Then Came You

by Kate Meader

  God, that’s depressing. I refocus on the Post-it.

  Come to Libby’s. –G

  Fifteen minutes later, I walk into my grandmother’s apartment and head toward the noise coming from the kitchen. Utter chaos greets me, with Grant at the center of it.

  “Aunt Aubrey!” my niece Caitlyn screams on seeing me, which sets Asta off running in circles and barking. “We’re making French toast!”

  More like she’s wearing French toast. Her fingers and hair are covered in gooey egg mess. Thatcher isn’t much better, though he’s stuffing his face with bread, which somehow seems more productive than just wearing raw egg.

  “Hey, no eating the brioche,” Grant says. “That’s for breakfast.”

  “Uh, I know,” my cheeky nephew replies.

  “Why, I oughta…” Grant catches my eye and winks. “About time you joined us, wife.”

  Wife. There goes my heart again. Dead, not getting up.

  Libby is sitting in an armchair at a safe distance from the action, sipping from a Red Sox cup. I doubt it’s coffee. Cat Damon is curled up in her lap. “Slept quite late, Aubrey? I assume you have a good reason.” She chuckles evilly. “That husband of yours doing his duty, I’m sure.”

  “Libby.” I raise an eyebrow to acquaint her with the presence of children, not that that would ever stop her.

  I have to admit Grant’s relationship with my gran tickles me something wicked. They’re such an unlikely pair, yet that’s Grant for you: he’s always known how to adapt to any situation and roll with the punches. Unlike me, who can’t seem to get out of her own way long enough to find that sweet spot. Maybe it’s why we work—or used to.

  “So when’s breakfast ready?” I sidle over to Grant and stand close enough to touch our arms together. Strange how this feels as intimate as when he’s inside me. It’s the domesticity of it, I suppose.

  He’s just doing this because he cares. As a friend.

  “Breakfast is ready as soon as Thatcher sets the table.”

  Thatcher explodes. “Why do I have to do it? That’s a girl’s job!”

  Grant shuts that down real quick. “No such thing. There are only jobs, and none of them are more a girl’s than a boy’s.”

  “That’s not what my dad says.”

  I slant a glance at Grant, wondering how he’ll handle it. “Well, how about we look at it like this? You set the table, and your sister will clear the plates away. That’s fair, right?”

  Neither my niece nor my nephew looks like this is fair at all.

  “I guess you don’t want breakfast, then,” I offer to the negotiation.

  “Fair ’nuff,” Grant says. “More for us.” He nudges me, clearly pleased at our teamwork, and that smile—oh, God, I’m in deep.

  A plaintive cry cuts into the happy buzz. Minnie is in a bassinet on the other side of the table, and somehow I totally missed the little button.

  “Wait, where are your parents?”

  “Mom and Dad went into the city to shop the Black Friday bargains,” Caitlyn says.

  “Why aren’t they doing it online like everyone else?” I walk over to Minnie and pick her up. She’s so small and helpless. “You need to be fed”—I sniff—“and more.”

  “Perfect timing,” my grandmother says with a cackle. I suspect the woman has never changed a diaper in her life. Too busy adventuring and imbibing.

  “I’ve got her,” Grant says, taking Minnie from me and holding her at arm’s length. She gurgles and giggles, thinking it’s a game. “You take care of the coffee, Bean.”

  My heart is at risk of cracking in two, maybe three or four. Blinking to hold back tears, I reach for the French press in the cabinet. Grant’s left the room to change Minnie, and the older kids are doing as they’re told, setting the table. I can’t believe Janice and Tristan left them behind, but I’m not a parent—what do I know?

  “You’ve got a good one there, girl.”

  Sure, state the fucking obvious, Gran! “He’s all right, I suppose,” I mutter irritably.

  “So when are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  I turn with that squinty-eye thing people do to stop them from losing it. “What do you mean?”

  “You and Grant? You’re not fooling anyone, honey.”

  “We’re fine.”

  She holds my stare over her mug. “Okay, have it your way. I’ll be here when you need to talk.”

  Regretting my crankiness, I lean over to kiss her, amazed that the frail ninety-year-old in the wheelchair is a hundred times stronger than me.

  “Back in a second,” I murmur, needing to escape.

  It’s stinky in the living room—Libby would have a fit if she could see Grant using her very expensive Turkish rug to change the baby on—but I may as well be sniffing roses because Grant’s currently destroying my ovaries in one fell swoop. He’s talking to Minnie like she can understand every word.

  “What’s that, sweet pea? You got somethin’ to say?”

  Gurgle, gurgle.

  “Nah, now you’re just bein’ silly.”

  This conclusion is met with a flurry of giggles, and isn’t that the most beautiful sound you’ll ever hear? This should be a torment, but strangely, it’s not. My irritability falls away. My mind’s caught up to what my heart has already accepted.

  I lost something precious, but my life doesn’t have to end.

  He finishes up, skills he learned from taking care of his sister, all the while talking to Minnie in low murmurs. When he turns, he looks surprised to see me.

  “Didn’t see you there.” His tone is shy, careful.

  “That’s okay, you had your hands full.” I rush forward to take the soiled diaper.

  “Nah, you take care of your niece. I’ll get rid of that.”

  The weight of her in my arms is perfect. I never thought I’d have a maternal bone in my body, but as soon as I got pregnant, the joy overtook the fears. As soon as I lost that child, the fears returned and solidified into the status quo, a narrative that fit. I was undeserving. My body understood that I didn’t have it in me to nurture, that this life I’d fallen into with a wonderful guy like Grant was an accident.

  “She would have been about eighteen months by now,” Grant’s voice says behind me.

  Those words would have sent me into a flood of tears months ago, but not now. “Seventeen months, three weeks.”

  “Do you think about her?”

  He doesn’t say the name, but I feel it floating between us. Riley. I’d imagined we would have a girl, though it was too early to know. Either way, we both liked the name Riley, which could apply equally to either gender.

  “I think about her all the time,” I say, my eyes trained on my bubbly niece. “What she might have looked like by now. Whose eyes she’d get. Whether her hair would’ve been straight or curly. Would she have my temper or your easygoing nature.” I think about love and loss and all the ways we hurt each other. “Do you?”

  “Sometimes, but mostly I think about you and what a great mom you’ll be.”

  “Grant—”

  “Listen, Bean.” He moves closer, his strength lifting me with every step. “Sure I think about the baby we lost, but I can’t do anything about that. Grief and love are inextricably combined, but while the love remains, the grief becomes more muted, I suppose. Time and tears. I’d rather think about the beautiful woman who will one day feel ready to take a chance again. I want you to start thinking of the future, Aubrey.”

  I’m paralyzed by his words, which should be liberating. I’ve been feeling a spark lately—a sexual spark, sure—but that doesn’t mean it extends to remaking the rest of it. What Grant says sounds lovely, but it also sounds like a backhanded way to push me forward.

  Just as I suspe
cted, Grant is healing me for a future without him.

  He watches me with those midnight-dark eyes. Will I shut down, or will I fight?

  There’s another option, a middle ground: take what’s happening here and just enjoy it.

  For the next three hours, we are run ragged between preventing the kids from eating Great-grandma’s special brownies (oh, that’s where they ended up) to halting World War 3 when Thatcher rips the head off one of Caitlyn’s four Barbies (Zombie Barbie’s looking pretty good is Grant’s way of smoothing it over).

  “I don’t know how Janice copes,” I say after we put Minnie down for a nap in one of Libby’s bedrooms and the older kids are parked in front of Coco, which Caitlyn claims she’s already seen “eleventy million times.”

  “I’m gonna guess multiple nannies are involved.” Grant smiles. “We got suckered.”

  He pushes my hair behind my ear and brushes my chin with his thumb. I must have Nutella on my face.

  “You were great with them. Told ya you would be.”

  It hurts to even think about it, the possibilities of success and of failure. I don’t think I could go through that again. Because if I fail—and there’s a really good chance I will—crazy Aubrey will be back. The woman who can’t see the good standing in front of her because she’s chasing the perfect. I know myself too well.

  The way Grant is looking at me isn’t just sexy as hell, it’s telling me I’m forgiven. So foolish. This man shouldn’t give me a pass on the pain I caused him.

  “Oh, look at you two being all adorable!” My sister-in-law Janice barges in, her arms filled with packages. “Did you wear the little monsters out?”

  “Uh, they wore us out,” I say. “Now I need a long bath and a giant glass of wine.”

  Janice plonks down on the nearest sofa. “Oh, that’d be heaven. If only you had a gorgeous husband to provide. Oh, right, you do!” She waves at Grant in case there’s some doubt about who she’s talking about.

  I’ve always liked my sister-in-law.

  I hitch an eyebrow at my ex-husband. “Is she right? Can you provide?”

  Grant’s thinking on it in that slow, lazy way of his. “I’ve got a better idea.”

  Chapter 19

  Grant

  “Only a country boy would think coming into the city the day after Thanksgiving is better than a hot bath and sweet, sweet alcohol.”

  “And only a Yankee would whine about it.”

  With her non-slinged arm, she gives me a gentle shove, not much heat to it. She might be complaining, but I can tell she’s pleased to be out of the house.

  We took in the light show at Faneuil Hall, and now we’re wandering around the stalls looking at knickknacks and tchotchkes, hot chocolate cups warming our hands. I’d thought that Aubrey would be on edge around the kids, especially Minnie, but no. She actually appeared to be enjoying herself. Seeing her play at favorite aunt gave me all the fucking feels, that’s for sure.

  “Oh, ornaments with names on them!” Aubrey picks up a green one with “Zoe” painted across it in silver script. “Just like the ones on Libby’s tree. Would your sister like this?”

  “She’d love it.” I’m tempted to urge Aubrey to come home with me, deliver it personally, and bask in the warmth of my family. She needs to be wrapped up in all the love she missed as a kid.

  “I don’t see one with ‘Sherry’ on it. But it looks like they take custom orders.” While the stall owner wraps up the ornament for my sister, Aubrey asks about the process for ordering a special design. “I’ll send it to your mom. If you don’t think she’d mind.”

  My momma might be protective of me, but even she can recognize a wounded animal for what it is. She always liked Aubrey, knowing instinctually that she needed mothering. “She’d be honored to receive it.”

  As we walk away with her purchase, I can tell she’s nervous and building to say something. I give her time; it’s what she’s always needed.

  “You talked to Max last night, and I was sort of distracted and didn’t follow up.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She nods, then swallows. “Did you tell him what happened?”

  “I did. He’s never pushed before but last night….I don’t know, it felt like the right time to share with a good friend.”

  “Because we’re talking about it more.”

  Yes, but also because I think I handled it wrong when we were together. Keeping it all inside did neither of us any good.

  “Sunlight’s the best disinfectant. That’s what my momma says, anyway.”

  “So, you’ll tell her next.”

  I stop and steer her to the side, out of the path of shoppers and tourists. “Eventually. Just like I think you need to talk to your family. Maybe not all of them, but Libby, for sure. People want to be there for you, Bean. You need to give a little and let them in.”

  “You think that’s the answer. Give a little bit.”

  “Like the song. It’s a start.” There are so many ways to begin again, but it requires an action.

  “Oh my God.” Kind of an odd response, but then her eyes widen as they redirect beyond my shoulder.

  Aubrey’s father and Mercedes are standing near a whoopee pie station, poring over the choices behind glass. They’re wrapped up in each other, oblivious to the world around them.

  Aubrey pulls my hand to move away. “Let’s—oh, hi!”

  Mercedes has spotted us and is dragging Jeffrey over. “Hey there! Aren’t these crowds nuts? What have you got there? Doing a spot of holiday shopping?”

  Mercedes babbles for almost a minute, obviously nervous. It’s clear she wants Aubrey’s approval. Hey, don’t we all?

  After a little small talk, most of it out of Mercedes’s mouth, she says, “You should come to dinner with us.”

  “Oh, no, that’s fine!” Both Aubrey and her father speak at the same time, then quickly clam up as they realize they’ve objected in unison to spending any more time than necessary with each other.

  I catch Mercedes’s eye, note the pleading expression, and make a decision.

  “We’d love to join you for dinner.”

  Every beginning needs an action.

  Fifteen minutes later we’re seated in a nice Italian restaurant in the North End, the scents of garlic and herbs making my mouth water. Mercedes and I are doing our level best to keep the conversation going, but I’ll tell y’all: it’s a struggle. Until a little bowl of olives is placed on the table and Mercedes comes out with this gem:

  “I really enjoyed your article on children’s rights during divorce, Aubrey.”

  Although it’s highly unlikely the entire restaurant actually stills with the introduction of this information, it certainly feels like a bomb has just exploded.

  Aubrey blinks. “Excuse me?”

  “Your article in the Journal of Family Law Practice,” Mercedes says blithely, picking up an olive and examining it before returning it to the bowl. “I thought your take on the unspoken property rights of children was an interesting one, especially given that most jurisdictions give it such short shrift.”

  “Um…” A speechless Aubrey is such a rarity that I can’t help an evil chuckle. She looks at me in confusion. “Wait, did Grant put you up to this?”

  “Mercedes is second-year law at Harvard,” Jeffrey offers.

  Speechlessness gives way to openmouthed gawping. “You’re in law school? Why didn’t I know this? Did you know this?” She turns to me.

  “Might have,” I mumble, enjoying myself far too much.

  Jeffrey smiles and kisses Mercedes on the cheek. “You think I can’t catch a smart woman, Aubrey?”

  “Well, Dad, your track record—”

  “Is maybe best left unexamined. At least at the dinner table.” Re
gret clouds his eyes, and he squeezes Mercedes’s hand. “I know I’ve made mistakes. In all areas of my life.”

  “None of us are saints,” Mercedes says, but it’s not unkind. She turns back to Aubrey. “So I’m not what you expected for your dad. Or maybe I’m exactly what you expected. Either way, I’m probably going to be around for a while.”

  “God, I hope so!” Jeffrey blurts out a little desperately.

  Mercedes gifts him with an indulgent look that makes it very clear who’s in charge. She’s young, beautiful, intelligent, and has her whole life ahead of her. On paper, she doesn’t need Jeffrey the way he so obviously needs her, but the heart makes those decisions for us.

  Aubrey takes one good, long hard look at her father, then turns to the new power player at the table. “Tell me about your favorite class, Mercedes.”

  * * *

  —

  I wake with a large weight on my chest—a large, furry weight.

  “M*#%” comes out of his throat. Cat Damon is making scarier-than-usual eye contact and reaches for my chin with a paw. When Aubrey and I still lived together, this was an easily understood message.

  Cat hungry.

  My phone screen says it’s 2:14 a.m. I wait, pondering if I have the energy to beat the cat at his own game.

  “M*#%$###!”

  “All right, all right, let’s get you something to eat, you little fucker.”

  Aubrey doesn’t stir beside me, so I take a moment to watch her. She looks so calm and untroubled while she sleeps, exhausted after I loved every inch of her. I think she enjoyed dinner with her dad and Mercedes more than she cares to admit. Nothing is resolved, but a step has been taken.

  As it takes about ten minutes (I’m only half-exaggerating) to get to the kitchen in the Gates Gothic Funhouse, by the time we arrive I’m a tad hungry myself. Except I’m not the only one hunting out a snack in the middle of the night.