At once, I stop myself from all this daydreaming—this waking nightmaring—before I picture what’s next. Because what’s next is the reaching up with a gentle hand. The pulling of one’s face down so his lips meet yours. His scooping her in his arms in their perfect hotel room against a perfect starry night winking in through their perfect mountain view veranda.
My vision runs blurry as I look down at the phone. At Craig-who-isn’t-Henry’s last message. At this interaction that isn’t mine to have.
I scrape a paper towel across my face, wipe my Cheeto-y fingers, and take a cleansing breath.
Craig: Maybe we can do some off-roading this weekend?
Shelly: If you think you can keep up! ☺
Chapter 17
I emerge from the little one-person bathroom at work a new woman. Hair spruced and volumized with some dry shampoo, lipstick applied, and khaki leggings traded in for a jaunty floral skirt.
“Well, don’t you look smashing. Like a delightful little daffodil.” Gordon forces me into a dancey spin. “The Mountie is picking you up here then?”
I nod and press my lips into a small smile, trying to keep the shake I feel in them in check. “I haven’t done this in a long time.”
“I know, babydoll,” he says and gives me a hug and a pat on the top of the head. “It’ll be okay. You’ll be swell—you’ll be great—”
And then he breaks into a rendition of “Everything’s Coming Up Roses”—his Ethel Merman impression spot on—that has me gasping for air and forgetting all about the tightness in my chest.
Samantha brings Cliff back as we’re midchorus, and I can tell she’s still taken aback by him with that trace of a blush she’s got blooming on her cheeks.
“Getting in the spirit of things for this musical we’re about to see?” Cliff cracks a smile and runs a hand through his wind-tossed hair, unencumbered by Product or really anything that could hold him back.
I find myself jealous of how free it is, how easy everything about his demeanor is, and I vow right here to be light and fun and not bogged down by rules tonight. I turn my phone on silent and slide it into a pocket of my purse.
“Just have her home by ten,” Gordon says in a dad tone, and we all have a cliché little chuckle.
“Cocktails first?” I ask.
“A woman after my own heart,” is Cliff’s reply, and we’re off.
A small glass of wine at this swanky hole-in-the-wall helps me let go of some of the tension I’ve been carrying with me for, I don’t know, twenty-nine years? I decide not to drink a hundred more, however. I want to approach this night—approach this guy—like it could really go somewhere. We’ve already done the drunken hookup thing. We know that works. What will things be like (largely) sober?
Likewise, I’ve been twenty different people in the last few years, tailoring conversations to fit others’ likes, others’ wants, what I think will work with their dates.
So who am I anymore?
I really listen as Cliff talks about his family. He’s from Yonkers, thankyouverymuch, Isla! Two older sisters and a younger brother. Engaged once, never married.
He doesn’t seem to mind being real with me—doesn’t avoid eye contact when he discusses why the marriage never happened (she cheated with his boss, and so he left them both)—doesn’t seem to be bothered by letting someone in.
He’s the total opposite of me, but it’s catching. I find myself feeling the swirl of fairy dust in my chest, feeling lucky that, despite how walled I’ve been, how stupid, how unbending in terms of my rules, this guy wants to be here, right now, with me.
It’s not that I’m not worthy; hello—obvi I am!
The two of us meander down New Hampshire Avenue, weaving in and out of families with strollers, clusters of teens and college townies, and old couples who are so comfortable with each other and have likely seen so much of the world that they know better than we do that you don’t need to rush your way everywhere—and maybe that’s why they walk so slowly. I squeeze close to him, fingers threaded through his, as we narrowly escape getting mowed down by a band of roller bladers and skateboarders.
And it’s nice to feel protected.
“This is nice,” I let slip.
“What? The walk?”
“No—yes—” I chuckle. “Everything.” I draw a breath and take in the delicious smell of butter and fried dough wafting in the warm breeze from the pretzel cart.
I know I’m supposed to be able to protect myself—and I can, and do, every day of my life—but it would be nice to share that burden. To have someone else give a fuck if you’re getting catcalled by a street vendor.
I take notice when he makes me walk on the inside of the sidewalk. When he says “No thanks” to the folks handing out flyers for shitty bands at shitty dive bars and shitty indie art exhibitions done by shitty college student wannabes and God knows what else.
Not that I wouldn’t probably enjoy attending those things on the right day, but we’re in first date mode, even though it’s probably technically our fifth? He’s showing me who he is, what he’s made of, and he’s a man. And he’s cognizant of our surroundings. Respectful of me. Taking care of me.
It’s not douchey and it’s not controlling. It’s nice.
It’s nice, having someone else have my back for a change. And I really don’t want to have to admit this to Isla or to Gordon, because of the endless litany of I told you so’s the admission will be met with, but I’ll suck it up.
“I concur,” Cliff purrs in my ear, sending shocks down my side.
By the time we reach the Kennedy Center, I’m all hopped up on Cliff. On everything.
The maroon velvet draped about the theater, the ornate crystal of the chandeliers, which dim as the show starts. Everything is bright and vivid and beautiful here.
We watch the musical that’s just as Old Broadway dreamy and romantic as this night has become, and even though I’d normally eye-roll it away and opt to hate-watch it, scoff every time a character broke into song (you know, like an asshole), the mellow sounds of the strings, the descant of the violins, the tinker of the piano sweeps me away right along with it.
I don’t know what’s happening, and I know there’s a version of me somewhere looking down on the scene and judging me, wondering if I’ve been drugged somehow, but I decide that part of me needs to lighten up.
I lean in close to Cliff and whisper, “This feels really…” But I don’t know how to finish the sentence and the fact that I’m allowing myself to feel this way makes my stomach drop out from under the plush seat.
He finishes my thought with a small kiss that only makes things worse (better?), and nuzzles into my neck. Rests his head there for the remainder of the show.
When we reach the outside of my apartment, I’m sad the date’s over. I want more of this. More of him. More of everything I’ve just allowed in.
And like he’s heard my thoughts, a sheepish little grin flickers on his face. “I know we agreed to just make it like a first date so I’m not coming in…” He laughs, looks down at his Sperrys. “But it’s still early. Do you wanna get some pie or something?” His dimples deepen.
“Hell yeah, I want to get some pie.”
We stroll to this little shop I know, almost as slowly as the old couples strolled earlier. Definitely as carefree. And even though I haven’t been drinking, not since that first glass of vino at the start of the night, I feel compelled to express my feelings. They’re bubbling up too much for me to keep in at the moment.
Before I do, I see the rules flash, one by one, in the space between us, but I ignore them and eat my damn slice of lemon meringue.
“This is weird,” I say.
His eyes take on an innocent sadness. Big. Glassy.
“No,” I correct. “I mean me. This. I never let myself do this. I’m so—”
“Closed off?” He grins and shovels in a giant bite of banana cream that makes his cheeks puff out, like a six-year-old would do.
I nod. “Exactly. So it’s just weird how I can sit here and allow myself to get swept up in things, given how cynical and practical I generally try to be. Some sweet words from a cute guy and, whoosh, my sense can go out the window—mine—me—which, I know the person I am in the morning will dismiss it all away as dumb, hopeless romantic stuff. But tonight, I can take something like this, a night like this, and think it’s a little bit magic. When sense and reason tell me it’ll be gone tomorrow.”
I manage to meet his gaze after all that, the brambles of self-consciousness for Actual Emoting beginning to coil around my heart, but this word vomit doesn’t seem to have fazed him. He slides the fork from his mouth and bops me on the end of the nose with it.
“That’s why I’m not letting you go tonight.”
* * *
No idea why I sneak into my own damn apartment the next morning, my heels in my hands, a song in my head like I’m back at Ole Miss and trying to slip past our house mom.
Despite my effort, the floor creaks beneath my feet and gives me away anyway, and a guffaw echoes out from the bathroom.
“Naughty naughty,” Gordon singsongs, but I can hear the merriment in his voice.
“Shut up.” I chuckle. “Things turned out…better than expected.”
For the rest of the day, that same little waltz, that fluid, swelling melody worthy of a Cary Grant movie plays on. As I shower, the glow of my skin doesn’t rinse off; it brightens. I’m giddy with every nothing little text Cliff sends me. Suddenly he can do no wrong. I hear myself chattering on like a rhesus monkey to Gordon—to Renée—to the mailman—to anyone who’ll listen. It was so funny when he…Oh, that reminds me of something Cliff said…
Gag. I know.
A part of me hates myself for it, but the part of me I thought I’d killed a long time ago just emanates out of every pore and can’t stop. I’ve taken a hit, and now I’m hooked. Addicted. I’m a helpless mess of happiness.
Someone please kill me.
* * *
I even cave when Roger Van de Kamp comes a-calling. He struts around the whole store, hands clasped behind him, a slow pace as he navigates his way around the shelves.
A general, about to address the ranks.
“Blanche,” he finally says, and I file in at attention.
“Reporting for duty.”
His hearty laugh fills the entire place.
“What do you say we go to dinner tonight and discuss the details of this promotion I was telling you about?”
From behind the whale of a man, Gordon, Renée, and Damon squeeze hands like Miss USA Pageant contestants waiting to hear who’s won second runner-up. G’s biting on the end of his skinny tie, his eyes about to pop out of his head, and I stifle a giggle at their drama.
“That sounds lovely.” I stick out my hand like someone I don’t even recognize. But I might as well hear what the man has to say.
And how much of a pay raise I’d be getting.
When boss man is gone, we flit around like happy little bees when my phone starts ringing, an incessant, angry buzz that cuts through the air and rings in my ears.
Graham.
“Hello?” I sing. I’m still high. Still sickening.
“I’m sorry to bug you at work,” he says, tone urgent, “but it’s Isla.”
Chapter 18
When I reach the hospital, Graham’s pacing the waiting room, coffee in hand. Olivia and Ella are stationed at a coffee table in the waiting room, making a mess of apparently every magazine and brochure they’ve got in the place.
Or maybe every one ever printed.
“How’s she doing?” I rush to hug him.
Graham pulls me tight and I feel the relief in his exhale as he holds me there longer than he normally does.
“She’s okay now. Just resting.”
The girls notice my presence and we deal with them—I crack a few jokes, give a few tickles—but I see in my periphery that Graham’s leg never stops swinging as we sit in the uncomfortable chairs and try to act Normal.
“What happened?” I whisper when the kids are bored of me and back to playing library or whatever it is they’re make-believing with their haul.
He doesn’t blink as he relays it. Just stares out into middle space, shaking his head, his voice low, I guess for the girls’ sake, a note of defeat within it.
“I decided to come home for lunch today. To surprise her. Sometimes I’ll do that. You know.”
He loses himself in thought, and I just give him the time to compose himself. My heart pounding.
“She…she was a mess of blood on the kitchen floor. The kids were watching something in the playroom. They didn’t know. She fell. She had a fall. While she was washing our stupid wineglasses from last night. I told her I’d do the dishes when I got home, but she can never just leave them.”
He presses his eyes shut at long last and then faces me.
“She couldn’t get up. I don’t know how long she was just lying there.” His voice breaks at the end of that sentence, and he clears his throat. Glances back over at the girls. “She could barely move, barely speak. I guess she lost her balance standing there at the sink and she tried to right herself as she went down—flailed around for the counter and a bunch of fucking glasses went crashing to the floor. Cut her up pretty bad. A couple of real deep ones, but the doctor said it probably looked worse than it was.”
He swipes at his forehead and closes his eyes.
I rearrange myself in the chair with my legs up under me. “So they think this fall has to do with—”
“Yes,” he snaps, then immediately recoils. “I’m sorry. I just—”
“It’s okay.” I touch tentative fingertips to his forearm. “What can I do to—”
“There’s nothing any of us can do. That’s the thing. We knew this was happening. We knew there was no way to stop it. Now we’re at the starting stages of that point where maybe she can’t be left alone. Can’t take care of the kids.” His eyes well, but he closes them tight before the moisture can spill over.
I think back to Dee and Su and what they said in the car, and a new surge of guilt washes over me.
“I just—I don’t know what to do.” He makes little explosions with both his hands, another shake of the head, and he goes into a trance like he’s envisioning the scene out in front of him.
“Are they keeping her?”
“Here?” He nods. “Overnight at least for observation.”
“Good.” I offer a warm smile. “Listen, why don’t you give me your key and I’ll go over there and clean the place up, okay? So you don’t have to worry about coming back to a mess or something dangerous with the glass everywhere or something scary for the girls. Okay?”
He wraps his arms around me and allows the dam to break free. I hold him as tightly as I can, trying to control my own tears, trying to be strong for him, trying to convey through my embrace that they can count on me. I’m steady. I’m impenetrable. I’m here.
“We’re going to figure this out,” I finally say. “Okay?”
He nods against my shoulder.
“I promise.”
* * *
At the brownstone, I brace myself for what’s to come. It’s not quite the homicide scene I pictured, but it is a bloody mess. Broken glass litters the floor, big shards, small shards glittering in the overhead lights. Dried blood, brown and spattered, all over the tiles.
I can see why Graham thought Isla was about to bleed out, though, and likewise, I can understand just how scary this must be. The reality they’re now facing. It went from a diagnosis, just words, a prediction of what things might come… to this.
With some elbow grease and some Pledge, the place is spic-and-span once again, the countertops gleaming, the floor shining (and I’m thinking good thoughts about the mat, hoping—fingers crossed—that the stain lifter and hot water work their magic on that one).
I’m just twisting the garbage bag closed and getting ready to call it an evening when I hear th
e latch on the front door open and the sounds of little voices echo through the foyer.
“Hey, guys, I—” I start.
Henry.
“Are you ever not startled to see me?” he asks, looking very high-power in a sleek charcoal suit.
“Are you ever not surprising me with your presence?”
“Touché.”
He’s got a fast-food bag in one hand and Ella’s hand in the other. Livvy’s already making herself comfortable at the table and demanding milk.
“Graham’s staying the night there?”
He gives the girls a furtive glance and me a quick nod.
“Right. Well, I’ll get out of your—”
“Aren’t you gonna stay, Auntie B?” Liv and those giant eyes.
“Well, I have a thing I’m supposed to be—” But who can argue with that. “I guess…” I shrug toward Henry like, What do you think?
“The more the merrier,” he says with a smile.
I put up the one-minute finger. “I just need to make a quick call.”
When I get outside, I see I’ve missed three calls from Ansley, but I decide I’ll respond later. Even though I’m smitten with Clifford the Big Hot Lobbyist, I still don’t think I want to hear about the steamy weekend she and Henry had. It’s bad enough having to look at him, all tan, right now through the window.
Roger Van de Kamp is surprisingly understanding about me needing to reschedule our business dinner. “We can try again for tomorrow,” he says, and I get the feeling it might not be all that terrible to work for him at the corporate level. Who knew opening my mind even a smidgen would open up all this Opportunity?
All through dinner, since it’s on my mind, I decide to tell Henry about the job. He nods and seems enthusiastic as he makes chewing noises and finishes off the hunks of chicken nuggets the girls won’t eat.
Cliff calls as we’re finishing up, and I let him know I’ll call him back in a bit—he’s concerned about Isla, which is sweet—and I’ll catch him up on everything later.
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