She forgot all of this, though. In her quest to prove she was the best, that she merited all the praise, she forgot why she did this in the first place. Joy.
She should have asked for more help; she should have told Owen she was drowning. She could have said, Sometimes I worry that I’m terrible at this job. I barely keep up our own house. I have a notebook full of other people’s ideas. Can you help? Can I lean on you? Can you prop me up?
Bea asked. Colin helped. It seems simple when you think of it that way.
She floats and floats and floats. Her hands, heavy and weighted, skim the paved roof, her fingers grazing something glassy and smooth. She reaches underneath the chaise and finds it: Owen’s old letter, preserved like an archaeological relic in its frame.
It feels like a betrayal to read it, but she does anyway. She needs it, they need it. Maybe it can rescue them, this reminder of who they used to be. Maybe it will be the map to lead them out of this road of ruin. Their own Road to Freedom, Catherine thinks.
Dear old you:
I don’t know what Bea wants from this. I mean, I don’t know what to say to my old man self! Jeez. I guess something like: I hope you’re filthy rich, and I hope that you’ve popped out a few kids. Kids would be cool. I hope that tonight (last night of college!!!) is legendary!!! I dunno, man. I guess I hope that you’re happy. That you and Catherine live happily ever after. Don’t fuck it up, dude. She’s pretty great.
Your young you,
Owen
Catherine laughs out loud, then slaps her hand over her mouth in surprise. But what was she expecting? Shakespeare? Still, though, it’s so Owen, and she laughs again. He was just a kid—they both were, and if there’s any hope for their happily ever after, they have to rejigger their expectations of who they were (to themselves, to each other) and who they’re yet to be.
The fireworks begin their dance overhead: a pop, pop, pop, then meteors of reds, then whites, then blues. She closes her eyes, white lights still flaring behind her lids, the cacophony keeping her company.
She doesn’t know how long she lies there; she doesn’t know how long Owen has been standing beside her, gazing up at the sky, contemplating his own set of thoughts, his own laundry list of mistakes. She only notices him when he startles her by rattling the chaise when he lowers himself and sits beside her.
“Jesus!” she says, jolting up quickly.
“Sorry, I thought you knew I was here.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “No . . . Your mouth. You’re not lisping. Is it better?”
He runs his tongue over his gap, over the missing veneer, and winces.
“It hurts. But it might be fine by tomorrow.”
Catherine falls silent for a long time after that. She’s not sure what else to say, or maybe she’s waiting for him to say something else too. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t think he knows either.
“Do you miss this place?” she asks finally. The fireworks have slowed for the moment, waiting to build to their big finale.
“I didn’t think I did. I mean, not when we’re in Chicago—I don’t miss it when we’re there. But, yeah, maybe a little.”
She nods.
“We were better then,” he says.
“We were simpler then,” she corrects.
He shrugs. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“I don’t want to be unhappy.”
“I don’t think anyone wants to be unhappy.”
Catherine wants to reach for his hand, tell him they shouldn’t be, that together they’ll find a way to fix their unhappiness. But she doesn’t have a recipe for that, a cutesy rubber stamp to compensate for five years of spiraling. Besides, if she and Owen are going to be OK, it’s going to take more than romantic proclamations, more than sworn declarations on the roof of their old house with their old selves haunting them.
So, instead, she eases back into the chaise, and he sits beside her. And they watch the fireworks tap dance across the darkened sky, hoping to wake tomorrow to a brighter day, but knowing that the lights of tonight might be the brightest they’ll shine for a while.
Then she reaches for his hand anyway.
38
ANNIE
Annie is floating in a state somewhere between dreaming and consciousness when the shouting brings her to. She raises her head from Colin’s pillow, and beside her he does the same. Lindy. Lindy is screaming at someone—no surprise. The doorbell blares.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.
Lindy shouts again over the buzzer.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.
“Ugh,” Colin says, his hand worming its way over her stomach. “What the hell?”
“I don’t know. More drama.” Annie sighs, trying to relax back into his touch.
But then another voice. She sits up abruptly.
Oh no. Oh nooooooo.
Her hand floats across the floor, seeking her clothes. Instead, she finds Colin’s shirt, crumpled beside the bed. Annie hesitates. Then she grabs it and tugs it over her head. She scampers barefoot up the steps. To her back, Colin says, “What? Hey. Hang on!” She hears him scurry to his feet.
Annie already knows who will be waiting for her when she flings open the door, but she’s shocked all the same.
Baxter has his finger on the doorbell, like the president on the nuclear button, poised to blow it again at any moment. Behind him, Lindy is working herself into a fit.
“You have no right to show up here! How audacious can one person possibly be?”
“Annie.” His voice craters. Annie barely recognizes him, this broken version of her husband. His polo is disheveled (and she thinks she sees a mustard stain), his shorts are unironed, his wild hair nudges north, and his skin is splotchy and pink.
She’s so stunned, she says nothing. She and her husband stand in the doorway, eyeing each other, staring without words.
“You don’t deserve to speak with her!” Lindy yells from the street.
“Lindy,” Leon says, “this isn’t about you.”
“It’s about me, Leon!”
“For Christ’s sake, Lindy! You have a kid inside of you that you failed to mention. You have a girlfriend and you have me and you have a shitload of problems, so stop making this problem all about you!”
“So the kid is a problem,” she says.
“Jesus,” he says. “Do you ever hear what anyone else is saying?”
“Annie,” Baxter tries again.
“Can you not take the hint?” Lindy says from behind him. “What do guys like you need to take a hint?”
“You don’t know anything about me.” Baxter swivels toward her, angry now. Annie can’t remember the last time she saw him anything less than placid. Annoyed at her sometimes, yes, when she posts on Facebook or whatnot. But not angry. Not actually up in arms, prepared to fight. She wonders if he thinks that he’s here to fight for her. If he thinks he can win.
“You don’t know anything about her!” Lindy yells.
“Lindy, please,” Annie says finally. “Stop screaming.”
“I’m sorry.” Baxter returns to Annie. “I’m so goddamn sorry!” He retrieves a bag resting at his feet. “Here, this . . . I got the owner of the store you love on Main Street to open up tonight. Just for you.” He thrusts the bag forward.
Annie takes it as if she’s in a dream, without glancing inside, without really registering exactly what is happening.
“I-I . . .” she stutters.
“It’s that necklace you’ve wanted. With the three diamonds.”
“Oh.”
“Here, let me open it, put it on you.” He takes the bag back.
“No.” Annie shakes her head, feeling a bit like she’s mired in quicksand. “No . . . I . . . a necklace won’t fix it this time, Baxter.”
A vein bulges in his forehead, the same one she sometimes s
ees when she pokes her head into his home office and he’s mired in a deal that’s going south. She watches the vein pulse, a light shade of purplish-blue, and Annie knows he understands. This time. She knew about the last time too. Last time he assuaged her with a bracelet and better behavior. This time, shiny jewelry isn’t enough.
He shuffles his flip-flops. Baxter is wearing flip-flops! He must have rushed out of the Hamptons rental in a whirlwind. He recalibrates. “I was stupid. I was . . . I just . . . I miss you . . .”
“I’ve been gone for a day. A day!”
“No, no. You. You were gone for a long time.”
Annie inhales sharply at the accusation. Not an accusation, actually. The truth. Her hand flies to her neck. After so many years, this is the moment they’re finally going to start telling the truth? She swallows, her mouth suddenly dry. She’s not sure they’re ready to peel back everything, expose everything to each other. She’s not sure she’s ready.
“You’re only here because you got caught,” she says.
Before Baxter can reply, Annie hears Colin’s footsteps behind her, then feels his presence next to her. Baxter’s eyes shift from Annie to Colin to Annie’s oversize gray V-neck to Colin once more. His face drops. She thinks she should cower, be ashamed of the obviousness of what has occurred, but Annie is tired of being ashamed. She is so very, very tired. If Baxter wants to air their dishonesties, their battle wounds, then let’s start now.
She bites her lip and doesn’t apologize, doesn’t pretend it’s anything other than exactly what it looks like.
Finally, Baxter says, “I screwed up.” Plainly. Honestly.
She thinks he’s going to add, So did you, but something stops him. She isn’t sure what, because it’s not as if he’s wrong. Perhaps it’s because he understands his penance. That you can’t go around casting off responsibility for falling into a trench when you were the one who helped dig it. “I can’t lose you now,” he adds. “Please. There’s Gus.”
“Don’t you dare. You should have thought about Gus before—”
“It’s a midlife crisis,” he interjects. “Like that Porsche or that stupid raw-food diet! Oh my God. No, you’re right, I shouldn’t have brought up Gus.” He starts weeping then.
Annie hasn’t seen him cry since his dad died, and a small part of her splinters. Not really for Baxter. Maybe a little bit for him, yes. But for both of them. How wrong they’ve gotten it, how wrong they’ve gotten each other.
“Jesus, you have never looked more beautiful than right now,” Baxter manages.
Colin sighs, and Annie glances over at him, as if she’s just remembering he’s there.
“You have to forgive me,” Baxter stammers. “I mean . . . you don’t have to . . . I mean . . . please. I’ll get you anything . . . necklaces, bracelets, rings. Anything.” He sputters to a stop. “Sorry, sorry. I know you don’t want that crap.” He sighs. “I just . . . please tell me how to fix this.”
“Annie,” Lindy says from the sidewalk, “you don’t have to settle.”
Annie gazes over Baxter’s shoulder to her old friend, and she feels herself soften. There is something in Lindy’s tone, something about her sympathy, that reminds Annie of something else. Love.
Love.
“You just . . . don’t.” Lindy nods, as if she understands that it has come to this, that Annie finally sees it. “I told you that forever ago. It’s still true.”
“Annie, please,” Baxter pleads. “She’s right. I don’t deserve you. But I’m asking anyway.”
But Annie is still processing Lindy, struggling to focus on Baxter, struggling to grasp all this. She has never been good in a crisis, never been the sturdy one who keeps a cool head. It’s why she started with the pills, why she loses herself in the distortion of the posed, filtered, reassuring images of her Instagram feed.
She breathes in, breathes out.
“Please,” Baxter repeats.
She finds a reserve that she didn’t know she possessed, refocusing on him, steadying her voice, her resolve.
“Not tonight,” she says, hoarse. “You don’t get to come here and do this tonight.”
“But . . . I drove here straight from the beach . . .”
She doesn’t budge. Another surprise to them both. Annie budged so often that she usually couldn’t even sense when her footing was giving way.
“I’m staying downtown,” he manages. “Please. Tomorrow?”
Annie considers this and then nods. Then she closes the door slowly, gently, as if it might shatter if she’s too forceful. Her white knight arrived. But it turns out maybe she didn’t need him to rescue her after all.
39
LINDY
Lindy wants to punch that asshole’s lights out.
“I just want to clock him square in the nose!” she spits, once she’s regained her composure and Baxter has fled in his Escalade. She’s not even sure why she lost it in the first place. Actually, she is. She thought she was over it, this, her. She is over it, she tells herself. But she’s still allowed to care. After two decades of not caring, it’s OK to let that in again, just for a bit, just for a gasp.
She sits back on their front stoop. She beckons Leon to sit next to her, but he will not join her. He keeps his distance a few feet away, pacing in the street. The alley in front of their old house is wrapped in darkness again, the fireworks done for the night—all of the hoopla, the Fourth of July hubbub snuffed out for another year . . . the Maps to Freedom folded-up dead ends. She rolls the toe of her boot over an old cigarette butt, shredding it apart.
“Is her husband an asshole or what?” she mutters, and Leon throws his hands up and then slaps his thighs.
“Jesus Christ, Lindy, is there anyone you’re not angry with? Other than yourself, of course.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
He stops short, every muscle clenched, and Lindy thinks he’s about to scream to the sky. Instead, he blows out his breath slowly, like a deflating tire, until he has nothing else to give.
“I don’t know what to say right now.”
“Because I’m pregnant?”
“Not because you’re pregnant!” He starts pacing again. “Well, sure, fuck, yeah. Maybe because you’re pregnant.”
“Well, this is exactly why I wasn’t going to tell you.”
“So you weren’t going to tell me.”
“I didn’t mean it like that! God, I have a girlfriend, Leon. So don’t absolve yourself. You knew I was with her!” She stands now, ready once again for a fight.
“Well, I regret it!”
Lindy drops back to the steps abruptly.
“So you regret this. Well, great. Fucking A. Gee, grand surprise that I wasn’t like, signing up for a baby registry as soon as I took the test. Should I have sent you pink-and-blue balloons instead?”
“God, Lindy. Come on. I regret my part in it. I’m a grown-up, so I can admit when I fucked things up.” He pauses. “I don’t regret . . . this.” He gestures toward her, but she’s staring at the pavement and misses it. “You are just . . . you are such a pain in the ass. Why?”
Lindy thinks about Tatiana, how, finally, her actions will have absolutely irreparable consequences. There’s the baby now. There’s no hedging, no excuses, no manager or publicist who can clean up the mess she made of things. Pearson was right—she’s a pain in the ass for no reason at all. Just because she can be.
“So this is how it feels to be a grown-up,” she says.
“Yup.”
“It sucks.”
Leon’s laugh cuts through the air.
Lindy drums her fingers on the stoop, a beat, a rhythm, to calm her. Grown-ups face regret; grown-ups own their culpability; grown-ups try to do better.
“I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner. That I was pregnant. I didn’t know how. I didn’t, if we’re confess
ing things, know if I wanted to. I . . . I guess I’m not known for perfect etiquette.”
“All true statements.”
“I don’t know what kind of mother I’ll be.” Her fingers slow, the beat now lost.
“None of us really knows who we’ll be until we get there.”
Lindy gazes upward. She thinks she hears Catherine and Owen on the roof. She wonders if Annie’s OK inside, wonders if Annie finally understood what had simmered inside of Lindy for so long. She thinks she saw it in Annie’s face over Baxter’s shoulder: the recognition of the truth, of what really splintered them all those years ago. Lindy’s surprised to discover that this calms her, that she no longer has to run from the secret or the rejection or the tiny hope that maybe Annie loved her too. Lindy wonders if Colin is comforting her now instead, or if Annie even needs to be comforted.
She eases back against their old stoop and realizes she’s ready to let it go. It’s been long enough, it’s weighed her down long enough. She realizes this is a gift, and she realizes further that it’s a gift from Bea.
“Happy birthday, lady,” she says aloud.
And she smiles because it’s fitting: that even on her birthday, Bea is the one who gave something back.
40
ANNIE
After the ruckus, Colin pours himself a glass of water, then climbs the steps to Annie’s old room and tumbles into her bed. They were always doing this back then: waking in someone else’s room after wandering around at ungodly hours. She smiles at the memory but doesn’t follow him up the creaky wooden staircase. Instead, she retreats to the basement for a bit of cool air, a bit of space.
In Twenty Years: A Novel Page 29