He stood quickly, and for a moment she thought he might throw something at her, or put his fist through a wall. From the other side of the couch, he picked up his duffel bag, her first indication that he had come here intending to spend the night. He had planned to make up with her tonight, and she had been with Doug instead.
“Anything else?” he asked in a controlled voice.
“No.” She held her left hand in her right, as though protecting Jake’s ring from being ripped off her hand. “Well, he tried to give me a ring. I guess an engagement ring. But I didn’t accept it. That’s when I left.”
“Why not?”
“What?”
“Why didn’t you accept?” The malice in his voice was entirely new to her. Someone was ripping her chest open and pulling all the vital organs out right there in the living room.
“Because, Jake,” her voice was desperate, “because I don’t love him. I just told you I don’t want to see him ever again.” She was crying now. She had made her choice tonight, without even realizing it, a choice about the rest of her life. And now she was watching it slip away before her. “I love you.”
There was a long silence. Finally, Jake broke it.“I don’t think you even know what that means.” His tone was not cruel, but cracked with something he had just begun to understand himself. He was disappointed in her, sorry to have chosen her. This hurt Marci most of all.
“Jake —”
“Don’t, Marci. I’m going home.”
He walked past her, slamming the door so hard when he left that a picture fell off Suzanne’s wall, leaving a large crack in the glass. When she turned around, Suzanne was in front of her. Marci held out the broken picture in both hands like an animal she’d just accidentally hit with her car. “I’m sorry; I’ll fix it. I’ll pay—”
“Oh, honey,” Suzanne said, flinging the picture into a nearby chair. “Shut up.” She embraced Marci warmly, holding her and stroking her hair for nearly an hour while she sobbed uncontrollably into the pink silk.
Chapter 22
As expected, Jake did not answer his phone the next day, or the day after. Marci could barely concentrate on her interview for the copywriting job on Monday.
The interviews were held at a large hotel downtown—thankfully not the Hyatt Regency—and seemed very rigorous to her inexperienced eye. About twenty other applicants were there for the 2:00 slot, from what she could see. They were called one by one to meet with a recruiter individually, who asked all the standard interview questions Marci had heard a million times as a temp. She found she was only minimally nervous. After her weekend fiasco, the job felt less like something she was desperate to get, and more like a distraction from her personal life.
At 3:30, the entire group sat together for a proofreading test. Marci finished quickly, looked over her work, and then stared at the clock for a couple of minutes before turning in her paper. She didn’t want to seem arrogant by turning it in too quickly, but proofreading numbers, invoices, and correspondence had been the bulk of her various jobs for the last decade. A couple of the younger candidates cast envious or glaring looks her way as she shouldered her messenger bag and left the room.
As she got in her car, she immediately wanted to call Jake to tell him how it went, and then remembered he wasn’t taking her calls. She debated heading south toward his apartment—she still had a key, of course—to force him to talk to her, but thought better of it and went to Suzanne’s instead.
The next few days she waited and waited. No word from the recruiters; no word from Jake.
By Thursday morning, she was going stir crazy enough that she got in her car and just drove. She followed one two-lane road and then another, turning north whenever she had the option, singing along maniacally with the radio and only occasionally breaking into tears. She ended up in the tourist trap town of Dahlonega, where she remembered coming with her parents as a little kid.
Marci wandered aimlessly around the quaint little town square, decked out entirely with pine garlands, red velveteen bows, and twinkling lights. She felt out of place. She had no camera, stroller, shopping bags, or sense of purpose. She pretended to be interested in a couple of antiques shops, and then stopped in Ye Olde Fudge Market and bought a quarter pound of peanut butter fudge and bottle of milk on impulse. She got back in the car and bit into the fudge—it was glorious—and remembered what her therapist had said to her a few years back about using food to cope with unpleasant feelings.
“You can’t block out the world with empty calories,” he scolded, a bespectacled apparition in her passenger seat, wearing his signature argyle sweater vest and chinos.
“Fuck you, Dr. Whitmore,” she said back to him, and took another, deliberate bite of the fudge. The apparition disappeared in a huff, as though even her own imagination had deemed her hopeless.
When she had made her way through a good bit of the fudge, her stomach began to protest the massive quantity of sugar, and she admitted defeat. She threw the last chunk away, along with the plastic milk bottle. She felt dizzy, but steadied herself and got back in the car, heading home.
When she got to Suzanne’s about three and a half 80s CDs later, Rebecca was standing on the doorstep with a large box in her arms. “Oh, hey, Marce. I was just about to dig out my phone and call you. I thought you’d be home today.”
Of course you did.
“What’s all this, Rebecca?” Marci asked, though she already knew.
“I’m so sorry. I absolutely hate that he asked me to do this,” Rebecca simpered, though it was clear from her tone and energy that there was nothing she “absolutely hated” about this. “Two of my best friends, heartbroken, and I just can’t stand being caught in the middle.”
“So Jake sent you with my stuff from his apartment?” This was obvious, of course, and she could clearly see her favorite flannel pajamas sticking up in one corner of the box. But it was as though saying the words might somehow allow her brain to absorb the reality of this. He had sent her stuff with Rebecca. Of all people.
“Yeah, I mean, he couldn’t figure out what to do—he is a total mess right now—and I reminded him that I work nearby. I knew you would both want to save the awkwardness. I mean, I was over there last night anyway...”
Marci was grateful to have her key in the door by the time this final dig struck home. If her hands had been free, she might have punched Rebecca outright. She opened the door and Rebecca followed her in, putting the box on the coffee table without waiting for instruction. “I wasn’t over there, you know, in that way, of course,” she was continuing gleefully. “I mean, what kind of tramp would I be? You guys just broke up...”
“Some kind of tramp,” Marci muttered, but Rebecca did not seem to hear her.
“I just went by to see whether I could help at all. Jacob is such a wreck right now. Do you know he had not showered or changed in days? Well, I insisted, of course, and I made him eat something. I know that’s what you would’ve wanted me to do. You’re so lucky to have Suzanne here with you; poor Jacob only has little old me. But anyway,” she placed a solicitous hand on Marci’s arm, “how are you?”
“Not great,” Marci said through gritted teeth. She hated how Rebecca had always called him Jacob as though she had a different relationship with him than the rest of the world.
“Oh, I know. It’s just awful. You poor girl. And how humiliated you must feel—a broken engagement! It’s like a soap opera, but right here in our little group of friends. Well, don’t worry, no matter what anyone says about you, I’ll defend you. What are friends for?”
Marci could think of no good answer to this question at the moment, which was fine, because Rebecca was already on to the topic of a girls’ night out they had planned for the following week and wondering whether Jake’s sister Leah should still be included, “what with all the awkwardness and everything.”
It was all what she should have expected from Rebecca—snide, gloating—and yet, the reality of her words cut Marci deeply. Unti
l just now, she had not thought of the situation with Jake as a “broken engagement,” nor had she thought about what that would mean for their families and friends.
The invitations were not going out. The country club would not be reserved, despite the fact that Kitty had already told everyone she knew. They were going to hate her, probably, as was Leah, whom she had always adored and admired. She might never see Jake’s niece and nephews again. She had Christmas presents for Jasmine and the twins in her closet right now—what should she do with them?
And at the heart of it, the core problem: their little group of friends, together for more than a decade, would never be the same. She had torn it all apart with her selfishness.
Marci stared at the floor while Rebecca chattered on about nothing, taking the rare opportunity to bask in the glow of her passive victory. Marci knew it wouldn’t be long before Rebecca made a move for Jake herself. And unlike Suzanne and Marci, who tolerated Rebecca despite her annoying competitiveness, Jake and Beth had never been able to see that side of her, and had both constantly chastised the other two for being hard on her.
Jake was hurt and vulnerable. Rebecca was beautiful and had adored him like a puppy for years. If Rebecca played her cards right, she probably had a shot.
And maybe that’s the best thing for him. You broke his heart; maybe Rebecca will appreciate him. It’s time to get down off your high horse and realize you’re not so much better than her, or anyone else.
“So what do you think?” Rebecca was saying, and Marci looked up blankly.
“About next Wednesday? Should I ask Leah not to come? Don’t worry, I can take care of it; I need to call her anyway. I know she’ll understand about the, um, special circumstances.”
“No, no,” Marci said, finally gathering her wits about her. “Don’t say anything to her. I’ve been meaning to tell you, actually, um...that I’m not able to go that night anyway. Something for Nicole...it’s a...thing. So see? No problem.” Leah probably wouldn’t come to girls’ night anyway, after everything that had happened, but Marci wanted to give Rebecca no reason to interfere. She hoped like hell Rebecca didn’t press her on what “something for Nicole” might be, because she had no idea. Nicole was back in DC, and couldn’t travel until after the baby, so there were very few plausible stories.
Rebecca, however, clapped her hands at the resolution to the imaginary problem. “Ah, well, that’s settled. But we’ll miss you!” She jutted out her bottom lip in a show of sadness that Marci would not be present, and then abruptly announced she was leaving. “Please call me if you need anything. I’m totally here for both of you, whatever you need.”
“Thanks,” Marci said, as sincerely as she could, and closed the door behind Rebecca.
The box on the coffee table was a monument to her failure as a fiancée, girlfriend, and friend. She wanted to unpack it before she fell apart. Beneath her pajamas were underwear, toothbrush, a stack of CDs, and a few books. When she lifted out some pieces of mail she’d taken to Jake’s a couple of weeks ago, her heart stopped as something fluttered to the floor. Their bar napkin, the faded promise they had made all those years ago, had been returned to her wedged between a cell phone bill and her new library card.
Marci unloaded everything on Suzanne a couple of hours later, from the havoc she had wreaked in the social structure to the idea that maybe Rebecca was a better fit for Jake than Marci was. They were sitting in the Mexican restaurant down the street from their apartment, drowning their sorrows in chips, tequila, and many renditions of “Feliz Navidad.” Suzanne took a long swig of her margarita on the rocks before responding.
“Marcella Thompson. I have known you since the sixth grade, and that is far and away the stupidest thing I have ever heard come out of your mouth. Honestly, I don’t know what to tell you about all the broken engagement garbage, except that if that’s what this is, everyone will survive it. Even his parents, even Jake, even you. And I can’t tell you what Jake will do or who he will end up with,” she held out her margarita class dramatically, “but if Rebecca Williamson is better for him than you are, then I will eat my hat.”
Marci smiled at her best friend’s theatrics. “You’re not wearing a hat.”
“Then I will eat these very beautiful, very expensive shoes. Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” Marci said in her best Eeyore voice. A momentary pause was broken as they dissolved into laughter, drawing sidelong glances from the table next to them.
Chapter 23
A few days before Christmas, Jake finally returned one of Marci’s daily calls in attempt to reach him. Even then he managed to call while she was in the shower, during the fifteen-minute window each day that she was away from her phone. His message sounded more tired than angry.
“Marci, it’s me. I’m calling you back. Well, I guess that’s obvious. Look, I don’t want there to be all these hard feelings between us either, but I just don’t know what to do with everything right now. I meant what I said. I feel like I don’t really know who you are now. Like maybe I was living in a fantasy, trying to make our lives like When Harry Met Sally or something. I thought you were my future, and now, I just don’t know. But I need some time to sort things out. I guess what I’m saying is I need you to back off. Not forever, but just for a while. I’ll get in touch when I can, okay? I love you—”
He said it almost automatically, as he had for months. For years. Then he seemed to catch himself. “Well...yeah. I do still love you. You have to know that already...” He paused as though he wanted to elaborate, but then finished hurriedly, “Anyway, I’ll call you in a few weeks. Okay? Take care of yourself and wish your family happy holidays. Oh, yeah, congratulations on the job.” She heard something like a deep sigh before the click.
Marci stared at the phone for a while, and then picked it up. “Mom? Yeah, I’m okay. It’s just...I think I’m going to come home today until after the holidays.”
She spent Christmas and the days following holed up on her parents’ couch, watching bad movies with her dad and grazing from the cookie tins he brought home from work. It always astonished Marci that people brought sweets to the man who filled their cavities, but this year she was grateful. According to her mother’s scale, she had put on ten pounds since November, but she told herself that New Year’s resolutions were just around the corner.
Through a well-connected client, Suzanne managed to get New Year’s Eve dinner reservations at Nikolai’s Roof, where they indulged in a six-course meal beyond anything Marci had ever experienced. As each plate was taken away, waiters in red coats brushed crumbs from the pristine white tablecloth into tiny silver dustpans. Marci fought off the ridiculous urge to laugh each time this happened.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go out to a club? It’s still early,” Suzanne said as they finished a roasted pear dish that reminded Marci of Thanksgiving at the Stillwells.
“No, thanks,” Marci said. “It just wouldn’t be the same without...everyone.” Of course, neither of them had talked to Jake, or Rebecca. Beth and Ray were also gone; after years of begging and pleading, they had consented to take their kids to Disney World for the holidays.
“I guess two single girls alone at a bar on New Year’s is kind of sad,” Suzanne agreed. She was in the unusual condition of being dateless for the past several weeks, and Marci realized she had not even asked about it.
“Not sad, just...not tonight,” Marci said. The waiter brought the bill in a leather booklet. “Oh, I can’t wait to see this.” Her new job started next week and she was sure Nikolai was getting her first week’s pay before she’d even earned it.
“Nope,” Suzanne said lightly as her manicured fingers snatched the bill. “This one is on me.”
“What? Why?”
“Call it congratulations on your new job.”
“Suzanne, this dinner had to be more than a hundred dollars!”
“Marci, honey, didn’t your mamma teach you anything? It’s rude to talk about money at the table.” S
he wore that prim little grin Marci knew all too well. There was no point in arguing.
“Thanks,” Marci said, and downed the last of the vodka cordial in front of her.
They went back to their apartment and caught the last few minutes of the ball drop in Times Square. It seemed truly odd without Dick Clark, who was in the hospital. Marci thought of the years Jake had been in Times Square with his film school friends, and the night four years ago when he’d kissed her at midnight. She had no idea where he was tonight, how he was celebrating, who he was kissing. Regis Philbin was hosting New Year’s Rockin’ Eve and Jake was out of her life. Nothing was right with the world tonight.
Her new, permanent job started the following Monday, and Marci was immensely grateful for something to do all day. It turned out the company, Lambert Publishing, had hired about sixteen copywriters from the enormous pool of applicants she’d sensed at the hotel. The recruiter had told Marci confidentially that she’d been in the top three chosen, which made her proud, and also concerned that someone would figure out within the first week that there had been some sort of huge mistake.
Orientation took up the first three days. The tedious experience included listening to long lectures on copier usage policies and the benefits packages, and watching videos on sexual harassment and diversity. Because most of her cohort were high-achieving approval-seekers in their first jobs out of college, the questions were numerous, detailed, and seemingly endless. Twelve women, including Marci, and four men had been recruited. Most wore freshly pressed and fashionable clothing, which must have been purchased either by parental support or the last of their recently acquired student loans.
Of the sixteen, at least half were what Marci would call “Air-Time Junkies.” They could not seem to pass up any opportunity to hear themselves talk. Marci watched them in irritation and amusement. She knew that at some point in her life she was just like these kids, desperate for attention and approval, with no clue how the real world actually worked. Her fears about being too old for the job faded as she realized that her relative maturity might be her biggest asset.
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