Good Luck with That

by Kristan Higgins

  “Well . . . sort of? Have you done that, by the way?”

  “No,” she admitted. “I have to. Camden, I guess. No one else leaps to mind. I told Will off, but now I’m not sure he needed it.” At my questioning look, she said, “I thought he was fat-prejudiced, and I basically reamed him another orifice. But he’s not. It’s weird. He told me I was fat.”

  “What?” I sputtered.

  “And I am.”

  “He can’t just say that, though! It’s so rude! ‘Fat’ is a four-letter word.”

  “He’s kind of . . . odd. His point was that I am, which is true, even if he shouldn’t have said it so bluntly. But also that it didn’t matter to him at all. I mean, he definitely finds me attractive, since we’re sleeping together, right? He told me I was luscious the other night.”

  “Luscious. I like that.”

  She smiled. “Yeah, I’m definitely hoping he’s different. And yet we haven’t gone out together in public, so maybe he’s not.” She paused. “Did Rafe have a problem with your weight?”

  “I was pretty skinny when we were together,” I said. “So no.” That wasn’t fair. “I was the one who had a problem with it,” I admitted. “He didn’t understand my food . . . issues. He thought if he found me attractive, it should outweigh everything else. Forgive the pun.”

  “He’s so evil.” She smiled, and I did, too, a little.

  “Hardly. Just kind of . . . obtuse? I only knew him a year before we got married. He couldn’t undo the twenty-six years that happened before he met me.”

  “My mother still fights with my aunt over who was my grandfather’s favorite. They say things like, ‘Well, you think you’re better because you’re the oldest,’ or, ‘Don’t think I’ve forgotten that you made eyes at Danny Kazinski when you knew I liked him.’” She fondled Admiral’s silky ears, earning a doggy groan of happiness. “Maybe we never get over what happened when we were little.”

  “Are you talking about Frankie?”

  She shrugged. “I was a twin, and now I’m not a twin anymore. I carry that with me every day. Maybe that’s why I’m overweight. I was eating for two.”

  There was a scary honesty to what she had just said . . . Marley had told me how tiny Frankie had been, and I’d seen the pictures. Maybe Marley’s weight issues all stemmed from that—her little girl self had eaten what the smaller twin could not. Though it went against my WASPy nature, I got up and hugged her. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  She wiped her eyes, the eternal weeper. “Well. Like I said, the stuff that happened back then is tough to shake. So what will you say to Rafe?”

  I sat back down. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t have asked him to talk. I just wanted to . . . I don’t know. Explain. Apologize.”

  “The whole marriage implosion wasn’t just your fault, Georgia. It takes two to tango.”

  “Not really. He was . . .” My throat tightened. “He was wonderful. Is wonderful. He came to that talent show for Mason.”

  Marley pulled a face. “Well, he’s not perfect. He divorced you, after all. Plus, he’s very ugly, and that accent.” She mock-shuddered. “Couldn’t cook for shit, either.”

  “You’re very kind.” I paused and took a sip of coffee, bracing as it hit the sore spot in my gut. “So. Any clue what I should say tonight?”

  “I still love you, you’re wonderful, I’m sorry?” she suggested.

  My heart rolled at the thought. “Yeah. I can’t. It wouldn’t be fair. It’s been five years, and he has someone else. Heather.”

  “Well, you have someone else, too. The Kennedy who doesn’t remember you.”

  I closed my eyes. Evan. Ironically, I barely remembered him, now that we were sort of dating. It was a mutually forgetful relationship. He was in Los Angeles for a few days (weeks?), doing whatever it was he did. I was still playing a game of mental chicken, waiting to see which of us broke first—either he’d remember me, or I’d admit I remembered him. Otherwise, there wasn’t a lot there.

  Rafe, on the other hand . . . The thought of being alone with him made adrenaline flow through my joints, making my legs wobbly and weak. I hadn’t been able to eat a thing today, and I sure hadn’t slept last night.

  But hey. I looked great. The doctor even said so.

  I flopped back against the couch “I wish we were lesbians. We’re perfect together. It would be so much easier than dealing with men.”

  She laughed and leaned forward for a fist bump. “I’m in. Look how well my mother took Dante being gay. She already loves you, besides.” She sat back. “Don’t worry about what to say to Rafe. The words will come.”

  Turned out, they wouldn’t. At least, not when I needed them to.

  CHAPTER 30

  Georgia

  Tuck in a shirt.

  (God. This is so shallow, but I get it. I do.)

  At three thirty, I got to Pamplona, which Google had informed me was on Leonard Street in Tribeca. My eyes welled up at the sight of it—everything he’d once talked about wanting was here.

  The restaurant was on the ground floor of a beautiful sandstone building from the turn of the twentieth century, ornate without being ridiculous. Through the windows, I could see the walls were painted a deep blue, bright paintings on the walls.

  Because I didn’t want him to know I was early, I walked down Church Street, then up Greenwich. I was cold, probably from nerves. It was a cloudy October day, and the wind seemed to blow right into my bones as it stripped yellow leaves from the trees. Then again, I’d worn one of the outfits my mom had bought me yesterday—God, was it just yesterday? Seemed like eons ago. I’d put on makeup, skinny jeans, and yes, I’d tucked in my shirt, which was white silk. I wore the black suede booties and a strand of my grandmother’s pearls. I looked . . . good.

  I felt horrible.

  My heart was racing. My brain kept skittering away from the looming confrontation. I wasn’t even sure why I was here.

  That last fight we had . . . the one that finally ended our brief, unhappy marriage . . . ugly things had been said. By me. Just remembering them now, those unkind, untrue things that were branded on my heart, made me close my eyes in a dizzy wave of self-loathing.

  You’re so smug. You think you’re perfect. I have no space to breathe. You call it love, but you’re suffocating me . . . And the last, the one that broke him, and made him cry.

  This entire marriage has been a waste of time.

  Tossed off as if Rafael Santiago hadn’t been the best thing that ever happened to me.

  My half hour was up. I turned back onto Leonard Street and saw him standing in front of the restaurant, dressed in his chef uniform, and my heart tried to break through my ribs.

  “Hello, Georgia,” he said. He wasn’t smiling today.

  “Thank you for meeting me.”

  “Of course.” He gave an old-world nod. “I thought it would be more private if we were not in my place of business. There is a quiet café just down the block here.” He gestured for me to go first.

  We went into a little bar—I’d forgotten that Rafe called all bars cafés—and sat down. It was mostly empty.

  I was out of breath, and now a cold sweat had broken out on my forehead. My pulse had to be in the danger zone.

  “Hi, guys. Oh, Rafael! It’s you! Hi!” The server, a middle-aged woman with gray hair, bent down to give him a kiss on each cheek.

  “Georgia, this is Elizabeth, my friend. Elizabeth, this is my former wife, Georgia Sloane.”

  Her expression flickered with disapproval. “What would you like, Rafe?” The snub was noted.

  “An espresso for me. Georgia? Would you like a glass of wine, perhaps?”

  “Sure. A Malbec, please?”

  “Coming up.”

  She went to the bar, and I could feel her eyes on me.

  “Your restaurant is beautiful, Ra
fe,” I said. “I caught a glimpse through the windows.”

  “Please come for dinner sometime.”

  “I . . . I will.” We both knew I wouldn’t. “Cherish loved it.”

  Elizabeth brought the drinks, patted Rafe on the shoulder and went back to the bar.

  “So about what would you like to speak, Georgia?” Rafe asked. There was that perfect grammar. Never underestimate its power.

  I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

  The words were echoing in the beating of my heart. Just say it, stupid, a distant part of my brain urged, but my vision was getting kind of fuzzy and, and . . .

  There was something wrong with me. The clammy sweat was spreading, and the music was too loud and echoing. I could see Rafe’s mouth moving, his eyebrows coming together, those big brown eyes so beautiful. That was all I could see, just his face, nothing else, and I seemed to be floating and—

  “I’m sorry,” I said, and felt myself falling, slowly, so slowly, until the floor was under my cheek.

  * * *

  • • •

  Note: The emergency rooms of big-city hospitals are not romantic places.

  At the moment, I was lying on a gurney in the hallway, having been delivered here by two overly cheerful FDNY paramedics. Where Rafe was, I didn’t know. They didn’t let him ride in the ambulance with me. I think. That part was fuzzy.

  Now sitting across from me was a man with a bloody towel around his foot and what appeared to be at least several toes in a plastic cup. “You think they can reattach these?” he asked me.

  “Um . . . I think so,” I said. Because really, what else do you say?

  “My name’s Earl,” he said, extending a bloody hand.

  “Georgia,” I said, recoiling. “I better not shake your hand. I might, um, have a cold.”

  Someone down the hall was yelling, over and over, “My kids aren’t gonna get nothin’! Nothin’! Nothin’! My kids aren’t gonna get nothin’, because they’re all little shits.” She yelled this rhythmically, and I was considering making it into a song. At the same time, a toddler was screaming in one of the curtained-off areas, and from the sound of it, they were skinning her. An old woman sitting next to Toeless Earl lifted up the neck of her johnny coat. “Are these mine?” she asked me, pointing at her sagging breasts.

  “I’m thinking yes,” I said. I should probably leave. I felt better now. Probably just needed to eat.

  Then I heard footsteps and saw Rafe running toward me.

  “Slow down,” I said. “Don’t want you to miss the sights.”

  He grabbed my hand in both of his. “All you all right?” he asked.

  “I’m fine. Just embarrassed.”

  “You’re not fine,” he said. “You fainted, Georgia. And you look terrible.”

  So much for the new clothes and makeup. His hand felt so good, though. “I should’ve eaten more, that’s all. I skipped lunch.” And breakfast, and dinner the night before. Stupid.

  “Nothin’! Nothin’! My kids aren’t gonna get nothin’!”

  “Have you been sick?” Rafe asked.

  “No. I went to the doctor yesterday.”

  “Well, you look awful.”

  “But the ambulance ride was fun.”

  To my surprise, his eyes filled with tears. “Do not make jokes,” he said harshly.

  “I’m sorry.” A lump in my throat swelled. “You don’t have to stay.”

  “And also do not be ridiculous, or I will call your mother, and she can sit with you.”

  I smiled a little at that. The truth was, I should call my dad or Cherish; they’d be here in a flash. But despite the fact that the old lady had decided to strip off the johnny coat, I couldn’t bring myself to send Rafe away.

  A second later, an orderly wheeled me into a curtained-off exam area. “Doc’ll be right with you,” he lied, sailing out.

  “Please tell them to hurry,” Rafe called after him. “She looks terrible.”

  “Stop saying that.”

  “It’s true. Why have you lost so much weight? Your face is white as the moon. You don’t look healthy, Georgia.”

  “I told you, I didn’t eat much today. I was nervous.”

  “Why? To see me?”

  “Yes.” I looked away.

  “Nothin’! Nothin’! My kids aren’t gonna get nothin’!” Yep. Gonna make that into a rap song.

  Rafe pulled up a chair and sat, taking my hand again. “I’m worried about you.”

  Damn it. My eyes flooded with tears. “I’m really sorry about this.”

  “Stop apologizing. You are not well. Is that why you wanted to see me? To tell me something about your health?”

  “No. It was something different.” I took a shaky breath, and he handed me a tissue. I wiped my eyes.

  It wasn’t on the list, not exactly, but it needed to be done. Now.

  “I . . . I wanted to apologize.”

  He looked at me, an ocean of feeling in those bottomless eyes. Then he looked down.

  “I didn’t know how to be with you,” I whispered. “You were wonderful, and I was scared and insecure and afraid, so I wrecked things.”

  He looked back up at me, and my heart twisted again. “Why were you afraid?”

  “Because I was faking. I wasn’t how I seemed. I wanted you to like me, and love me, so I . . . I tried to be somebody better.”

  “We all do that, sweetheart,” called someone outside my curtain. Earl, I thought. “By the way, nurse, the toes in this cup? They used to be on my feet.” Yes. Definitely Earl. “Think you can get a doctor to see me?”

  Rafe smiled slightly. “The gentleman is right. We all do those things.”

  I nodded, pinching a fold of blanket. “I took it a little far.”

  “How so?”

  That, of course, was the moment the nurse came in. “Hello!” she said. “Time to take some vitals.” She strapped on the blood pressure cuff and pumped away, then released the valve. “Uh-oh. Ninety over fifty-four. That’s a little low for us. Did you drink anything today?”

  “Some water.”

  “She has lost weight and is very pale,” Rafe said.

  “How much weight?” the nurse asked.

  I glanced at Rafe. “I don’t really know.” It was true. I didn’t own a scale. “I went to the doctor yesterday. I’m sure I’m fine.”

  “Bloody stool?”

  What every woman wants to be asked in front of her ex-husband. “No.”

  “Vomiting, diarrhea, stomach pain?”

  “Stomach pain.”

  She tapped a few keys. “Did you have blood drawn yesterday?” she asked. “It might be in our mainframe.”

  “Yes.”

  She tapped away, then frowned. “Well, Jesus, didn’t your doctor call you? Your hemoglobin is pretty low. I’m guessing you have a bleeding ulcer. The doctor will be in real soon.”

  Real soon apparently meant something different in a hospital, which was reassuring. If a team had raced in, I might’ve panicked. The minutes ticked past. I texted Marley, asked her to feed Admiral and let him out, and got an enthusiastic response back.

  Hope this means what I think it means!

  Sorry, pal. It definitely didn’t.

  “So you have been unwell for some time,” Rafe said, his voice tight and angry.

  “I . . . it appears so.”

  We didn’t resume our conversation. He sat by my bed and scowled at me from time to time. Every time I tried to say something, I lost my nerve. Eventually, unable to take those hot Spanish looks anymore, I closed my eyes. Dozed off a little.

  “Hello there.” A resident—Dr. Argawal, according to her coat—came in. She was beautiful and not troublingly young. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  And so I did, explaining the chronic stomach pa
in, loss in appetite. Answered more horrific questions—was my stool ever bloody? Tarry? Black? Did I ever puke up anything that looked bloody? Like coffee grounds?

  “Maybe you could wait in the hall?” I asked Rafe.

  “Absolutely not,” he answered, giving me another scowl.

  “Let’s take a look,” Dr. Argawal said. She slid a tube up my nose, flooded my stomach with fluid (yes, it was gross) and tested it for blood. Then she numbed my throat and slid a tiny camera down the hatch.

  “Thar she blows,” she said. “It’s not terrible, but yes, my dear, you have an ulcer. I don’t think we need to transfuse you; I’m guessing you fainted because you didn’t eat, silly girl, not because of blood loss, and you were really dehydrated. But that ulcer has been bleeding, and we don’t mess around with that. I want you to follow up with a GI doc on Monday. And off the record, I’d recommend you ditch your current GP. This was a no-brainer.”

  I was given an injection of ulcer medication, told to eat bland food for the next two weeks, and handed three prescriptions.

  “Just out of curiosity, have you been under a lot of stress lately?” she asked.

  “Uh . . . yes. My nephew . . . had some trouble.” Rafe’s eyebrows drew together. “Also, a friend died.”

  “Who?” Rafe demanded.

  “Emerson.” My throat tightened.

  His eyes widened. “Oh, no. Georgia, I am so sorry.” He leaned forward and squeezed my hand; his eyes were worried.

  “How’s the nephew doing now?” Dr. Argawal asked.

  “Better.”

  Rafe was looking at me, as ever seeing more than I wanted to show. I couldn’t tell him about Mason . . . not now, not without permission.

  “Good,” said the doctor. “Now, you need to take better care of yourself, okay? Don’t miss any meds—they work wonders. And don’t skip meals. Make sure you drink enough fluids. No aspirin, Motrin or Tylenol until your GI doc clears you. And do not put off that appointment, you hear?”

  I nodded, chastised, and the doctor looked at Rafe. “Check on her a couple times tonight. If there’s any blood in her poop”—I winced; there truly was no dignity in the emergency room—“or if she vomits, you call 911.”