The Ground Rules: Undone

by Roya Carmen

  “She loves it,” I remind Chloe. “It makes her feel special. She’s proud to be your little sis.”

  “Ugh,” is all Chloe says before she scurries off, a book in hand.

  What she doesn’t realize is how lucky she is. What I wouldn’t have given to have a sister, a built-in BFF. I’m so happy I found Gwen. She’s my best-friend-forever, my confidante. So why can’t I tell her about this? I know she’ll be shocked and most certainly not impressed with me. But still…

  I sigh as I pack a few pairs of shorts and t-shirts, a pair of wedges, a summer dress and a cover-up.

  I need to tell her. I’m sure she’ll understand. It was an accident…a twist of fate. Maybe she could share some of her wisdom, tell me what I should do.

  I wince as I imagine confiding in her. Of course, she’ll ask what the hell I was thinking, ask me if I have completely lost my mind. Her voice will be loud and her arms will most likely flail. And I’ll most likely be sobbing.

  On second thought, I decide as I stuff my toiletries bag in the already too-stuffed luggage…maybe I just won’t tell her quite yet.

  My spirits lift as soon as I spot the gorgeous blue clapboard beach house in the distance. It seems so long since we were all here together.

  As we turn into the driveway, the girls squeal in unison. “We’re here!”

  Gwen runs out to greet us as soon as we turn off the engine. She looks comfy in super-short jeans cut-offs and a light blue V-neck tee. She looks so relaxed, not a care in the world. How I wish I could be her right now.

  She goes in for a hug as soon as I’m out of the car. “How was the drive?”

  “Great,” I tell her and shoot Greg a smile. He’s giving Gabe a hand with the luggage.

  Gwen steals a hug or two from Claire and Chloe. “You are both getting so big,” she tells them, “and so beautiful.”

  As soon as I step into the cozy beach house, I almost forget all my problems. I drop my over-stuffed beach bag on the striped entry rug, and take in the light and airy shabby-chic interior. It’s chock-full of old painted furniture; armoires, a coffee table, and chairs which are so charmingly rustic and quaint. They look like they’ve been picked at a flea-market sale on the side of the road for a steal. But I know for a fact that she spent a small fortune on each and every one of those pieces at various posh décor stores.

  This takes me back to Hawaii, but I feel so much more laid-back than I did then. I could actually relax here. As beautiful as Weston and Bridget’s place in Hawaii was, I felt myself tense as soon as I walked in. With its sleek lines, high-end streamlined modern pieces, and wide open spaces with million dollar views, it was very intimidating — much like Weston and Bridget can sometimes be.

  Gwen urges us in and we plop down on the plush white linen covered sofas. I suck in a deep breath of beach air as I sit back and take in the ceiling with its large beams and gigantic wrought iron light fixture. “I am so happy to be here.”

  She smiles. “Would you guys like a drink?” she asks, ever the charming hostess. “How about a beer for you, Gabe?”

  Gabe stretches his long legs out on the old, dilapidated rustic (ironically super expensive) coffee table. “Sure.” He catches my eye for a second. He looks really good in his beige linen pants and thin white tee. His shirt stretches across his shoulders and the tattoo on his arm peeks through, just ever-so-slightly.

  I bite my bottom lip, thinking it’s been way too long.

  Gwen hands lemonades all around, to me and the girls. And Gabe has one of Greg’s fancy-ass imported beers.

  “Cheers,” Gwen exclaims, throwing her glass of lemonade up into the air.

  And we all join in, smiles on our faces. “Cheers. Cheers. Cheers.”

  We spend most of the day at the beach. The girls have a blast, swimming in the waves of Lake Michigan, building sand castles, and sun bathing. I can already see their olive skin getting darker and I slather SPF 60 on my light freckled skin. Gabe certainly has his fun too as he twirls the girls up in the air over the waves. The squeals of their laughter almost drown out the conversation between Gwen and me. We don’t talk about much, mind you — just the usual — what we’ve been up to, the new cute dress she bought (which she tells me she’ll show me later), the new movies playing. And all I want is to tell her I’m having a baby…Weston’s baby. And I’m going literally insane. I desperately want to ask her what to do.

  But I put on a brave smile and listen, and nod at all the right places. I hope I’m doing a great job. I hope no one can tell something’s seriously up with me.

  I explore the waters for a spell, hidden in my black tankini. I’m not showing yet, thank God. But still, I can’t help but feel like they can all see. Gabe grabs me by the hips and throws me in. He’s got a good throw because I go flying off in the air. There’s really no dilly-dallying with him around — you just go straight in the water, whether you want to or not. The water is freezing, but it feels great. For a few seconds, I can almost forget.

  We have a feast for dinner. Greg’s a good cook. Gwen has sure scored with this guy. Greg is a good man and she’s very lucky to have him. When I first met the two of them, I was surprised. I expected a gorgeous trophy-husband — the tall, dark and handsome type. And Greg’s not quite that. But I also thought they were the cutest couple on the planet. They’re very close — always hugging and giving each other pecks on the cheek. There doesn’t seem to be much drama between them like there is between Gabe and I. Gwen never has any stories, never shows up at work heartbroken over a silly fight, never has juicy ‘kiss and make up’ stories. No, those are more my thing. I’m not sure if their marriage is as passionate as ours — because she never talks about the sex, which is odd, because Gwen talks about everything, especially sex. A beautiful, sophisticated woman like Gwen could probably have any man she wanted, and she chose wisely indeed. Sometimes, having a gorgeous husband only leads to trouble. And I’m most definitely the perfect example of that. If Bridget hadn’t liked the looks of Gabe so much, we wouldn’t find ourselves in the situation we’re in today.

  I take a seat on one of the white linen covered chairs at the rustic round table. “Be super careful, girls,” I warn Chloe and Claire. “I don’t want a drop on these nice white chairs.” It seems like an odd choice for dining table chairs, but it does add to the whole look — the heavenly light and airy rustic beach house vibe. Gwen and Greg set the platters of grilled chicken skewers, corn on the cob, strawberry salad, and grilled peppers on the table.

  “Wow. Thank you so much guys,” I tell them. “I feel like I’m at a five-star resort.”

  Gwen laughs. “Just wait ‘til you see the bill.”

  Gabe smiles as he helps himself to an enormous amount of food.

  “I hope you’ve made a lot,” I tell Greg. “Gabe can pack it in.”

  Greg helps himself to some salad. “Oh, there’s plenty,” he says with a wide smile.

  Gabe shoots me a quick wink.

  And I’m completely taken aback when my stomach does a tiny flip.

  The guys are still playing cards. My lids are heavy as Gwen tells me, yet again, about her mother-in-law — she has a lot of stories. Whenever I hear her horror stories, I’m glad my own in-laws are relatively normal, nice people. We don’t see them too often, but when we do, everything’s cool.

  But I know they’re about to hate me. When the truth comes out, everyone will know I’ve been with another man. They’ll know what a tramp I’ve become, that I’ve turned into my mother, controlled by lust. They’ll know I’ve turned my back on my husband and my girls. They’ll hate me. Everyone will hate me. And I deserve to be hated.

  It’s still bright out, the sunset beautiful. But I just can’t seem to stay awake.

  Gwen stops mid-sentence, and tells me I look exhausted.

  “I’m sorry,” I apologize. “I’ve been really tired lately.”

  “No problem, sweetie.” She eyes me with a curious look. It’s only about nine o’clock.

 
“I should probably get the girls and myself to bed.”

  She sets her fruity drink down on the coffee table. “Sure. We’ll chat tomorrow.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I tuck the girls into the two wrought iron vintage twin beds. They look so cozy, wrapped up in the old whimsical blue and yellow quilts. Claire hugs Bitzy, who is tucked in comfortably under the crook of her arm.

  “Good night, sweetie. Love you,” I whisper as I kiss her forehead.

  “Good night,” she says, “love you.”

  And then I lean in to my left, and repeat the whole ritual with Chloe. It’s like Groundhog Day.

  Gabe comes in quickly to kiss them goodnight. He kisses me too as he leaves the playful room — a sweet peck on the forehead.

  As I turn off the light before I step out, my throat grows thick and a tear streams down my cheek.

  God, what have I done?

  I’m exhausted, yet surprisingly, I lay here on the striped sheets, awake…edgy. I don’t think about Weston tonight. I can’t stop thinking about Gabe. I want him to join me in this delicious bed. I want to be in his arms. But I know he’s still playing cards with Greg.

  The air is chilly and I bury myself into the crisp linens. The moonlight filters through the window and the beautiful white room is drenched in a soft blue tinged darkness. My gaze drifts to the old brick fireplace, painted white, and unused. The cool sleek vase filled with dry branches casts weird shadows along the bead board covered walls. The black and white vintage photos of flowers are just abstract shapes now, lost in the darkness. Yet, I still study them, trying to make out the details.

  And after what seems like eternity, I finally drift off thinking about Gabe’s strong arms wrapped around me.

  It’s a beautiful summer day. A soft breeze blows, easing the heat of the sun. The lake is calm today. I take in the beauty surrounding me and try to hold on to it, to let it fill my thoughts, and help me forget the reality of my life. Just a second of happiness, free of worry and remorse, that’s all I want. But I can’t quite hold on to it. It slips from me because I won’t let myself have it — I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve even a second of joy.

  “I like your swim suit, Mommy,” Claire tells me, all smiles. “I like the polka dots.” She’s busy working on her masterpiece — Cinderella’s ‘sand’ castle.

  I’m gathering rocks to build a big gate to circle the castle. And Chloe has gone to fetch some water. “We kind of match,” I point out. “You’ve got polka-dots too.”

  She looks down and studies her cute two-piece pink and white suit, her eyes fixed on her adorable belly comfortably hanging over the band of her bottoms. “We do. We match,” she says with a squeal, her gap-toothed smile making my heart sink — she and her sister are so carefree today, so happy.

  We lived such an idyllic life. Such a perfect life. But it wasn’t good enough for me, was it? No, I needed excitement, passion, fancy dresses, and overpriced scallops. I can barely stand myself. I hate myself.

  Here is my baby, sitting next to me — I am her whole world. Her whole life consists of Gabe and I, and her sister. And all I’ve been thinking about is how my life is about to change. But what about hers? And Chloe’s?

  The lump in my throat grows and pricks. My eyes fill with tears and I know I can’t let her see me like this, because I know she’ll ask me what’s wrong. And I don’t want to lie to her too.

  I race to the lake, the rocks hard under the soles of my feet. As I plunge into the lake, the cold water cuts, but my thoughts are more painful — visions of the end of a marriage, the breakdown of a family — custody arrangements, kids shuffled back and forth, and endless fighting.

  I’m crying as I dive into the lake. My tears dissolve into the cold waters of Lake Michigan unseen.

  They all look so delicious — rows of homemade spreads in glass jars, gussied up with pretty vintage inspired labels; strawberry-rhubarb, blueberry, raspberry. I can’t pick just one. I’m in heaven in this quaint, little treasure of a market bustling with people.

  “I love those spreads on crackers with a little cream cheese,” Gwen tells me as she passes by me with a basket full of fresh produce. “Yummy.”

  “I think I’m going to buy all three. I can’t choose.”

  She lets out a huge sigh as she pulls the crumpled piece of paper out of her pocket. “Greg made me this list. I need to get Portobello mushrooms,” she says. “I have no idea…”

  I smile at her. “Come with me. I’ll show you.”

  As I help her pick the mushrooms, I smile at her again. “You’re lucky Greg cooks.”

  She laughs. Her big smile usually always calms me. But today…

  I trail my finger along the edge of the old wooden crates full of fresh produce. I like the cute little black tags — the prices are hand-written in white chalk.

  I haven’t had a chance to tell her. We haven’t been alone since I got here. When she suggested I join her into town to grab a few provisions, I wondered if it would be a good opportunity.

  But I haven’t had the courage just yet.

  I trail behind her as we walk to the register. The place is busy and we stand in line making chit-chat. She tells me all about the town and our plans for the weekend, and I listen intently. I realize this is really not the spot to have the conversation I really want to have. So I wait.

  A diminutive elderly man cuts in front of us — all decked out in a short sleeved button shirt with suspenders and a bowtie. His pants are hemmed too short and his black shoes are so shiny, they practically blind me. With furrowed brows, Gwen shoots him a dirty look.

  As I edge in closer, my arm brushes hers. “He’s about a hundred years old,” I whisper. “How can you be angry with him? He’s so adorable.”

  She laughs. “Yes, quite the charmer. A little old for you but…”

  I smile at her and nudge her in the ribs. “I’ve got my hands full already with two.”

  “Oh really,” she says. Her body stiffens as she turns to me. “I thought you were down to one now. Isn’t it all over with Mr. omewrecker?”

  I bite my lip. “Mr. Homewrecker…I haven’t heard that one before.”

  I tear my gaze away from hers, and take in the quaint store with its rustic barn board shelves lined with homemade pies, sauces, jams, and pastries.

  And I sulk. She’s such a drag when it comes to Weston.

  We finally make it to the register and the sullen teenage girl asks Gwen if she’s brought a recyclable bag. When Gwen tells her she hasn’t, the surly girl pulls out a wrinkled disposable plastic bag from under her counter and gives her a whole little speech about the ozone layer and something about sea turtles eating plastic bags thinking they’re jelly fish and choking to death.

  When my turn is up, the first thing I do is apologize to the crabby girl for my lack of a recyclable bag. “I’m so sorry. I’m a horrible human being. I’ll just stuff these jars in my purse.”

  The stud in her bottom lip catches my eye as she stares a hole in my head. She takes my money and gives me the change without a single sound — not a single ‘thank you’ or ‘come again’.

  We scurry out, happy to be out of there, and nip our way through the vacationers and tourists.

  I try to stuff the jars into my already too-jammed bag. “I really liked that place until we got to the register.”

  Gwen wobbles slightly on her tall wedges. “Yeah, self-righteous much?”

  “Preachy-preachy.”

  “I mean, I feel bad about the turtles” she says, “but I kind of want to go back to the cottage and grab all my plastic bags, and go back in there and throw them at her face.”

  I blow out a breath. “I’m pregnant,” I blurt out.

  “The little self-righteous b—”

  She jerks to a stop — a tall gangly man almost crashes into her. “Uh, sorry,” he mumbles as he makes his way around us with a furrowed brow.

  She fixes me with wide eyes. “What? What did you just say?”
r />   I wince, not wanting to say the words again. “I’m pregnant.”

  I’m not sure why I chose to go about it this way — fast and furious. I think I just wanted to get it done with.

  She drops her bags on the ground. Thump. Thump. “Since when? How far along?”

  “About eight weeks.” My gaze is still glued to the bags on the ground. I can’t quite seem to look at her.

  “How did this happen?” It’s the exact same question I’ve asked myself about a thousand times. “Weren’t you on the pill?”

  I grab her bags and make my way to the closest bench I can find. She takes a seat next to me, a deer-in-headlights look still plastered all over her face.

  I tell her everything. And she listens without a word. I think she’s just too shocked to comment. I tell her about New York, the stomach flu, and the doctor’s appointment.

  She rests a hand on my knee. “You haven’t told Gabe yet?”

  I look away. “I can’t. I just don’t want to mess things up.”

  “But sweetie, you really need to tell him.”

  I shake my head. “I can’t. This could break us,” I tell her. Does she not realize this? Does she not realize what’s at stake here? “I’m just waiting a few more weeks, and then we’ll see what happens.”

  She brings her hand to her opened mouth. “Are you considering…”

  I bite back a tear, feeling the lump in my throat grow even bigger. “I don’t think so…”

  She winces. “Oh Mirella, I know you…”

  The tears finally make their way to the surface. “I know, but there are so many people to consider.”

  She wraps an arm around me. “You shouldn’t make this decision by yourself. Talk to Gabe.”

  I bury my face in her chest, and hold her tightly. I know if I had a mother, she’d be the one my face would be pressed against today, the one sitting with me on a bench, soaking in my tears. But as it stands, despite the fact that she’s five years younger than me, Gwen is the closest thing to a mother that I have.

  CHAPTER THREE