Good Luck with That

by Kristan Higgins

  “Thank you, doctor,” Rafe said. “I will.”

  The doctor shook hands with both of us, then left.

  “I’ll take you to your home,” Rafe said, not looking at me.

  “I’ll go to my father’s.”

  “Your father has two young children who are probably asleep right now and will be all too excited to see you in the morning. You need to rest, and you need to be watched.”

  “I’ll text Marley.”

  “I am staying with you.” I opened my mouth to protest. “Do not bother arguing,” he said. “I am staying with you.”

  Then he did look at me, and I felt it like a punch in the heart. My eyes filled.

  “Georgia,” he said, his voice low. “How could you ignore these problems and neglect yourself this way?”

  I didn’t have a great answer for that.

  It was after midnight when we left the hospital, taking a cab up the West Side Highway. The Empire State Building was lit up in blue—the Yankees had just clinched the Pennant, according to the radio. Even this late, the city seemed to glitter with magic.

  Once upon a time, I’d lived here with the man sitting beside me.

  Maybe he was having those thoughts, too, because as we went over the Henry Hudson Bridge, leaving Manhattan, Rafe took my hand. But he still didn’t say anything.

  I directed the cabbie to my house. Rafe glared at me as I fumbled for my wallet, so I let him pay. Then, feeling shy and exhausted and nervous all at once, we went up the steps. Marley’s was dark, but she’d left a note on the door saying she’d fed Admiral and let him out around nine.

  Rafe had never been to my house before. I unlocked the door. “Welcome,” I said. “This is my doggy, Admiral.”

  “Hello, Admiral,” Rafe said, kneeling down to pet him.

  My dog loved him. I loved him. Everyone loved him. That wasn’t exactly news, but seeing Rafael Santiago’s face being licked by my stately dog . . . well, it wasn’t really fair, was it?

  “Are you hungry?” Rafe asked, standing up.

  “Starving.”

  “Does your stomach hurt?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  He smiled just a little. “Show me to your kitchen, then, please.”

  I did, turning on lights as we went. “Have at it,” I said. “I’m going to take a shower, okay?”

  “Yes. Of course.” He put his hands on his hips, then looked at me. “I am very glad you’re not worse.”

  Then he hugged me, and I slid my arms around his waist and tried not to think about how I smelled like hospital and he smelled like cilantro. Just rested my head against his shoulder and closed my eyes.

  “Call if you need me,” he said, letting go, and I felt so empty without him.

  “Come on, Ad,” I said, and my dog followed me upstairs.

  Twenty minutes later, I smelled like Icelandic moonflower, according to my shower gel, and felt a lot better. Toweled my hair dry and looked in the mirror.

  There were dark circles under my eyes. Then again, Rafe had seen me with a tube up my nose, so this was definitely a better look.

  I got into my favorite Target pajamas—blue with little pink and yellow campers on them—and went downstairs.

  “Ah, perfect timing,” Rafe said. “Pasta with olive oil and Parmesan cheese, no garlic, no pepper, no salt, no spice, I’m afraid. The lady needs a bland diet, and the lady will have one.”

  He’d set the table for two, and so we ate dinner together for the first time since . . . well. Since a long time ago. Even this dinner was delicious, but I filled up after just a few bites.

  “Your home is very welcoming and cheerful,” Rafe said.

  “Thanks. I really love it. I never had a place of my own.”

  His gaze flickered to his plate and back. “Yes.”

  “Where do you live now?” I asked. The lump in my throat threatened, but I mentally shoved it away.

  “I live in SoHo in what was a former factory.”

  “Do you live with your girlfriend?”

  “I do not.”

  The memory of her standing next to Rafe, so confident in her status as his girlfriend, flashed through my head.

  “Her name is Heather?” I asked. As if it hadn’t been seared on my soul that day in the park.

  “Yes.”

  “And she . . . appreciates you?”

  He didn’t answer right away, then said, “Yes. I believe she does.”

  “What does she do for work?”

  “She is a graphic designer and works in advertising. She is thirty-two years old, has one sister and grew up in California. Is there anything else you would like to know about her?”

  It took me a few seconds to ask. “Do you love her?” The stone in my stomach burned.

  Rafe let my question hang there, and with each second, I regretted asking it more. “I think we have talked about her enough,” he finally said. His eyes were steady on mine, his gaze firm. “You, on the other hand, I would like to discuss very much. Shall we continue our conversation from the emergency room?”

  “Right. That.” I took a breath. “I . . . I guess I wanted to say . . .” I never stopped loving you. But what would that do? He’d moved on, and I didn’t blame him. “I wanted to apologize for, um . . . not being a better wife. Better at being married. The truth is, I . . . I thought you were pretty perfect.”

  “And yet you cut me out of your heart within months of marrying me.”

  The words gutted me. “No, Rafe. You’ve always been . . . in my heart.” That sounded like a cheesy song from the ’90s. “I did love you.” Still do.

  “You loved me, but you did not wish to be married to me, to make love, even to talk to me. That does not feel like love, Georgia.” His voice was tight.

  I nodded. Told myself I would absolutely not cry because he was 100 percent right.

  Rafe looked at his plate, idly twirling the pasta. “You said in the hospital you did not know how to be married. What does that mean?”

  The clock over the pantry door ticked. Admiral curled up in his bed near the back door, and everything else was quiet.

  “I always thought that if I told you the truth about me, you’d . . . stop.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Stop loving me. I know that sounds very adolescent and stupid, but, Rafe, you were the first man who ever . . . the only man who ever . . .”

  “Ever what, corazón?”

  God, that name. I wished he wouldn’t use it, and yet, I was so, so glad he had, even if it was just rote. Maybe he called Heather the same thing.

  I swallowed hard. “You were the only man who ever looked at me that way. Ever held my hand. You were the first guy who ever kissed me, who ever called, who ever wanted anything to do with me. And I just didn’t trust it. I thought if you knew . . .”

  So much for the not-crying. I blotted my eyes on my napkin.

  “If I ever knew what?”

  “Knew . . . everything. That my own father, who loved me more than anyone else, still didn’t love me enough to want custody. That my mother was embarrassed by me and my brother hated me and I had all of, I don’t know, four friends in the world and only two I could really talk to. If I told you all that, I was afraid you’d see me differently, so I just . . .”

  “You walled yourself off.”

  My stomach stone burned. Admiral, hating his mommy’s tears, came over and put his head in my lap. “Yes. I’m sorry, Rafe. I loved you, and I never meant to hurt you. I just didn’t know how to . . . how to be.”

  He threw down his fork, the clatter making me jump. “Did it ever occur to you that I am not a stupid man, Georgia? That perhaps I knew exactly who you were and loved you just the same? You are so much more than your mother’s daughter and Hunter’s sister. Do you think I am an idiot, that I did not
know what you were hiding? I loved you with all my heart. You were my home.”

  Once again, his words sliced through me. My stomach pain was nothing compared to this.

  He looked down at his plate. “You say you didn’t mean to hurt me, but for months, you chiseled away at our happiness, locked yourself away from me and made me wonder why you had ever wanted to be with me in the first place. How is that not deliberately hurtful?”

  I pressed my lips together hard. “You’re right. I was terrible. But Rafe, you just don’t know what it’s like, hating the body you’re in. All my life, I’ve tried to hide my physical self, and there was nothing you could do to change that.”

  “I think you have a very distorted view of that physical self, Georgia. Yes, perhaps you gained some weight, but you were never . . .” He paused, maybe starting to realize how hard it was to talk about this stuff. “I always thought you were beautiful.”

  “I know. And believe me, I was grateful. But once a fat girl, always a fat girl. I didn’t want you to know about all that . . . that . . .” I was crying again. “All that self-hatred. All that anger, disgust, all that fear that you’d see me differently if you knew. So you’re right. I walled myself off, and I’m so, so sorry.”

  He drew in a deep breath, then another, not looking at me. “No, I am the one who is sorry. You have been through enough tonight, and I should not have raised my voice.”

  “Do you hate me, Rafe?” My voice shook, but I needed the answer.

  He didn’t answer for a minute, and my whole heart seemed to shrink and go dark. Then he did speak. “For a while, I did, yes.” His voice was gentle. “You broke my heart. But my heart is healed now, so no, I do not hate you, Georgia. Of course not.” He stood up. “Come. Time for you to sleep.”

  I went upstairs, Admiral leading the way, Rafe behind me. He’d never seen my bedroom. Never seen any of my house.

  You were my home.

  I got under the covers, and he put a glass of water on the table. “I will be in the next room,” he said. “Call me if you need anything. I will check on you in a few hours.”

  “Rafe . . .”

  His eyes, which could show every human emotion and then some, were so sad. “Yes?”

  “When I said what I did that last night, when we fought . . . I’ve never said anything less true.”

  He closed his eyes for a second.

  This entire marriage has been a waste of time.

  Those were the words I’d chosen when I should’ve been begging him to forgive me, to understand. When I should’ve opened my heart to him, instead of pretending I didn’t have one.

  I should have said, I love you more than I ever knew I could. You’re the best person I’ve ever met. You are the light of my life. You’re everything to me, Rafael Santiago.

  I could say it now . . . but I didn’t. It was nearly five years too late, and Rafe had someone else in his life. He was only here with me because he was kind, because he couldn’t say no to anyone, even the ex-wife who broke his heart.

  “Thank you,” he said. He dropped a kiss on my forehead, paused, and then kissed me on the lips.

  Just one gentle, brief, perfect kiss, reminding me of everything I’d lost.

  Before I could kiss him back, or pull him closer, or beg him to stay, he stood up, his face shadowed and, without another word, walked to the door and turned off the light, leaving me in the dark.

  * * *

  • • •

  When I woke up the next morning and came downstairs in my pajamas, Rafe stood by the stove, buttering toast. The smell of coffee was thick in the air, and a frying pan of scrambled eggs sat on the stove.

  “This wasn’t necessary,” I said, though my stomach growled. Admiral pressed against me, warm and reassuring.

  “How are you feeling?” Rafe asked.

  “Good. Better. Thank you for everything. For staying here, and . . . well. For everything.”

  “I am very sorry for kissing you. It was inappropriate for many reasons.”

  It always took me by surprise, how other people could just say what was on their minds so easily, so gracefully.

  “I didn’t mind.” And then there were people like me, who gave tepid, disingenuous answers.

  “It was wrong.”

  For him, yes. There was Heather. “Please don’t worry about it, Rafe. You’ve been wonderful.”

  He gave that courtly nod they must teach in Barcelona. “At any rate, put lots of milk in the coffee to take away the acidity, sí? I suspect you should not have any, but I also know you are addicted.”

  “Yes, chef.”

  He gave me a little smile. Then his phone chimed with a text, and he looked down.

  Heather, I guessed from the way his face changed.

  “I have to go, I’m afraid. You will tell Marley if you need anything, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  For a second, we just looked at each other, and there was a world and years between us, and all the words I couldn’t and shouldn’t say.

  He looked away first. “Take care of yourself, Georgia.”

  “I wish . . .” I began, then stopped.

  I wished I could undo the past. I wished we could try again. I had broken us, and in all the time since, I’d never once reached out until he’d been thrust back into my life.

  “I wish you only the best, Rafe.” My voice shook a little, but I willed my eyes to stay dry. “You deserve it.”

  “The same for you, corazón,” he said, his voice achingly gentle and kind. “The same for you.”

  CHAPTER 31

  Dear Other Emerson,

  I see the way you look at me . . . at least, the way I think you must look at me. It’s what everyone whispers, posts, says to my face. Why did you DO that to yourself? How could you let yourself become so HUGE? Wasn’t 250 pounds big enough? 300? 400? 450? Why didn’t you stop? Why didn’t you lose it while there was still a chance at being normal? Why didn’t you get gastric bypass before you became so MONSTROUS? How the HELL does someone get so out of control???

  Well, I’ll tell you.

  First, get molested by your grandfather every summer from the ages of four through eight. I mentioned this, didn’t I, Other Emerson? He tells you how pretty and little you are. You have those tickle fights. He likes when you sit on his lap. Then he starts coming into your bed at night. You hate what he does, but he’s Grampy and you love him—sort of—and he says Mama would be upset with you if she knew. He’s a grown-up. He would know about these things. Grandma died before you were born, and Grampy’s important and rich—something to do with owning stores on the waterfront.

  You eat to make yourself feel better . . . and, on some level, maybe you want to be not little. Your weight makes you feel stronger. When you’re nine and weigh more than a hundred pounds, he doesn’t try anything. You are stronger. You’re not walking around on spindly little legs anymore. You have heft and presence. The world tells you you’re not so pretty anymore, and it’s a relief you can’t articulate.

  Then, your parents get divorced when you’re eleven. You eat your emotions, Other Emerson, to fill the hole where your dad’s love used to be. You go from chubby or (my personal favorite) husky to fat. Because your mother is depressed, you cook for her.

  Soul food. Comfort food. There’s nothing food can’t cure. Food in the mouth goes a long way to ease the ache in the heart.

  Besides, it makes your mom happy to have you playing in the kitchen, melting butter, frying onions, adding sour cream. “My little chef,” she says fondly, though you are a long way from little. You both love to eat. Of course you do! Everyone does! That’s just normal. Your portion sizes, your junk food intake . . . not so normal.

  You spend all your free time hanging around with your lovely, wonderful, sad, generous mother. She has clinical depression, your therapist will tell yo
u later (the same therapist who later dumps you as a client because, in her words, you refuse to help yourself). Your mother loves you so much, and you make her so happy. Everything the two of you do involves eating. You go out for ice cream. Make a fast-food run. Eat popcorn and Milk Duds at the movies. Mac & Cheese Fridays. Pizza every Sunday night.

  She’s fat, you’re fat, it’s genetic (it’s not), you’re “big girls,” you’re cuddly. Your pediatrician tells you about how to eat right, and you and your mother nod and promise to do better, then go out for ice cream. For a few weeks, you try to eat a salad a day before giving that up.

  Puberty comes early for you fat girls. You’ve been growing breasts since you were seven. By eighth grade, you’re spilling out of a C-cup. Your thighs balloon. Your stomach is huge. Gym class is a study in shame.

  But . . . at least money is not a problem, since Molesting Grampy is now dead and Mama inherited a couple mil. So you go to fat camp for a month every summer, lose fifteen or eighteen or twenty-two or thirty pounds, come back, regain it and then some. But at fat camp, you find that the people you like the most are . . . fat! Is being fat really such a sin? These are some very fine people, Other Emerson! How dare you not see that?

  Then, even though you’re terrified of leaving home, of leaving your mother, even though the idea that she might commit suicide without you drenches you in clammy fear, you go to college. Not far, but far enough that you live there. Mama pretends to be happy, but you’re swamped with guilt. Which makes you eat more.

  Oh, and there’s food everywhere. Your freshman fifteen is actually fifty. No one seems to notice—you’re fat, you’re getting fatter. You do a lot of secret eating. You shower at three a.m. so no one will see you. At parties, you stand against the wall, near the door. You might have just one piece of pizza and half a beer before you go back to your single dorm room and call up Domino’s, because they deliver to campus. You start going home twice a week for dinner to check on Mom . . . and to be somewhere you belong.

  You move back home after college and get your first job, as a research writer for a PR firm that advises the governor. Your boss is a nice person who probably hired you to prove she doesn’t discriminate against fatties. She tries so hard to pretend there are no issues, even though you need a sturdier chair, even though walking in from the parking lot means you’re drenched in sweat when you get to your desk. Your boss is stick-thin, which makes you obsess about food even more.