by Carla Ryan
But what's the point? Even if she did forgive you, something else would happen that would drive you apart. Better to get it over with now. Go for the quick Band-Aid rip, instead of tearing the hairs out one by one.
"Yeah."
Her gray eyes dim, going lifeless. She blinks back tears as she nods, but in the next breath they turn hard as steel as she slaps you across the face. Your cheek burns, stoking your own anger.
She's already walking out the door. You chase after her, catching up as she steps outside.
"I'm not the only one who was keeping a secret though, was I?" you ask, matching her quick stride.
"What the hell are you talking about? I'm not the one who fed you all kinds of bullshit just to get a revenge lay."
"It wasn't a revenge lay," you snap, "and I'm talking about your father, the CEO of the biggest waste management company in North America, not to mention a multi-millionaire."
"What about him?"
"Are you serious right now?" You laugh in disbelief. "How could you not tell me that?"
She stops by the trunk of Ophelia's car. "How is it relevant?"
"I run a waste management company. Tristao Cassatt is waste management. You don't see a connection there? I told you I don't like mixing work and relationships."
Ophelia is in the driver's seat. She rolls the windows up and turns on the radio.
"I didn't tell you about him because I don't tell anyone," Marigold says. "Hardly anyone knows he's my dad."
"Why would you keep something like that a secret?"
She gives a humorless breath of laughter. "Like you have any right to ask that question."
"You're no better than me, you know. I didn't tell you about why I came out here for the same reason you didn't tell me about your dad: I didn't think it was relevant."
"Oh no," she says, wiping away a stray tear. "I never mentioned who my dad was. You told me -- you looked me in the eyes in Boston and told me -- that you came here because you wanted to see if there could be something between us. The fact that in your mind 'something' only meant sex is not irrelevant. You lied. I didn't."
"Oh, come on. You act like this poor, cash-strapped teacher and struggling musician who can barely afford to fix your car, but you're a fracking millionaire. What kind of a person does that?"
You're both doing your best to keep your voices down, but every now and then the heat of the argument gets the better of one of you and Ophelia turns up the volume to remind you that you're not alone.
"For the record," Marigold growls, "I never asked you for money, and I never pretended to be something I'm not."
"Neither did I! Everything I said to you was true. I only left some details out. You did the exact same thing!"
Marigold wipes at another tear and says, "I'm done here."
You told yourself there's no point, that telling her how you felt doesn't matter now, but the truth pours out of you anyway. You need her to know that it was real.
"And for the record," you say, following her to the passenger door, "if it was just about sex, I could have ended it that day in Boston, but by then it wasn't about that anymore. I didn't just want your body, I wanted you -- the you that knows Latin, the you that makes even more sci-fi references than I do, the you that makes that ridiculous Elvis lip when you're deep in your piano solo.”
Now you're the one whose vision is blurring. You rub your eyes, barely able to get the last words out. "The you that wants to be with me."
Marigold stands by the car, frozen, watching silently as you get ahold of yourself. You absolutely refuse to break down in front of her. After all, you're not the only one who lied by omission, and it's not like this is some sob story to try to win her back. The thought of setting yourself up for that scares the crap out of you. She would never take you back anyway.
"It's good to know that at least some of it was real," she says, another tear spilling out.
When she gets in the car, the sound of the door slamming shut echoes through you. The warmth in your chest is gone, leaving behind a cavity that doesn't even feel cold, just... numb. The sensation spreads throughout your body as you cross the lot to your car, and by the time you're sitting behind the wheel your eyes are dry and your breathing even.
You really dodged a bullet there. It's a good thing it ended when it did. If you were that far gone after only a couple months, who knows how bad it could have been if it lasted any longer. Imagine if Marigold had tried to get you back! Poor thing. She looked like she might have wanted to, but that would have only made things worse when you told her no. Yes, it's better this way, for both of you.
When your phone rings, you're surprised to see that an hour has passed. You're still sitting in the parking lot, but all the cars that were around yours are gone, and the sun is sinking behind the trees.
Weird.
Plugging in your bluetooth, you answer. "Hey, Mom."
"Babykins!" she says, bursting with excitement. "I'm getting married!"
Chapter Twenty-Two
"Three months," you say, turning on the car. That's a new record. Which sugar daddy did you hook this time?"
"I'm well past needing a sugar daddy, thank you."
"Don't tell me he's a commoner," you tease, pulling out of your parking spot.
"Will you stop being so blasé about this please? I know commitment isn't my strong suit, but it's different this time and I'd appreciate some support from my daughter."
"Sorry. I'm very happy for you and..."
"It came about rather unexpectedly," she says, "and it won't be marriage technically, it will be a union of our own making. Neither of us is keen on dealing with all of the legalities related to becoming an official unit."
That'll definitely make things easier when it tanks. But why isn't she telling you who she's marrying? That's usually the first thing out of her mouth when she's announcing her next marriage. She loves holding up her catch for everyone to see.
You slam on the brakes, only a few feet from the road.
She wouldn't.
She told me it wasn't a big deal. She told me they were only friends.
"Who are you marrying?"
"We call it joining," she says.
You call it stalling.
"The ceremony will --"
"Who is it?" you demand.
The smile disappears from her voice. "Before I tell you..."
Oh no.
"...you need to understand something."
"It's Tristao, isn't it?"
"Yes."
Could this day get any worse?
You turn the car off and drop your head on the steering wheel. "Mom, no," you whine.
"I know you don't approve, but this isn't the usual game we're playing -- it isn't a game at all. This is different."
"You keep saying that, but with you it's always the same: you snag a big fish, reel him in, cook him for dinner, and then go back out when you're hungry again. How could this possibly be any different -- other than the fact that this time you're going to sink my life's work in the process?"
"First of all, Tristao is far too much of a gentleman to do any of the things you're worried he'll do. We haven't discussed work much, but I did bring up your concerns when it became clear we both wanted more, and he assured me he would never let his personal life influence his business principles."
"He says that now, but he'll be singing a different tune in five years when Crane gets you half of his fortune."
"That won't be possible if our union isn't legal. That's part of the reason we're doing it, to keep the money out of it."
"The money's all you care about. Why would you be doing this if you can't get his cash?"
"I suppose I deserve that, given my history. Love has never been my priority before."
"Love? What are you talking about?"
The smile in her voice returns. "Tristao and I are in love. That's why we're getting mar-- joining, I mean." She laughs. "It's all because of you, you know."
"How i
s that, exactly?"
"Because I was keeping him at arm's length, we ended up on the road less traveled. We talked, we went to the opera, but we never did anything physical -- not even holding hands! And without the pressure to have sex, our souls were free to make love."
Eew.
"I can't tell you how happy I am," she continues. "Tristao is... I didn't think a man like him existed. It's like everything in him is singing to me, and I can't help singing back. I haven't felt like this since your father."
"You mean the man who abandoned us? How can you be stupid enough to put yourself in that position again?"
"I know you're angry, but there's no need for name calling."
Oh yes there is.
"Your father hurt me in many ways when he left," your mother says, "but Tristao helped me realize that the worst thing he did was make me think love had abandoned me too. Now I understand that love was there all along, that my love for you made me strong enough to carry on and keep living, when all I wanted to do was give up."
A hot, searing anger rises in your throat. How could she do this to you? She's been telling you for decades that love is a four-letter word, that love is the enemy, and she was right. All it does is set you up for failure and make being alone even harder. How could she turn her back on that -- on you -- for some man she hardly knows?
When you visited your dad on his deathbed and told him, "I forgive you," it wasn't true. You're not sure forgiving something like that is even possible. But at least he apologized for abandoning you. Your mother, your shallow, self-absorbed mother, still doesn't understand that she did too.
"Dad didn't just abandon you, Mom, he abandoned me too." The angry words flow easily. They've been sitting on the tip of your tongue since the day your father left, since the moment your mother closed her bedroom door in your face so she could cry alone.
"I'm the one who didn't give up," you say. "I'm the one who made my own breakfast, lunch, and dinner -- and yours -- for the next month, while you sat around feeling sorry for yourself. I'm the one who went to school and had to deal with teachers and counselors probing me with questions about my feelings when you couldn't even look at me. You gave up on everything. You gave up on me, on love, on life, everything. And you still do. That's why all your marriages failed, and that's why this fake marriage will fail too."
You hang up the phone and shut it off. Wiping your eyes with your sleeve, you start the car again. You are not going to sit in a parking lot sobbing like a crazy person. In fact, you're not going to sit anywhere sobbing like a crazy person. You're going to drive home, have a glass of chardonnay on the back deck, and move on with your life.
You make it about a mile.
* * *
Sunrise may be an odd sensation on the West Coast, but sunset over the Pacific Ocean more than makes up for it. Sitting on the back deck rail, with your bare feet dangling two stories above the sand, you watch the giant sun tuck itself in for the night.
Your jaw cracks from a large yawn -- you're ready for bed yourself. The normally thirty-minute drive home took almost twice that, with you pulling over three times because you couldn't see the road through your tears. Drained and too exhausted to even think of eating, you threw on your pajamas and were about to go to sleep when you caught sight of the sunset. All of the questions, fears, and emotions battering your brain are finally hushed as you lose yourself in the transformation from day to night, light to dark, clouds to stars.
With the last few rays of sunlight, you see Gus walking gingerly down the beach, scanning the sand with a flashlight. He's probably looking for Shahk-Tastic. You wish him a silent "Good luck!" and swing your feet back over the rail, ready to answer the call of your bed.
But why is he tip-toeing?
You look back down at him, testing the sand in front of him before putting his full weight down.
Yup. This mystery is just going to bug you if you don't solve it.
After a quick search of the beach -- no sign of Ophelia -- you head down and join him.
"Long time no --"
"Careful!" he cries, holding a hand out to stop you.
"What's going on, bud?" you ask, frozen in place. "You looking for something?"
"Sea turtle nests."
You did not see that one coming.
Tapping the sand with your feet like him, you slowly make your way closer. "Do sea turtles do that around here? I thought that kind of thing happened in Florida."
"You never know. One might have gotten lost. There are supposed to be thousands of babies hatching at the same time, but these are all alone."
Still raw from this afternoon, the image of defenseless baby sea turtles facing an army of predators almost sets you off again.
"But there probably aren't any out here," you say, your voice trembling, "right?"
"You never know," he repeats. You watch him as he goes, with infinite patience, moving only inches with every step.
"So you're going to search the whole beach?"
"Uh-huh."
"That might take longer than you think."
"Some things are worth the wait," he says sagely.
"Fair enough."
"Gus!" Ophelia calls from their back porch. It's probably too dark for her to see you, but you wave anyway.
"Coming!" Gus shouts back. "Will you keep looking?" he asks you.
"I'm pretty tired. I was about to go to bed."
"Please? Just finish this sector, up to the driftwood?" He points to a log up ahead near his house, illuminated by the back porch light.
"For the baby turtles?" he adds, his eyes wide with worry.
"Fine," you say with a sigh. He offers you the flashlight, but you shake your head. "I can see from the house lights."
"Thanks!" He backtracks a little, then starts running towards a path between houses that leads to the street, apparently not wanting to risk taking the much shorter distance across the sand. "Let me know if you find any!"
Grumbling, you start testing the sand around you, feeling like an idiot when a jogging couple passes by. More than once you almost abandon the search, but knowing Gus, he'll be watching from his house, and you don't want to let him down.
The stars are in full view by the time you finally make it to the driftwood. Sure enough, you see Gus's silhouette pressed against one of the window screens. You wave, and he waves back, then disappears into the house. The back porch light switches off. Obligation fulfilled, you can finally go to bed with a clear conscience.
You start to leave, but movement through one of the other windows catches your eye. Ophelia is setting the table for dinner. Willa comes up and hugs her from behind, kissing her neck. Ophelia's half-hearted protest is drowned out by the waves, but her smile is clear enough. She swats playfully at Willa's arm, then pecks her on the cheek before returning to the kitchen.
Memories of similar times with Marigold float in front of you, visions of the two of you at her apartment and the movies, your first kiss at the carnival, those stolen moments in Boston. A sharp ache gnaws at your chest. You tell yourself to look away, to go home and give in to sleep, but you stay where you are. Something about the scene is holding you captive. The ache feels less like pain than a plea, a desperate cry for something you can't name but is almost within your grasp.
Ophelia and Willa reappear, plates in hand, taking their seats at the table. Gus is right behind them, carrying his dinner. He sits in the middle, facing the window, and all three close their eyes to say grace. Gus, wearing a wide grin, says something that makes the other two laugh.
Watching such a happy scene should make you smile, especially knowing you had a hand in bringing them together. Instead, your eyes burn, stinging as a fresh flood of angry, salty tears pour forth.
That's what you want. That's what you've always wanted: a family.
You race home and throw yourself on the couch, screaming into the cushions until your throat is sore. When the tears finally stop, a stillness settles over you, a sense of calm t
hat somehow feels both strange and familiar. You lie on the couch, watching the lights from ships slowly cross the horizon, and realize that the ache inside of you is... not gone, but... quiet, and at rest. Moments later, you are too.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Monday morning, you arrive at the Boston office an hour before anyone else and get to work. When the employees begin to arrive, you hear their sounds of surprise from your office as they reach their desks to find a personalized gift basket and hand-written note from you, thanking them for all of the extra work they've had to do for the San Francisco project. One by one they come by to say thank you.
"You're welcome," you say, keeping an eye out for Wade. He's a few minutes late, and when he sees you hovering in the office doorway, he casts you nervous sideways glances, mumbling an apology.
"Don't worry about it," you say, ducking back into your office. "I have something for you."
He mutters something under his breath that you can't understand, and when he sees you holding out his basket of hot sauces, he does a double take. With a dubious glare, he plucks out the card and reads it silently, leaving you to hold the basket. When he gets to the end, a faint smile touches his lips.
"'I'd be a hot mess without you,'" he reads out loud.
"It's true," you say, putting the gift on his desk. "I am so, so sorry I was such an ass. Can you forgive me?"
He scans the basket, taking his time as he pulls out a couple bottles and reads the ingredients.
"I don't know," he says, bobbing his head indecisively. "I feel like maybe some emotional distress hazard pay might be in order."
"I think the two grand my mom paid your girlfriend for ratting me out covers that," you tease.
"Fair point." Pinching your chin, he adds, "I told you you're too adorable to stay mad at."
As he settles in, you head over to Jabir's office. The two of you have barely spoken since the argument over Marigold, and the few times you have talked it was strictly business. "Where's the man?" you ask Loretta.
"Oh, Yara's not feeling well?" she says, cringing anxiously and making everything sound like a question. "So he had to help Jake this morning, and they missed the bus? He said he'll be here in time for the meeting."