” she asks, cautious, controlled.
“And it gave me closure. Clarity. It erased any doubt about whether my feelings for Wesley should stand in the way of my future with Aaron. There are no feelings for Wesley. Not like that. Not anymore. It took me too long to figure it out, but now I finally understand.”
“But Aaron saw?” I can tell she’s working to sound neutral.
“No, I told him.” I wrinkle my whole face, scrunching it up as I lean backward, bracing for the tirade I deserve.
“Mm-hmm,” she says.
Just then, I notice Suzette walking toward us with a tray.
“Merry, merry, bo berry!” she sings as she approaches, her long red sundress trailing behind her.
“Hi, Suzette.” I smile up at the willowy woman and feel tears spring to my eyes when our eyes meet.
“Oh, honey, what?” She puts the melamine tray down on a small, circular table and steps closer.
“She and Aaron.” Gladys waves her hand dismissively. “Some trouble. He’ll get over it.” She’s surprisingly flip as she reaches for the pitcher beside her and pours me a glass of the reddish plum tea she loves.
Suzette looks from Gladys to me, the dark ponytail at the base of her neck moving from side to side.
“Mama always knows.” Suzette shrugs. “You hang on in the meantime.” She nods in encouragement and then starts making her way back toward the house.
“That’s not why I’m here, though.” I turn back toward Gladys and sip the tea. Too sweet for me.
“Oh?” Gladys asks as a slight breeze picks up. She moves her cell phone, placing it like a paperweight on top of the Wall Street Journal that is rustling beside her on the lounger.
“I know about the cancer.” I let that sit for a beat, before adding, “You have to tell Aaron.”
She’s silent, and I imagine that she is trying to determine how to respond to me. She hates any sort of confrontation. Like her son, she prefers to remain a people-pleaser.
“Your mother told you?”
“Last night.” I nod, noticing that I’m sweating again, despite the breeze. “After I told her about . . . everything.”
“Sweetie,” she starts slowly, fiddling with one of the tassels on the end of her cover-up, “I appreciate your coming out here, especially when I know you have my son’s interests at heart, but I disagree with your position. Wholeheartedly.” She lifts the glass of iced tea Suzette left for her, sips thoughtfully, and then places the glass back on the end table before returning to a supine position, as if to say the discussion is closed.
“Gladys.”
She doesn’t move.
“Gladys.”
She turns her head toward me without raising it off the cushion, and I can see her eyebrows rise beneath the glasses. “I understand not wanting to put a damper on the wedding or whatever, but that might all be moot now anyway. What was your plan, just delay chemo all these months until after the wedding? Your condition could get so much worse in that time.”
I shudder at the sudden realization that I could have been held responsible for yet another groom’s mother dying as some consequence of my wedding plans.
“I’m still deciding whether it’s worth having chemo-therapy.” She says it without looking at me, her eyes closed as she rests her head against the back of the chaise.
“Wait, what? Why?” I shoot out of my seat.
“The cancer is pretty advanced. The odds aren’t good, honey.” She opens her eyes briefly before closing them again, and I wonder how she can be so calm. I stand there above her chaise, gaping at her. “As soon as Aaron finds out,” she continues, her voice lazy, as if she is contemplating sleep, “he will drive himself crazy, run himself ragged doing everything he can to save me. And when he realizes that he cannot dictate the outcome here, he will feel like a failure. The longer I wait to tell him, the more blame he can put on me, the less on himself.”
“No, Gladys. That’s wrong. I had a parent who had cancer. I know what it’s like.” My voice is rising, but I can’t keep my emotions in check as I continue. “You can’t shut him out. How would you feel if the tables were turned, if he kept something like this from you?”
She opens her eyes, blinks hard at that question, and brings a manicured hand slowly to her chest.
We stare silently at each other for a moment.
“Okay, Meredith,” she says gently. “I hear you. But I’m not ready yet. I’m struggling enough with my own concerns. I just don’t have it in me to navigate his vigilance, too—not now. Can I say I’ll think on it? And in the meantime, let’s figure out what you’re going to do to convince my son to forgive your indiscretion.”
She pats the chair beside her, and I sit down again.
Chapter Twenty-Two
June 2017
On the train back to Penn Station, I tap out a text to Wesley.
Me: Will you be home tonight? Would like to discuss some stuff.
Hardly an eloquent message, but equal parts direct and vague, just what I was going for. I wait for his response, but after a few seconds pass with nothing,
not even the little dots on the screen to indicate he is typing, I open the Internet browser on my phone and start searching public-interest law jobs in New York. Just before we enter the tunnel to Penn Station, where I always lose reception, I get a new text.
Wesley: Just got to the restaurant. Don’t anticipate staying too long. Meet at Rome for dessert.
A second text immediately follows:
Wesley: Home. Not Rome. Voice texting sucks balls.
I text back a thumbs-up emoji to tell him we’re on, and then I wonder if I should ask Lana to come, too. It might help to have a buffer, to make sure he understands that any romantic anything is over, but it might also make an already awkward situation that much more uncomfortable. The train enters the tunnel, and the lights go out. I sit in the darkness, my seat jiggling aggressively from side to side as the train races toward Manhattan, and all I can think of is how much I wish Aaron were sitting beside me.
After the remainder of the train trip, plus two subway rides, when I finally emerge from the subway station back into the late-afternoon sunshine on Seventy-seventh and Lexington, I pull out my phone to call Lana. I pace on the street corner while the phone rings, walking halfway up the block and eyeing the enticing floral arrangements that sit outside the gourmet Butterfield Market. She doesn’t pick up, so I leave a quick message, apologizing again for bailing on the lunch plans we made for today and then explaining what I want from her.
I retrace my steps toward the corner, look up at the awning of Lenox Hill Hospital, swallow hard, and walk inside. I make it all of three or four feet when I see the guard stationed at a podium just inside the door. I completely forgot about needing clearance to get upstairs, and I have no viable excuse as to why I am here.
The elderly guard is deep in a heated discussion with a young couple at the moment. They’re holding a large bouquet of balloons and arguing over what time visiting hours begin. I take advantage of the guard’s distraction and walk right past him with purpose, as though I absolutely belong in the building. Maybe he recognizes me from the many times I’ve walked upstairs with Aaron and figures I belong, or maybe he simply doesn’t notice me.
There is an open elevator door straight in front of me, and I just keep walking until I’m in the elevator. I turn around and gaze into space, avoiding eye contact with the two women in scrubs who stepped onto the elevator behind me. They are too busy complaining about politicians posting on Twitter to be interested in me. Once the elevators doors slide closed, I let out a sigh of relief and press the button for the sixth floor, where I know I will find Aaron at this time of day.
I quickly readjust my clothing, straightening the vertical row of buttons on my sleeveless blouse, tugging on my shorts to make them sit lower and hopefully cover another inch of each thigh. I didn’t realize I would be coming to the hospital when I got dressed this morning, and I might have chosen something more conservative if I’d known I’d be bringing my pleas to Aaron’s workplace. I rub my hands up and down my arms, trying to stave off goose bumps from the hospital’s aggressive air-conditioning.
When the doors open, I hear Aaron’s voice before I see him. “Going down?” he asks, as he approaches the doors from the side.
“Up,” one of the women in scrubs answers before Aaron’s eyes shift and he catches sight of me.
I step off the elevator and he backs away from me across the linoleum tiles, as if I’m carrying something contagious.
“Hi,” I say tentatively, hoping he’ll be happy that I had the sudden idea to come see him in person.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, his voice more surprised than bitter.
“I thought we could talk.”
He pushes back the sleeve of his lab coat and glances at his watch. “Yeah, uh, okay. C’mon.” He turns back toward the double doors that lead to the NICU and starts walking.
I follow silently behind him, the antiseptic scent of hospital cleaners filling my nose. His lab coat is stretched taut across his broad shoulders, the tail lifting slightly behind him as he walks, and I think he looks more like an actor pretending to be a doctor than the actual article. He nods at a couple of orderlies who pass by as we make our way down the bright hallway toward the lounge that I know awaits at the end.
Once we’re alone in the small break room, he pushes the door shut and turns to face me. Another member of the hospital staff could walk in here at any moment to grab a cup of coffee or read the paper, but I suppose it’s still more private than the hallway.
He motions with his hand that I should sit at the single round table in the room. I pull out a chair, and he walks to the other side of the room. He leans back against the credenza that sits against the windows, his blue scrubs wrinkling as he folds his arms across his chest.
“Won’t you sit so we can talk?” My voice sounds plaintive.
“I’d rather keep some distance between us. I can’t think rationally if I’m close enough to touch you.” He says it almost lovingly, and I begin to hope that all is not lost.
“Maybe that’s a good thing? Maybe it means you should give me a second chance?”
He’s quiet for a couple of seconds. Only the sound of the coffeemaker humming behind me fills the room, so I stand up and start walking toward him.
“Don’t,” he says, stopping me in my tracks, making me flinch.
I retreat and flop back into the metal chair.
“If that’s why you’re here, to ask for a second chance, the answer is no.” His tone is firm but somehow not unkind; the lack of vitriol makes its bite that much worse. “We’re way beyond that,” he continues. “You got a second chance after you went down to Wesley’s restaurant and invited him to move into my apartment without discussing it with me. Or maybe your second chance came after you went out for drinks with him months ago without telling me about it, when you canceled a date with me that night and said you were working.”
My mouth opens to argue that I did tell him the next day, but he’s picking up steam.
“What I know now is that I can’t take any more. I can’t lie in bed at night, wondering if you’d rather be across the hall. All this time, I was hoping you would prove me wrong. But I can’t keep asking myself if I’m only the consolation prize because your first choice is dying.”
“No, Aaron!” I stand again as I interrupt, realizing I’m yelling, but not caring. “I had a lot of screwed-up emotions invested in that relationship, unresolved feelings that were all the more intense because they were tied up with my mom’s sickness and my parents’ almost divorce. Everything was more intense because of the high velocity emotions during that time of my life. And then it all ended so abruptly. My parents’ relationship was fixed. Wesley was gone. My engagement was over. Two people were dead. It was confusing to have him come back, okay? I won’t lie. I thought I still had feelings for him. But I thought wrong. I was so caught up in nostalgic memories that I forgot all the ways I found him selfish, the ways I had to change my life to fit into his. Being around him these past months, I guess I was on a quest to be forgiven, to know that he didn’t really believe that his parents died because of me. Everything else, it was just my own baggage that I had to work out. But I’ve resolved it all now, and I see what I want, and I know where to find it. The only place I have to look is right in front of me. At you.”
Aaron’s lips twist at that, hostility taking hold of his features.
“Then why were you searching for answers at the bottom of Wesley’s throat? Fishing for truth with your tongue?” He has rediscovered his anger, but I don’t let it sway me. I don’t back down.
“Look, I came here to tell you that I love you, that I’m not giving up on us. I don’t care what I have to do to prove it to you, but I won’t give up.” My voice cracks, and a quick sob escapes from my throat against my will.
His features relax at that, and he steps toward me. My heart rate picks up, and I wait for him to tell me I’m forgiven. He places his hands on my shoulders and leans down so that his fo
rehead is resting against mine.
“Mer,” he says quietly, longingly, and his breath grazes my cheeks, “I can’t imagine that I will ever stop loving you. But the more time I have to think”—his lip begins to curl, like he’s disgusted—“I just keep picturing his hands all over you, the two of you tangled together, and I can’t. I can’t be with you. Instead of proving that you’ve moved on from Wesley, that your feelings for me are as legit as you say, this time with him in the apartment has only shown me the opposite, that I can’t trust you.” He steps back and lets out a weighty breath. “You’ve screwed us both, I guess.”
He walks toward the coffee carafe that’s resting half full on the machine and reaches for a cup. The white Styrofoam nearly disappears inside his large hand. His back is tense as he pours the coffee.
“I really have to get back to work,” he says, now all business. “If you could text me a time tomorrow when the apartment will be empty, I’ll come by for some things. I’m assuming you’ll take care of canceling all the wedding stuff. I know you have experience with that.”
He clips past me toward the door without meeting my eyes, and then I am alone.
WHEN I REACH Twenty-first Street a short while later, still swiping at tears with the heel of my hand, I find Lana leaning against the brick exterior of our apartment building.
She straightens when she sees me and tosses her phone into her white leather satchel. “Hey,” she says, “I was just on my way up to you, but the doorman said you weren’t back yet.” She fiddles with the latch on her bag, trying to fasten it, before she finally looks up and notices the tear-stained nature of my face.
“Meredith, what the fuck?”
“Come,” I say, taking her by the arm. I glance behind me, wondering whether Wesley is still on his way home or already upstairs, waiting to have the meeting I requested. I nod at the new night doorman as we enter the bright lobby, and instead of walking toward the elevators, I pull Lana into the little alcove before the mail room. I need somewhere private to fill her in properly, and this little anteroom will have to do.
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