by Mina Hardy
“There was nothing else,” I said. “I promise.”
For a long time, we sat in silence while we drank our wine. My heart was pounding—I remember that. Diana and I … we’d been through a lot. More than even the best of friends could usually say. We were each other’s ride or die. We’d carried each other’s secrets and scars. A few seconds of drunken Christmas party stupidity shouldn’t have ruined that … but you never know what will bring things to an end.
“But if there was something else,” she said finally, “if there was, then I could get rid of him. Couldn’t I?”
* * *
She never reminded me that I owed her. She didn’t have to. I could never forget what Diana had done when we were sixteen. What she’d done for me when I could not.
It wasn’t the kiss that destroyed our friendship, one that had, I can say without hesitation, saved both our lives.
It was Diana who did that with what she asked me to do.
It was me who agreed.
We both did it, but I’m the one who’s now left broken by it while she gets to pretend it never happened.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Diana
“Happy Turkey Day!” Harriett’s voice rises, high and shrill.
She clasps her hands together, her eyes lit with the sort of manic holiday fervor I’ve never been able to match. My holidays are Memorial Day and the Fourth of July. Beach holidays. Labor Day too, but that’s a sad one because it means summer’s over.
Jonathan lifts his glass. “Happy Turkey Day.”
I don’t lift mine, only because I can get away with pretending it would hurt too much. I don’t feel like toasting, especially not under this pretense that we are a happy family. I slowly sip a glass of my favorite chardonnay.
“Harriett, you’ve outdone yourself,” I tell her with genuine appreciation.
It’s the right thing to say. Harriett has indeed outdone herself. She’s been fluttering around my kitchen for hours, probably at least since five or six AM. Dinner’s on the table precisely at noon. That’s the Richmond family tradition. A golden turkey. Homemade gravy. Mashed potatoes. Corn, green bean casserole. The works. I pluck a dinner roll from the basket and tear open the softness to spread it with softened butter.
“You really didn’t have to do all this,” I say after a bite. “So much work.”
“It was really no effort,” Harriett says, seated at the head of the table. “I’m more than happy to cook for my kids. And you might scold me, Jonathan, for not listening, but I do.”
Jonathan has his own little vegan spread. Mushroom gravy. Potatoes mashed with margarine and soy milk. Harriett has even put together a tofurky type of thing, sliced tofu with soy sauce and other seasonings to mimic a real bird. Basically, Harriett cooked twice the meal to accommodate her son, and he’s barely acknowledged her efforts.
“I just meant that we could all have eaten the vegan meal. You didn’t have to go to all the effort of making double. That’s all.” I give my husband what I hope is a significant look, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
We eat. Her food is amazing, as always. She and Jonathan keep the conversation going, mostly gossip about family members he hasn’t seen in years. I concentrate on my meal. In past years, we’ve had guests for dinner. A few of Jonathan’s local cousins. Sometimes, people from work.
Val.
Not every year. Thanksgiving is the day her mom went into the hospital and never left. It’s a rough time for her, and she often travels during it. Exotic places. Bali. Prague. Where is she traveling this year? I think as I watch my husband shovel food into his face like it’s his job. I won’t ever know. We aren’t friends anymore.
After our confrontation, such as it was, at the Blue Dove, I’d been angry. But what am I now? I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the texts I saw. Scrolling, scrolling, through the heart emojis and provocative selfies, I’d felt sick to my stomach.
All I have ever wanted for my best friend was her happiness, and it seems as though her happiness is my husband.
Jonathan is unusually loquacious, probably because of the wine. He tells funny stories until Harriett has to wipe tears of laughter from her pink cheeks. Her lipstick is smeared. Is my lipstick smeared? I blot my mouth with a napkin. Am I wearing lipstick? When did I put lipstick on?
I’m dizzy.
“You’re not eating very much, Diana.” Harriett says this with concern. “Are you hurting again?”
I am the opposite of hurting in my body, which feels light and buzzing, but my heart is aching, for sure.
Jonathan washes down his mouthful of food with some wine. “Babe, are you all right? You look bad.”
“Tired,” I say. “A little woozy.”
“You’ve overdone it on the wine. You really shouldn’t be drinking while you’re taking your meds,” Harriett says, this time with a bit of disapproval in her tone.
I instantly feel bad about disappointing her, but I haven’t, though. I haven’t taken any pills in the past few days. I mean, even if I’ve been off drinking for a few weeks, a couple of glasses shouldn’t be enough to make me feel this way. I try to think how much I’ve had to drink and can’t. My glass is full now, but I don’t recall filling it.
“Eat more bread,” my husband suggests, totally serious, and for some reason this gives me the giggles.
I raise my glass with my left hand, and I’m happy to be able to do it without wanting to scream. “To bread!”
Harriett loads my plate with more turkey and a healthy serving of gravy. I want to apologize to her and explain that I am not, truly, that drunk, but my mother’s, voice when she used to make the same excuses, starts to filter out of my mouth. I fill it with food to keep it quiet. My right clavicle has started aching again, and I fumble with my knife and fork, trying to cut my slices of dark meat.
“Here,” my mother-in-law offers, “let me.”
And I let her because to protest would be more awkward than letting her cut up my meat for me like I’m a child.
“Fuck me,” I say aloud—too loud. “My shoulder hurts.”
Silence. They both look at me. I am appalled at what has just come out of my mouth.
Harriett frowns. “Language!”
“Do you need some meds, babe?”
“I think I’m out.”
“No,” Harriett says. “I refilled them for you. Let me get you some.”
It seems like a bad idea, although in the moment, I can’t think of exactly why. Then I remember. “No. Can’t. Wine. Which, bonus, helps. Can also barely feel my face.”
Cleaning up after dinner is a blur. I fumble with my plate, clumsily. I spill it on the kitchen floor as I’m trying to get it into the dishwasher. I feel bad about the mess, but Harriett shushes me.
“Go lie down on the couch, honey,” she says.
I stare at the TV for a while, feeling glassy-eyed until she comes in. Harriett pats my arm. Looks into my face.
“Thanks for cooking,” I say.
“What will I do,” Harriett says, “when you’re all better and don’t need me anymore?”
She pats my arm again, squeezing my bicep. When she tucks the blanket in around me, she presses down on my arm. Her weight sends a shard of pain inside me, deep. I cry out. She murmurs an apology.
“How careless of me,” Harriet says. “That must have hurt quite a lot. Are you sure you don’t want some medicine?”
My mother was fond of mixing pain meds and booze. I shake my head. I am not my mother.
I don’t know how much time passes before I need to haul myself up off the couch and into the bathroom, but when I come out, the dining room is spotless, as if we’d never eaten a meal in it. The kitchen, too, except for Jonathan standing at the counter with a plate of turkey swimming in gravy and a guilty look on his face.
“Oh,” he says, “Mom went home.”
“You’re eating my food,” I tell him.
“It’s Thanksgiving,” Jonathan replies, like that makes
a difference.
This guy. He cheats on his wife and his diet. Holds onto this ideal of veganism like it makes him special, except when his desire for meat trounces it. That’s who he is.
On the counter next to him, his phone buzzes with a text. Neither of us looks at the phone. We look at each other. The phone buzzes again, the sound of an angry wasp trapped in a glass jar. It would sting me just the same, wouldn’t it, if I picked it up?
He puts the plate down. Fork across it. He doesn’t answer the phone.
Sometime later, and I’m not quite sure how, I’m upstairs in the bedroom, where I fall back onto the bed in what feels like slow motion. I want to get up and take a shower, but I can’t rouse myself enough. The bed is soft. I’m warm and drowsy. I giggle to myself, and the sound becomes more like a sob.
I should let her have him, but where would that leave me?
“You okay?” Jonathan asks from the doorway.
“Date. Grandy. No, switch those. Fine,” I tell him. “I’m just fine. It’s hot in here. Did you turn up the heat again?”
Jonathan laughs. “I haven’t touched the heat.”
I roll onto my side and snag my phone from the nightstand, almost dropping it as I thumb the screen to pull up the app that controls the thermostat. With a triumphant “ha!” I show him the number on the cartoonish dial. “Eighty!”
“I told you, I haven’t touched it.”
I slide my finger over the screen to get the temperature back down to sixty-eight.
“Haven’t seen you this drunk in a long time,” Jonathan says.
“I’m not drunk.”
“I think I am,” he says, sounding surprised.
“Maybe you’ll get lucky.” I crook my finger and shoot him a grin, but I’m instantly confused. I don’t know why I said that.
“We shouldn’t. Your shoulders,” he says, taking a step back. “Won’t it hurt?”
The rejection stings. The fact I do not want to have sex with him is irrelevant in the face of his refusal. I struggle to get upright, waving away his timid offer to help.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I add with as much dignity as I can muster.
From the bathroom, I hear him murmuring into his phone, but I let the water cover up his words so I can’t understand what he’s saying. When I come out, he’s asleep, with the lights still on. His phone buzzes again from his nightstand, but I don’t pick it up to see who’s texting him.
* * *
Later, I wake in the darkness. I’m cold, the covers thrown off me. Jonathan snores beside me, one arm flung over his head. He’s naked, but the blankets are pulled to his chest.
I can’t find my phone. I must have left it downstairs. I make my way in the dark, gripping the railing hard to make sure I don’t fall down the stairs. I reset the thermostat, which is set at fifty-eight. I make a mental note to see if there’s something wrong with it. I’m thirsty and pull a glass from the cupboard, to fill with cold water from the sink.
Something moves outside the French doors leading to the deck. The glass slips from my fingers, and I brace for the crash, but it only bounces. By the time I get to the doors to look out, I see nothing. The motion-activated floodlights didn’t come on, so it was probably a raccoon or a possum. Maybe a fox.
From this angle, I can’t see Harriett’s apartment. Just the faint glow of light coming from her windows. It goes out a few seconds later. It’s so late even she has at last gone to bed.
I still can’t find my phone, but I will have to look for it in the morning. My mouth is dry as dust, despite the water. My stomach mutters uneasily, but I’m not exactly nauseated. I press a hand to the place just below my ribs on the right side, out of instinct and memory, but I don’t have anything there except scars.
I finish my water, rinse the glass and put it in the dishrack. It could have shattered when I dropped it, but it didn’t. Compared to it, I am far more fragile.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Valerie
I didn’t think much of Jonathan the first time I saw him. Their wedding day. Diana had come to visit a few times, but I’d avoided going back to small-town Pennsylvania for years.
He wasn’t my type. Long and lanky. Salt-and-pepper hair. We shook hands after the ceremony, but he was distracted by his mother tugging his arm, needing his attention, and we never really got the chance to talk.
Diana looked beautiful, as always, but more than that, she looked happy.
It wasn’t the first time I’d ever been jealous of my best friend. It wasn’t the last. But at least then I was happy for her, even if I hated her decision to settle down in our shitheel little town. I didn’t understand it then. How he could make her so happy. I understand it now.
There are also times when I can see how easy it was for her to start hating him.
Times like now. It’s my birthday, and Jonathan isn’t here. Having a birthday this close to Christmas usually sucks, but because we weren’t together on Thanksgiving, he promised me he’d bring a cake. Champagne. Takeout Thai food from that place close to where he works, the place we used to meet in the beginning, during his lunch breaks, before he was too afraid we’d be seen.
He’s late and he hasn’t texted. This isn’t normal for him, or at least it wasn’t. Of all the boyfriends I’ve ever had, the only one who was the most consistent about getting back to me right away has been the one with the wife.
I check my phone again. The last message I sent him is still showing “Delivered” and not “Read.” He’d mentioned being swamped with work today, but I can’t help feeling a little worried. Like something else has come up. Something, maybe, like Diana.
I don’t want to think about that now. But by the time Jonathan is an hour late, I’ve started pacing in front of my living room window, my phone clutched in my hand. Refreshing my text message window. Gritting my teeth hard enough to make my jaw hurt.
At an hour and a half, I say out loud, “Fuck this noise.”
I don’t bother texting him about where I’m going. I throw my coat on over the pretty dress that is way too fancy for staying at home. My Ryde is there within ten minutes. Jonathan had ten extra minutes to text me and stop me from going out, but he didn’t, so I get in the car and I have it take me downtown.
On a Thursday night around here, the only action is in a downtown bar. If my dress is too much for a night at home, it’s not much better for a night out in one of these places. Unless I want to drive another thirty minutes, though, I’m out of luck, because the only bars this piece-of-shit town has are dives. I get dropped off on the corner of the main drag and step out into the frigid weather, not caring that my shoes are too fancy for this crumbling sidewalk, dotted with greasy puddles.
It’s my birthday, and I will be fucked sideways if I spend it alone.
Inside, the bar is overheated, and I wish I’d thought ahead to leave the coat at home. I’d have been cold on the short walk from car to bar, but now I’m stuck holding it unless I risk checking it. I think about it. The coat’s not new, and it wasn’t expensive, and it probably won’t get stolen. Even if it does, I can replace it, and I am not immune to the knowledge that although I’m not living the high life like I’d once been, I am in a much better place than I’d thought I’d ever be when I was growing up, or even a year ago. A place where I can afford to risk losing a coat because buying another one won’t keep me from paying my bills.
I’m finally in a position where I could get out of this town, the way I’d been planning since I came back. Instead, I’ve been staying. Why?
Love.
First, for her. Now it’s all for him. I wish I could hate them both, so I could just pick up and go, but it’s starting to feel like I never will.
At the coat check, I rustle in the coat pockets just to make sure there’s nothing in there I do care about losing. I pull out a handful of receipts and a few dollars. A movie ticket. I tuck all of it into my purse except the ticket.
Diana and I had gone to that movie tog
ether, in the fancy theater with the leather recliners and the flavored popcorn. It had been one of our “date nights.” Dinner first. Coffee after. I had not yet started fucking her husband. Now, here I am in a dive bar on a weeknight, ready to get drunk because I’m angry that he stood me up.
I sidle up to the bar and order a vodka tonic. I keep my attention on the drink. If I look around, I’m sure to see someone I went to high school with. This was a bad idea, and another flush of anger, this time mixed with the threat of tears, rushes through me. I blame Jonathan, when, in reality, I am the one who decided to come here. Once again, I find myself in a place I am not proud to be in, and it’s my own fault.
“Why do you do it?” I can hear Diana ask me in my head. I can picture her expression. I can taste the beer we both drank too much of. Later, I’ll be sick and she won’t. “I don’t get it, Val. You know better, and you do it anyway.”
Back then, she was talking about the way I would antagonize my dad. I hadn’t been able to describe to her how attracting his anger seemed the only way to diffuse my own. She wouldn’t have been able to understand it, even if I’d found the words. Diana had never understood the complexities of loving and hating the same person. Of how love and hate are not opposites, but sides of the same coin. How it was better for my father to hate me than to ignore me. She didn’t know what that was like. If she’d ever loved her mother, I couldn’t remember it, and I didn’t think she could either.
The drink is too strong, and I turn my grimace into a smile for the bartender’s sake. I find a seat at a high-top table near the wall. My phone is on the table in front of me. My drink is in my hand. I wish I’d kept my coat so I could put it on the other chair. Maybe it would keep someone from trying to sit there. Except if I’m not here to get someone in that other chair, why am I here at all? To punish Jonathan? He won’t even know, and maybe, just maybe, he won’t even care.
You can’t ever trust someone who says they love you. People lie about everything, but especially about love.
I text him a selfie. Dim lighting, nothing to identify the location, but definitely showing it’s a bar. I look sexy and dangerous and pissed off.