by Claire Adams
“Then you’re doing the right thing,” I said. “And I don’t judge you at all.”
“Thank you for coming with me. Though I could have done this by myself. The receptionist basically insisted that I have someone else be there to drive me home.”
“Do they put you under for it?”
“No. Well, I’m not getting put under, I think under certain circumstances they might.”
“Are they going to give you anything?”
“I think maybe a Vicodin. But nothing serious.”
When we got there, they had us sit in the waiting room and Allison filled out a packet of papers.
It was strange, sitting in the waiting room with a bunch of strangers, knowing that they were there for the same reason. I found myself wondering what their stories were. The mood in the room was somber; no one spoke above a whisper. The magazines for people to browse looked old and worn, and I couldn’t help but feel sad and depressed. Not that this situation even had anything to do with me; I was just there to offer support to my friend. But still. No one sitting in this room right now wanted to be spending their Saturday morning like this. Next to me, Allison scribbled away on the clipboard. My mind started to wander. I wondered what Ollie was doing.
If I were to find out in the next couple of weeks that I was pregnant, would I tell him? Would I keep it? I could easily see myself sitting here, filling out my own clipboard full of paperwork. Yet at the same time, I could also see myself with a child, trying to juggle motherhood and running a business. Ollie was also in that daydream, though. It wasn’t just me and a baby; it was me, a baby, and him. Our baby. But that was never going to happen because I doubted we’d ever even talk again. He wouldn’t come into the restaurant, and I wouldn’t go to the ranch. Maybe we’d run into each other at the gas station or the grocery store or something, but it would be too hard to just be his friend.
Allison finished writing and brought her clipboard to the receptionist. She came and sat back down.
“I’ll be glad when this is all over,” she said. The door to the waiting room opened and a nurse wearing pink scrubs stepped out.
“Allison?” she called.
“Do you want me to come back there with you?” I asked.
“It’s all right,” Allison said. “You just being here is enough. I’ll be okay.” She patted my hand and got up. I watched her follow the nurse through the door.
Once Allison was gone, I tried to look at a magazine, but I couldn’t stay focused enough to read even one short article. There was a restlessness building in me, not just because I wanted to be away from this clinic, but at the sheer helplessness I felt. I wanted Ollie more than anything, I wanted to be able to call him, I wanted to know that I was going to see him later, and that simply wasn’t an option.
I put the magazine back and took my phone out, thinking I could distract myself on the internet for a little while. But that didn’t seem to be working, either; the restless feeling just continued to build inside me until it felt like I couldn’t contain it anymore. It wasn’t like I could take off and run around the block, though. Even if I could, I knew it wouldn’t be enough. It wouldn’t be enough to get rid of that feeling.
Fuck it, I decided. I wasn’t going to let two tickets go to waste. I’d use one and give the other one away. No, they probably wouldn’t let me change the name on it. Fine, I’d just enjoy the flight to San Francisco, and I’d have an empty seat beside me.
Part 4
22.
Ollie
For a little while there, it had felt like I’d been on top of the world. Work was great, Wren was great, just having the freedom to go where you wanted, when you wanted, was great. I should have known. I should have known that things couldn’t stay like that for someone like me—maybe they shouldn’t. I didn’t deserve that sort of thing. It was too good to be true.
I just had to stay focused on my work, not think of anything else. Easier said than done.
For the first couple days, it actually wasn’t so bad; I could fool myself into believing that I was going to see Wren soon. But as the days approached a week, and then passed a week, I couldn’t deny the ache I felt at her absence.
I kept trying to tell myself that I’d done the right thing, that I’d put my responsibilities before my desire for good feelings. That was the thing—Wren made me feel good. Not only the sex, but just being around her.
It was too much of a distraction. She was too much of a distraction.
When I wasn’t working, I’d take Bebop out for long, slow rides down to the river. I’d let him graze while I sat in the tall grass and watched the water. Or I’d go for a walk, with no real destination in mind.
The one thing I did know, though, was the places I wasn’t to go—namely, her restaurant. Would she re-name it now? I didn’t even like driving into town and having to go by it, knowing she was probably in there.
When I went to visit Paula, I took the long way, so I wouldn’t have to drive by the restaurant. I hadn’t been planning to tell her what happened, but after a few minutes, she squinted at me and asked what the hell was wrong.
“You seem off,” she said. “You seem like something is terribly wrong.”
“Things are just . . . .” We were sitting on the porch and I looked off toward the front yard. “I broke up with my girlfriend.”
“Oh, yeah? Things not going so great?”
“It just got too hard.” That was the simple way to put it. I didn’t feel like getting into all the details, of re-living everything.
Paula was looking at me closely. “But you love her, I can tell. Don’t even bother trying to tell me I’m wrong.”
I was quiet.
“Did you ever wonder why Jackson wanted you to come over here and check up on me?” Paula asked.
“Not really,” I said. “I mean, he wanted me to make sure that you were all right. Being alone and everything.”
“I’m not alone though, is the thing. I’m still his wife.”
“I know you are, but he’s in there, and you’re out here . . .”
“He wanted me to leave him. And he was using you to try to facilitate that.”
I stared at her. “Huh?”
“He finally admitted to it, the last time I went to see him. I didn’t think he would actually cop to it, but he did. I’m not mad at him, of course.”
“I’m not following,” I said, shaking my head. What was she talking about?
“He thought I’d decide I wanted to get it on with you and that would be the end of us.”
“He wanted me to sleep with you?” I thought back to the day Jackson brought it up, the way he said he had trusted me. There was no way that he sent me out here to sleep with his wife. That was crazy.
“Of course he did!” Paula grinned. “Don’t look so shocked! A good-looking guy like you. It’s not because you’re unattractive.”
“Why on earth would your husband want me to sleep with you? That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Well, you’re right, in a way. What he wants is for me to want you. Or anyone, for that matter, so long as it isn’t him. He doesn’t want to think of me out here, all alone, wasting away, which absolutely isn’t happening. I seem to be doing all right, wouldn’t you say?”
“Of course,” I said quickly, though I didn’t really know. Was she all right? I saw her a few times here and there, but I really had no way of knowing what she did the rest of the time. What if after I left she was just going to go inside, close the blinds, and not leave the house for two weeks? What if she couldn’t sleep at night or went through the trouble of cooking a meal but never actually ate it? “I mean, you would tell me if things weren’t okay, wouldn’t you?”
She cracked a smile. “That sounds like something a friend would say. Or maybe a social worker.”
“I guess I’m just a little confused about this whole thing. Jackson had always led me to believe that things were good between the two of you.”
“Oh, they are, h
e’s right about the that. He’s putting me before himself, you see. Because I’ve told him all along that I’ll stand by his side, that I’ll be here waiting for him when he gets out. If he gets out. Because I love him. And love isn’t just what happens when it’s easy or fun or you’re lucky enough to still be in the honeymoon stage. Love is what happens after all that shit leaves and the hard stuff starts. That’s what true love is—the hard shit.”
I watched two butterflies flutter across the lawn, one after the other, as though they were playing tag. “Maybe I’m just not cut out for it, then,” I said.
Paula gave me a level stare. “Isn’t that a shame.”
23.
Wren
“Do you think it’s totally weird if I go?” I asked Allison. I was having second thoughts about San Francisco. “I mean, really, if any of us were going to go to San Francisco, maybe it should it should be Ollie? Since Darren’s his brother?”
“Yeah, but it sounds like the two of you really hit it off. And if he’s cool with you going, why the hell not?”
We were sitting out on the deck, sneaking a glass of wine before Nigel and the kids got back from the movies. It had been a few weeks since I’d taken Allison to Boulder, and I was glad to see that she seemed totally fine, both physically and emotionally.
“You deserve it,” Allison continued. “You deserve a little get away, even if it was supposed to be the two of you. You’ll still have a good time. Nigel and I went to San Francisco once, pre-kids, and it was awesome.”
I swirled the wine around in the glass, imagining myself sitting at chic restaurants, by myself. “It just sucks. I’m trying not to mope about it, I’m really not, but the whole thing sucks. I want to see him. But I can’t.”
“Some guys just don’t realize a good thing when they have it. Because trust me, Wren, you’re a catch, and any guy would be lucky to have you. Maybe you just need to give him time. He’ll realize he made a huge fucking mistake.”
I smiled wanly. I knew she was trying to be supportive, but it wasn’t making me feel better.
“That article’s not still getting published, is it?” she asked.
“Oh, shit.” I set my glass down and buried my face in my hands. “I completely forgot about that. I don’t know if it is, I haven’t talked to Hunter in a while. I actually totally forgot about that stupid article.”
“Can you call him and tell him?”
“Yeah, I’m going to have to. There’s no way they can publish that article about how fate brought us back together and now we’re living this dream life. Ha ha ha. What a fucking joke.” I stood up. “I need to go find my phone. I’m calling him right now.” I found my phone on the kitchen counter.
“You can’t publish the article,” I said when he picked up.
“What do you mean? It came out great! I think you’re going to be really pleased when you see—”
“We broke up.”
“What?” I could hear the surprise in his voice. “Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously.”
“But . . . wow. The two of you seemed like such a great couple. You two were really . . . in love.”
My stomach clenched. “I guess things aren’t always how they appear.”
“I’m sorry, Wren.” Hunter coughed. “That was insensitive to say. It’s just . . . you two really did seem to have chemistry. I’ll stop, though. I’m not trying to make you feel bad.”
“I feel bad enough as it is—I don’t think it could get much worse. Consider this free rein to say whatever you want.”
“Well . . . I can’t pull the article. It’s too late.”
My stomach unclenched enough for it to flip, a wave a nausea rolling over me. “Wouldn’t you know—I feel worse.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He really did feel sorry; I could hear it in his tone. But it didn’t matter how sorry he felt for me, because that wasn’t going to make Ollie want to get back together, and it wasn’t even going to prevent the article from being published.
If completely losing my shit and bawling hysterically might have changed the outcome, I would have considered it, but I knew that the article was going to be published regardless of what I said or did. So, I just thanked Hunter (for what, exactly, I didn’t know), and then got off the phone. For theatrics, I threw it across the room, which momentarily did make me feel a tiny bit better.
Allison looked at me expectantly as I made my way back onto the deck and to my chair. “Well . . . how’d that go?”
“I don’t have good news to report,” I said grimly, reaching for the wine bottle. “It’s too late. Cue public humiliation.” Fuck the wine glass; I just pulled the cork out and took a big swig straight from the bottle. “Can someone just put me out of my misery now? Please? I’m aware I might sound a little overly dramatic but an article, about me and my now ex-boyfriend, is about to be published in a national magazine.”
“What do you mean it’s too late? I thought these things took forever to come out.”
“I think they usually do, but this is different. They were already scrambling to fill the slot where the original article was going to be, so this was kind of a last-minute thing. If they pull this one, there’s going to be a big blank spot. Or at least that’s the way Hunter made it sound.”
“Oh.” Allison was quiet, looking into her empty wineglass as though some sort of answer might appear there. “Shit, Wren. I’m sorry.” She held her hand out for the bottle, which I gave to her after taking another swig. She put her glass down and drank straight from the bottle, too. “Then I think the best thing you can do for yourself is to get out of town for a little while. This trip to San Francisco isn’t just something for fun—at this point, it seems necessary. You sure as shit deserve it, and trust me when I say that if I could go with you, I would in a heartbeat.”
And just hearing her say it like that made me think that it was the right thing to do, and perhaps what everyone said about things happening for a reason was correct.
I decided it would behoove me to schedule one more appointment with Dr. Mike before I was to leave for San Francisco. I wanted to hear him say that he thought I was doing the right thing, that a visit out there would be healing, that when I came back I’d feel so much better.
Instead, he said, “Do you think you’re running away from your feelings?”
“No,” I said, even though that’s exactly what it was. Was that really such a problem? We lived in a small town and even though I might not ever actually see Ollie again (though chances of that were unlikely; I’d eventually run into him or see him drive by or something), it was like I could feel his presence, I could sense it. Even now as I sat there on the couch, watching Dr. Mike write something on that yellow legal pad of his, it was like I had a little radar in me that was tuned to Ollie, and knew that he was not all that far away, going about his business. “I mean, maybe it is a little. But I was just broken up with. I feel like I need the space to regroup. Does that make sense?”
“It makes perfect sense.”
“So, you think it’s a good idea?”
“It depends.”
“On what?”
“Why did you start coming to therapy in the first place, Wren?”
“I started because I wanted to stop using men for sex. I didn’t want to be sleeping around the way I was and I thought maybe talking about it would help get to the underlying cause.”
“Which we determined was because you wanted to feel in control. You wanted to take back the control you felt you didn’t have the night you were attacked. And often, when a relationship ends when we don’t want it to, there is a feeling of a loss of control.”
“Right,” I said. “He broke up with me, and no, that’s not what I wanted.”
“I would just hate to see you regress back to your old ways during your trip to San Francisco.”
“I’m not going to start sleeping around out there,” I said indignantly. “If that’s what you’re implying. And really—San
Francisco is the perfect place for me to go because it’s full of gay guys.”
Dr. Mike wrinkled his nose in an expression of distaste.
“That wasn’t a homophobic comment, by the way,” I added. “I’m just saying, if I wanted to go somewhere just to sleep around, San Francisco would not be my first choice. Lena thinks that San Francisco is basically a mecca for crazy people, which we also know is completely not true, either. It just seems like a place people can go if they don’t want to be judged for liking whatever it is they like. Somewhere you can go and not have to feel guilty about things.”
“Do you feel guilty?”
“Of course I do!” I said. “But we already know that! I feel guilty about everything, at least in regards to Ollie. I don’t think we need to go over all that again, though! I mean, don’t you have it all written down on that yellow pad of yours?”
“We don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to talk about.”
I leaned forward, trying to get a glimpse of what he’d written. He tilted the pad back so my view was blocked.
“Seriously,” I said. “What are you writing on there?”
“Just taking notes. I do that with all of my clients.”
I sat back on the couch. “It’d be funny if you were really just doodling on there or something.”
“I assure you, I’m not.”
“Well, it’d be funny if you were.”
“Is this really what you want to be discussing right now?”
“I thought you just said we could talk about whatever I wanted to.”
He sighed. “We can.”
“Maybe that’s what I want to discuss.”
“It doesn’t seem overly productive.”
I looked up at the ceiling, wondering how many minutes, how many hours, I’d spent sitting in this office, talking about my feelings. Had it helped? Was I just telling myself it had because I’d spent the money on it? “Maybe none of this is that productive. I mean, am I just supposed to keep coming to see you forever? I still feel exactly the same about everything. I don’t think this has changed a thing.”