by Melody Anne
Nick faces me. His gaze is probing, as though I’m an onion whose layers he’s peeling off one by one. Long seconds pass before he says, “Maybe this is exactly how it’s supposed to be.” The quiet confidence in his voice seizes my heart.
I want to tell him he’s wrong, that we were supposed to be each other’s forever, but at this moment, I can’t listen to him tell me why I wasn’t worth the sacrifice. Why it took me moving a thousand miles away for him to find happiness. Why he was able to unfurl his fingers and let our relationship go so easily after we’d spent our whole lives clinging desperately to each other. This time I know once the wound I so carefully stitched together all those years ago is ripped open again, the sharp, searing pain that follows will devour me.
We stare at each other in silence, his words hanging in the space between us, loud and ominous. Finally, Nick rakes a hand through his hair, the roots slightly damp with sweat, and says, “Lillie . . . about the other night. . . . You’re right . . . I shouldn’t have kissed you like that. I was out of line.”
Drawing in the gravel with the tip of my sneaker, I say, “I guess old habits die hard.” I try to make it sound like a quip, but my tone is all wrong—too high-pitched, forced.
“Tell that to Bruce Willis,” he says, returning my awful attempt at a joke with a pun of his own, breaking the tension between us. I’m glad for it.
I look at him. “You seem happier, Nick.”
“I am.”
“What changed?”
He studies me carefully, as if searching for something. “Everything, Lillie,” he says. “Everything.”
I wait for Nick to elaborate further, but he offers nothing.
“Annabelle mentioned your parents got divorced,” I say after awhile. “What happened? They always appeared so solid.”
Nick stares at me with a fierceness in his eyes that makes my throat constrict. “I think we both know the facade is more believable than the reality it hides.”
The implication in his tone isn’t lost on me—the end of our relationship was nothing more than a massive charade. I nod and ask him again about what happened.
Nick rubs the back of his neck. “After you left, everything kind of . . . disintegrated. My parents were arguing constantly. Then it all fell apart . . .” His vague response reminds me of all those times I’d ask him about how his medical school classes or clinical rotations were going. Except before I could even finish my question, he would cut me off with something curt like, Everything’s fine. Or, If I wanted to talk about it, I’d say so. Or his personal favorite, Leave it alone, Lillie.
This time I don’t let him off the hook but keep staring until he sighs and says, “I told my mother I was contemplating quitting my surgical residency. She refused to even entertain the idea, reminding me in her steadfast way that there’re six generations of surgeons in our family. That it’s a badge of honor worn by all Preston men.”
My stomach twists. Nick considered abandoning his residency?
“What about your father?” I ask, knowing Dr. Preston’s approval has always mattered most to Nick.
“He was disappointed but understood . . . said he’d support me in whatever decision I chose.” Nick pauses, glances toward the sky, and then looks at me again. “I think my mother saw my father’s response as a kind of betrayal, like he was giving me permission to disown my birthright. They couldn’t keep it together after that. My mother hired an attorney out of New York and moved back to North Carolina shortly after the divorce was finalized. We’re not . . . we don’t communicate anymore.”
“That must have been difficult for you,” I say, imagining the emotional strain the whole experience put on him. “I know how close you were to them.”
“It was difficult,” he says. “Sometimes it still is.”
“So you quit then?” I ask. “Your surgical residency?”
He nods and says with a chuckle, “I opted for something not quite as rigorous or stressful and that doesn’t require me to be on call all hours of the day.”
“That’s good,” I say, picturing him in his element as a general practitioner, healing people.
Nick steps close to me again. “What about you?”
“What about me?” My reply comes out as a whisper.
“Are you happier?” he clarifies. “Is this the life you wanted?”
I don’t know how to answer his question. My life now isn’t a happiness I ever imagined. I was supposed to marry Nick and take over the diner and live my happily ever after, but that all changed the day I found the article about my mother. It forced me down a foreign road, a different course, to a new city, a new career, a new me. While it’s not what I wanted or even dreamed of, maybe it’s where I’m meant to be.
Maybe it’s enough.
“I’m happy,” I say, and I wonder if he notices I didn’t say “happier.” I wonder if he believes me.
“You deserve that.”
Annabelle’s words echo in my mind. You gave up on him, Lillie. You gave up on yourself.
Is she right? Could our relationship have been saved if only I had fought harder? I think back to all the times Nick would crawl into bed after a brutal shift at the hospital, when we would both lay there in the dark, pretending to be asleep. I remember hoping he would pull me close, bury his face into my neck, whisper that he loved me, only to be shredded when he remained firmly on his side. What if I’d been the one to roll over, wrap an arm around him, hold him tight? Could a small gesture like that have mended the brokenness between us? Could we be happier now, together? Would Chicago be nothing more than a city we visited on a last-minute weekend getaway and not the place where I permanently rest my head at night?
An ache seizes my chest, more consuming than guilt, more devastating than regret.
I let Nick slip away, and I did nothing to stop it.
I’m equally to blame, I think as the pressure in my chest continues to build.
As though the truth is suffocating me.
SEVENTEEN
THAT AFTERNOON I sprawl out on my bed, my head resting on a pillow, my bare feet pressed against the headboard. I stare at the glow-in-the-dark plastic stars stuck to the ceiling that lost their magic years ago, listening to the familiar creaks and groans of my father’s house settling as it adjusts to the warm October air.
The ache in my chest is still there. Snapshots flash through my mind. A ruined dinner because Nick and I are too busy fondling each other on the couch like the horny teenagers we used to be. The two of us traveling along the highway on a road trip to Austin City Limits with the radio blasting and windows down, hand-surfing the wind currents. A rainy Saturday, thunder booming outside, where we remain under the covers all day, tangled up in each other. Moments that may have been if only I had stayed, swallowed my pride, rebuilt the bridge between us.
Rolling onto my stomach, I wiggle out the thumbtack wedged into the windowsill and spin it between my fingers, thinking about our soup-can phones. Nick threw his away when the yarn broke, but I still have mine buried in an old shoebox hidden in the back of my closet. Besides a few photographs, it’s the only memento I brought with me to Chicago.
My secret piece of Nick.
I shake my head. What am I doing?
Annabelle’s right, I can’t separate my actions from hers. I have to tell Drew. Grabbing my cell phone off the floor, I dial him at the office. He picks up immediately.
“Hey, there,” Drew says in his warm, familiar tone. “I thought maybe you got kidnapped by a cowboy.”
I bite my lip. “Not exactly. Things have been crazy here.” I wonder if he can detect the uneasiness in my voice. “Are you upset?”
“With you? Never.” I picture him with his feet propped up on his desk, tie thrown over his shoulder, a pen tucked behind his ear. “I’m only worried about you, babe.”
I breathe in deep, gathering my bearings. “Drew, I . . . I need to tell you something.”
There’s a creaking sound on the other end and the so
ft click of a door closing. “What is it?”
My mouth feels dry as I say, “I kissed someone here . . . an ex . . . I’m so sorry.” Then I stammer a brief explanation about Nick and our history, how we bumped into each other again recently, that things spiraled out of control during a trivia game and we kissed. Confessing to Drew brings my disloyalty into sharp focus.
Drew’s quiet for a moment. My stomach twists into knots as I brace myself, awaiting his backlash. Finally he clears his throat and says, “It’s okay, Lillie. I know you didn’t mean for it to happen. We can move past it.” His voice is steady, collected, as if I told him I requested a tax extension.
His response is meant to reassure me, I know this, but for some reason it has the opposite effect. I want him to feel angry, hurt, or at the very least, disappointed. How can he not be mad that I kissed another man? Is he so secure in our relationship that he doesn’t think news like this warrants a strong reaction?
Then again that’s not Drew’s style. He’s kind, sensible, earnest. Not the type of person who resorts to slamming doors, name-calling, or shouting to solve a problem. In fact, in the two years we’ve been together, we’ve never had a disagreement about anything more serious than who forgot to empty the dishwasher or fold the laundry. Even then, no voices were raised or tears shed. Which means that we have never engaged in mind-blowing makeup sex either.
Not like that’s a deal breaker. There’s more to a solid relationship than intense physical intimacy and a Tilt-A-Whirl of emotions. Like companionship, stability, mutual respect—everything I have with Drew.
Still it would be nice if on occasion he showed a little passion, stopped being so dang agreeable bordering on perfect.
“Why are you so calm about this?” I ask, certain if our roles were reversed I’d be far from rational. In fact I’d be irate.
“I know it was a mistake,” he says matter-of-factly, which only adds to my annoyance. “I understand how overwhelmed you’ve been juggling all these different responsibilities.”
“I’m not that overwhelmed!” I snap, clenching my hand, the sharp point of the thumbtack piercing my skin. I squeeze tighter.
“See? This is what I’m talking about, babe. You don’t sound like yourself,” he says, still without a trace of anything other than concern.
I get up from the bed and pace the room, my frustration bubbling over. “Of course I don’t sound like myself. You’re acting as if I told you I forgot the dry cleaning.”
He sighs, and I hear papers shuffling. “Lillie, I’m at a loss here . . . How would you prefer I behave?”
The fire inside me burns out, and I sink onto the desk chair. I want that possession, that flare of passion. Unfurling my fingers, I watch as a few drops of blood pool in my palm. “I need to know that this matters, Drew. That it bothers you.”
“Of course I’m not happy about it,” he says, though by his tone he could have fooled me. “But we’ve both invested too much into this relationship to allow something like this to affect it. Let’s put it behind us.”
What if I can’t do that? I think. “So that’s it then? It’s a nonissue?”
“Lillie, I don’t know what it is you want me to say . . .”
I tug at a loose thread on my shorts. “Neither do I, which is why we both need to step back, give each other some space. I think we should take a break, figure out if this is really what we want,” I say, knowing there’s so much more I need to figure out—where I belong, my feelings for Nick, how best to help my father.
“Maybe that’s a good idea, given all the stress you’re under. Take the time you need. Once you’re back in Chicago, things will return to normal. You’ll see.” Drew says all this with a confidence I don’t reciprocate.
For the first time in five years, I’m not sure normal is what I want anymore.
I SPEND THE remainder of the day combing through files of data in order to create a life-cycle cost analysis to aid Kingsbury Enterprises with its product launch. It’s tedious and draining, and I wonder how I ever enjoyed this.
After I email the completed model to Thomas Brandon, I curl up on the couch and zone out to Beverly Hills, 90210 reruns. I like to think I’m merely getting in touch with my nostalgic side, reliving my teenage years when Annabelle and I would lounge on the floor in front of the television, tucked into our sleeping bags, watching taped episodes of our favorite show and arguing over Dylan McKay’s true soul mate. I feel a pang in my stomach as I remember those days, wishing Annabelle were here with me right now. We still haven’t spoken, probably because we’re both in uncharted territory.
I switch off the television and stare at the ceiling. Before I can process my actions or talk myself out of it, I steal up to the second floor and climb the pull-down staircase that leads to the attic. I find the box with the extra party supplies and lug it down the ladder, hitting every rung on the way.
My father comes out of his room, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Baby girl, what are you doin’ out here makin’ such a ruckus? Don’t you know your old man’s gotta get his beauty rest?” He glances at the box in my arms, shakes his head, and mutters something about how I’m begging for trouble. He’s back in his room with the door closed before I can respond.
I carry the box to the kitchen, grab a few more items from the pantry, and stuff everything I need into a duffel bag. I hop into my truck and speed over to Annabelle’s condo, dialing her cell on the way. No answer. I call again. She picks up on the fourth ring.
“Do you have a death wish?” she says, her voice raspy.
“Get ready. I’ll be downstairs in the parking garage.”
There’s a shuffle on the other end. “Lillie, it’s three thirty in the morning—”
“I don’t care. Do it.” I hang up.
Ten minutes later, Annabelle climbs into my truck. She’s dressed in yoga pants, a fitted cotton shirt, and sneakers. Her sleek black hair has been pulled into a ponytail. We look like twins in our matching outfits. For a moment, it feels as if we are fifteen again, sneaking out of my father’s house after curfew to play night games at Montgomery Park with Wes and Nick. Like no time has passed at all.
Annabelle yawns and slumps against the passenger door. “You want to tell me what this is about?”
“Drew and I are on a break.”
She sits up straight and looks at me.
“You were right,” I say, tossing her the duffel. She unzips it and rummages through the contents. Then she meets my gaze, a twinkle in her eyes and a devious expression on her face.
“I’ll show you the way,” she says, her voice almost giddy.
I smile. And just like that, I know that while our argument isn’t forgotten, we’ve both forgiven.
We cruise across town in comfortable silence. When we turn onto Nick’s street, I cut off the headlights, shift into neutral, and coast the remainder of the way to his house. My fingers clench the steering wheel as I stare at the charming, Craftsman-style bungalow with its gabled roof, ganged windows, and wide, columned front porch. So different from the three-story brownstone we once occupied. I wonder why he decided to downgrade. Then again, maybe he wasn’t given a choice if the brownstone had been sold as part of his parents’ divorce settlement. Another possibility enters my mind: maybe he wanted to start over and bought the bungalow with Margaret. Maybe they are in bed together right now, at this very moment, satiated and in a state of postcoital bliss. How did I not consider that scenario before I acted on this harebrained idea? A lump forms in my throat.
“Margaret’s not here,” Annabelle says, as though reading my thoughts.
I shift in my seat. “How do you know?”
“Do you see her car?”
“You mean they don’t . . .” Live together? Have naked sleepovers?
“No,” she says, her features silhouetted in shadow. “Now, come on. We’ve got a job to do.” She throws the duffel over her shoulder and motions for me to follow.
We race across the lawn, up the porch st
eps, and to the front door, so quiet it’s as if the soles of our sneakers are made of air. Annabelle taps my arm and points to a window. Shaking my head, I run my hand along the sill of the door. My fingers bump against something metal. Bingo! A key tumbles onto the welcome mat with a soft clank. Annabelle arches an eyebrow. I shrug, pick up the spare, and unlock the door. It swings open with a whisper.
Inside, the house smells like laundry detergent and citrus wood polish. Moonlight streams into a small living room, illuminating it in a silvery glow. I peer around. None of the furniture looks familiar. The decor has a rustic vibe to it, though I notice feminine touches are littered here and there—a vase perched on the fireplace mantel, patterned throw pillows adorning an overstuffed couch, a stained-glass floor lamp wedged between a pair of cigar chairs. Margaret may not permanently inhabit this space, but her presence lingers.
As we tiptoe through the house, my eyes roam. A jumble of mismatched frames line the walls and bookshelves, scenes and figures dancing in the shadows, the details a blur. A flash of blond hair catches my eye. I gasp, staggering to a halt. Annabelle collides into me, and my hip bangs against the wall. A wooden frame wobbles on its nail. We pause, listening for any sign that Nick is awake. Other than my heart hammering in my ears, I hear nothing.
Annabelle glares at me. Sorry, I mouth. She sighs, shaking her head, then continues moving deeper into the house. I trail after her, but my mind has yet to catch up. It’s still focused on the memory captured in a photograph, the image fuzzy from condensation on the camera lens. In it, two kids splash in a puddle, mud and dirty water staining the girl’s cotton dress and the boy’s khaki church pants. I remember that summer. It rained the entire month of August, but that didn’t prevent Nick and me from playing in it, drenching ourselves to the bone. I wonder why Nick kept that picture when it seems all other traces of our former life together have been erased.
Annabelle stops when we reach a hallway, pressing a finger to her lips. Faint rain forest sounds drift out from under a closed door. A grin spreads across my face. Such a creature of habit, I think, as Annabelle cocks her head and guides us to the kitchen. While she dumps the contents of the duffel onto the island—two plastic funnels, a bag of flour, and packages of balloons—I snoop around.