by Jenn Faulk
But Brandon and I went out on countless dates and spent months together and had a perfect baby together and never once did he tell me that he loved me—even though I was so sure that I loved him. Did I love him, or was I just infatuated? And even if he had said the words, “I love you,” to me, what would that have changed?
Nothing. I’d still be a single mom. The other woman. I would still be unloved . . . despite the words.
But Peter. The more I think about him the more I realize that he has made me feel more loved in the past week than Brandon ever did during the entire time we were together. I truly believe that he would do anything for me and that he cares more for me than he cares about anything else in the world . . . and more than anyone else in the world makes me feel. Maybe that’s what love is.
Maybe time doesn’t have anything to do with love and maybe it’s just taken someone who doesn’t see things exactly the same way everyone else does to show me exactly that. Peter is kind and he’s gentle and he’s honest, and as crazy as it sounds I can see myself spending the rest of my life—
“Did you get that, Maggie?” Tanner asks, interrupting my thoughts.
I’m writing down the details as Tanner gives them to me, glancing up at him with every few words, watching as he reads me the details from his fiancée’s latest text, but I most definitely did not get whatever “that” was . . .
“Almost. Could you repeat that last part?” I ask. Tanner rolls his eyes and sighs. After Peter left this morning, I floated back in, expecting another round of brutal questioning from Tanner and just not caring either way because Peter told me he was sorry, Peter can be trusted, Peter loves me . . .
Tanner didn’t ask anything, though. He just watched me as I went over and planted a kiss on Emma’s head then went to getting my own breakfast ready. When my eyes finally met his, he just shook his head and went on with the story he was telling Emma.
He was telling her about Honey, the bloodhound our stepdad, Seth, got for us back before he even started dating our mom.
That got me to thinking about Seth, about how he never replaced our dad in our hearts but how he stepped in and was the dad we needed for all these years. Regardless of the complicated feelings I have about him and my mom now, given all that’s happened in my life, I have to admit that there have been times that I’ve wondered if God, who might still be watching all of this and feeling some mercy toward me, might send a man to do the same for Emma.
It seems even more poignant now, now that Brandon is gone, now that Peter . . .
“I said, ‘You can bring Peter to the wedding,’” Tanner mutters, bringing me back to the present.
I look up at him, wondering at this, at what he knows.
“What makes you say that all of a sudden?”
“Oh, come on,” he says, heaving another great sigh. “I saw how you’ve been ever since you came back in from talking with him this morning. And even if I hadn’t witnessed all those goofy looks that have been on your face all morning . . . well, I might have peeked out the window earlier and saw you nearly sucking the poor guy’s face off—”
“Good grief, Tanner,” I manage, just a little mortified.
“Can’t be more weirded out than I am by it all, Maggie,” he says. “Trust me. But we’re adults, so we can be mature about this. Bring him to the wedding if you want to.”
Well, I am weirded out by this. “Okay, how did we go from the flower girl dress Ana has picked out for Emma to . . . well, my date?”
“So, you’re planning on bringing him, then?” Tanner asks.
“I wasn’t planning on anything just yet,” I say. “But thank you. For offering. For being okay with . . .”
“With all of this, yes,” he says. “And I arrived at that offer because we were talking about Emma. About you. About all that you’ve got ahead of you after last night.”
We both look over at Emma, who has no idea how much her world has changed. She smiles at us both, a Froot Loop stuck to her chin, a handful of them in her right hand, and one, just one, in the spoon she holds in her left hand.
“She looks just like him,” I say softly.
“I know,” Tanner murmurs. He and Brandon saw one another a few times, on those rare occasions where he’d be around when Brandon came to be with Emma. His feelings on Brandon were no secret. He was a whole lot easier on Peter earlier than he ever was with Brandon, but he did credit him with being a good father, at least, and with producing the most gorgeous, perfect, beautiful, and amazing child ever.
His words. Mine, too.
I smile at him, thinking of these words.
He smiles back.
“I was just thinking about Emma,” he says softly. “And I know I’m tough on you, Maggie. But it’s because I care. And last night, I just . . . I don’t know. I’m worried about you.”
“I know you are,” I say. “I’m going to be okay.”
“I want you to be better than okay,” he says. “I want you to be happy.”
Happy. Is there a happily ever after for me? I didn’t think so, but now . . .
“Maybe,” Tanner says, as though he’s reading my mind, “your happy ending is just going to be a little unconventional.”
I think about Peter. Unconventional.
“Maybe,” I concede.
“I was thinking about Seth,” he says, shrugging. “He’s just about the best dad in the world, you know? But back when Mom got involved with him, she was a widow with two kids. Her focus shouldn’t have been on a relationship. It should have been solely on taking care of her kids and being the best single mom she could be, right?”
I nod, thinking that I’ve felt the same when it comes to Emma. I haven’t dated. I haven’t even looked around and seriously thought of anyone as a possibility. I’ve been a single mom. A good single mom.
“But,” Tanner says, shaking his head, “that’s wrong, Maggie. It would have been wrong for Mom. Because Seth was out there, and he’s a good man, a good dad, God’s blessing to you and me both. So, if I’m sitting here telling you that you need to grow up . . .”
He looks at me apologetically.
“Well, I’m wrong. Because if my counsel to you is to just be alone and never take a chance on someone, I’m saying that Mom shouldn’t have given Seth a chance. And if she hadn’t done that . . . well, that would have been our loss.”
I feel tears in my eyes. I would have felt the loss. I feel the loss now, now that Mom and Seth are out of my life. My choice, but . . .
“I want the best for Emma,” Tanner says. “For you.”
I need this. I need to believe that I deserve this.
“But,” Tanner says, getting his bossy voice back on, “Peter needs to redeem himself for all that he kept from you. Don’t just let him back in.”
“But bring him to the wedding,” I say, knowing that Peter has redeemed himself in my eyes, by saying what he did. “You already told me to do that. Can’t take it back now.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “And prepare him to meet Mom and Seth. Prepare yourself to see them again. Because they’ll be there.”
I know this.
Tanner and I say nothing for a long moment. Maybe I can reach out and reconcile like they’ve been wanting to do. Maybe I can forgive the hard words we all said.
Maybe I can forgive myself.
“I’m praying for you, Maggie,” Tanner says softly.
And I reach out and put my hand to his.
“Please do.”
~Peter~
Andrew has a job this summer as a lifeguard. This is fitting for him because he’s loved being in the water all of his life and he’s a very strong swimmer. This is true for both of us, I guess, since as soon as Dad moved us to Florida, he started taking us out on the water every chance he got. Kayaking, snorkeling, canoeing, sailing, paddle boarding. We did it all. Every weekend. Every break Dad had from school. He may have been trying to keep us busy—keep our minds off Mom—but whatever the reason, both of us are beyond
comfortable around water, and Andrew is practically amphibious.
Despite the fact that we’d both likely be able to save somebody who was drowning, Andrew is much more fitting in the role of lifeguard. He’s tan and handsome and when he winks at pretty girls in bikinis they feel flattered. If I tried that, I’d undoubtedly get slapped. I also wear a lot of sunscreen. When we’re in our eighties, Andrew will probably be jealous of how much better my skin looks than his. Until then, however, I think he’s fairly content to have half-naked girls giggling when he smiles at them.
I’m content, too. Beyond content, actually, but also exhausted, and when I arrive home to find that Andrew is at work, I lay down on my bed, close my eyes, and prepare to fall quickly asleep.
Except that I don’t. Because I can’t. My mind won’t settle. First I’m thinking of Maggie and of kissing her and telling her that I love her and of how she’s okay with that. After a long time of thinking about Maggie, though, I begin to think about Crystal (something I decide I probably should avoid bringing up with Maggie).
Mothers put their babies first, Maggie told me when I explained how my mother gave up her life for Andrew. Even before they’re born.
Except that they don’t. Not always.
I meant what I’d told Crystal—that I had been praying for her. Not that I was sure if God ever really even hears me. He sure doesn’t seem to react whenever I pray for myself because—whenever I get obsessed with something and my mind gets stuck in a loop? I always ask God for help in deciding what to do—but all I ever get back is silence.
No signs. No indication of what I should do or how I should proceed . . .
Just me, usually doing the wrong thing. Or me, doing nothing at all. Which, incidentally, is also usually the wrong thing.
This has never stopped me from praying though, and I pray for Crystal again now. I pray that she’ll decide to keep her baby, and—just like I told her—I pray that God will be with her, and that He’ll bring her peace.
I wonder again why it feels so natural to talk with Crystal. Why it’s as easy for me to talk with her as it is with Andrew (maybe even easier because she isn’t as full of snarky remarks and sarcasm as Andrew is). I think about how upset Maggie was that I’d spent the night with Crystal and how I told her that Crystal was old enough to be my mother. And I wonder if that’s it.
On the surface, Crystal and my mother were nothing alike. Crystal is already thirty-nine, and my mother didn’t even live to see thirty. Also, my mother usually threw her hair up into a messy ponytail each morning and went about her day with no makeup or jewelry, whereas I have never seen Crystal without perfectly applied lipstick and every hair in place. Even after a full night of crying, diamond earrings dangled from Crystal’s ears and mascara still clung to her lashes, framing her blue eyes. Waterproof, likely.
But underneath that flawless exterior, I think maybe Crystal is actually a lot like my mother. When I told her about my computer program and how long I’d been working on it and how I’d designed it and what I hoped to do with it in the future, she’d asked all sorts of questions, and she’d listened so intently.
I know I can never tell my mom about my program, but if I could? Well, I think she’d react the same way Crystal did. I think she’d hang on every word.
That’s what my mother did when I described to her a caterpillar I’d discovered in the backyard. It’s what she did when I told her about a video I’d seen on robots. It’s what she did when I told her about eating lunch with my friends at school.
My mom loved every word that came out of my mouth. That’s what made her such a great mom . . . and I think Crystal’s going to be a great mom, too. If she’ll just give it a chance.
After I pray for Crystal, I pray for Maggie. Well, actually I guess that’s not true. I guess what I really do is I pray for myself, because mostly what I pray for is that one day Maggie will say the words, “I love you,” back to me, and that she will mean them forever.
~Maggie~
I’m watching Emma as she points to the tiger, with Peter crouched next to her, making a growling sound and prompting her to giggle.
Peter’s the one who made the suggestion yesterday when he called. He wanted to see me again, and with Tanner needing to study for a few hours, I’d worried about bringing Emma along with us. Before I could even tell Peter about any of it, he’d said that he really wanted Emma to come because he had tickets to the zoo. I thought it was for her amusement, but based on how he’s laughing with her, it might have been for his.
He catches me staring at him and turns to look at me, smiling just slightly.
“What?” he asks. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because you’re cute,” I say, holding out my hand for Emma’s. “How about we head over to see the lions next?”
Emma claps her hands at this, ignoring my extended hand in favor of Peter’s. He takes her tiny hand in his and holds out his other hand for me.
He’s been like this all day. More confident. More certain of himself. Less cautious and guarded. Watching how smooth he is, for lack of a better word, has me wondering about Crystal again, at how he was just like this, confident and sure, the first time we went to her house.
Why can I not let it go? I think of how confident he was when he asked her questions about Brandon and answered her questions about Emma, and I wonder how much more confident he’s been in the subsequent visits he’s made since.
He says he loves me. I believe him.
But I wonder . . .
“Did you go over to Crystal’s house again?” I ask, trying to sound as innocent and non-confrontational as possible.
“What?” he asks. Then, “No.” He shakes his head. “Why?”
“Well,” I say, “she’s a friend and all. I get that. And she’s going through a rough time. I don’t know. I just thought you might have gone over there to help her out.”
“Her dad came into town,” Peter says, as if this somehow explains everything.
“Oh,” I say. “That’s nice. I guess he’s going to help her out with the arrangements . . .”
The arrangements. The funeral. Should I take Emma? Or is she too young? And furthermore, is it too scandalous for me to be there?
I’m not sure what to do. And I’m a little more than ashamed of myself when my first thought on the subject is not about what’s right but instead about what Crystal would say, what she would think, what Peter would think . . .
“Are you going to the funeral?” I ask him.
“Uh, I don’t know,” he says, and I can tell that this question has caught him completely off guard. Obviously he hasn’t even considered it. He pauses for a moment and says, more to himself than to me, “You know, actually that might not be a bad idea. Whenever the police investigate a murder, they always see who’s at the funeral . . .”
“What?” I ask. “You’re not the police, Peter. I think they’re probably going to handle it and just call you if they need your help. Or is Crystal still wanting you to look into things?” I think of him at her house again, and I feel myself cringe at the thought.
“I, uh, I told her I would,” he admits. “I, um, I . . .”
“Well, that’s good,” I say, even though I don’t think it’s good at all. I mean, he’s here with me, with my little girl, his hand in mine, his attention on us . . . but still.
Being the other woman, even though I didn’t know I was the other woman, has left me feeling a little deficient in this area of my life. Romance, being desired, being pursued, being wanted . . . all new things. My enthusiasm for this relationship just might have blinded me to some real truths, and I’m beginning to question these things now.
He says he loves me, but he’s still spending time on a glamorous, sophisticated, successful woman. Oh, and she’s the wife of the guy who lied to me.
She’s the wife. I’m the mistress.
I glance over at Peter, thinking in my heart of hearts that perhaps he might think, at least in som
e small part, that Crystal is better than me. It would be hard not to entertain the thought, at least, given who Crystal is and who I am. I mean, Brandon didn’t end up leaving her for me in the end, and I was the mother of his only child.
“It’s good,” I say, wondering what he really thinks of her and of me. “Crystal is a nice lady.”
“Why are we talking about Crystal?”
“Because you’re spending time with her,” I say, thinking of how I promised Peter yesterday, in between kisses, that I was going to be honest with him. As he helps Emma up to see the lion, letting go of my hand for just a moment, I keep my promise. “And she’s beautiful and glamorous and . . . and I’m sweating through my $5 Wal Mart shirt and all of my cheap makeup with my hair frizzing everywhere.”
There it is. I’ve just told him exactly what I’m thinking.
He glances at me, a look of surprise on his face at my words. “You’re beautiful,” he says simply. “You’re much more beautiful than she is.”
“So you think she’s beautiful?” I say, choosing that one little thing to jump on in all the wonderful things he’s just communicated. I can’t help it. I’m the other woman.
“She’s, um,” he hesitates, and I almost feel bad for the spot I’m putting him in. Finally he admits, “She’s not ugly.”
“So . . . pretty, in other words, right?” I say.
“Not as pretty as you,” he says. “Nowhere near.”
“But you find her attractive,” I counter, hating what I’m saying but needing to hear him admit it.
“Not really,” he says, sounding exasperated. “I mean, if you make me think about it I guess she’s fine or whatever. Why are we having this conversation?”
I hate the way I feel, and I hate who it’s turning me into. A jealous, insecure, sad woman. “I just . . . complicated history with Crystal and me,” I say, as if this will explain it.
Then, I look at him, as he’s holding Emma’s hand in his, and I long for him to love me and want me more than anyone else.