“She’s good. Calls every night. I was actually talking to her while I waited for you to get home,” he said softly.
“Nice.” Her tone was brisk. “And Renée?”
“She got out of the hospital on Wednesday.”
“Really? That’s great,” she said tightly. “I’m surprised you didn’t tell me earlier.”
“I tried to, but you wouldn’t talk to me on the phone.”
“You could have left a message.”
He sighed as if it was taking all his strength just to be there.
Then leave, Catherine thought. You don’t have to keep up the charade. I’m a big girl.
“She really appreciated you taking Cara for the weekend, you know,” Fynn said, his voice firm and solid.
“I’m sure,” Catherine humphed, pissed that he would pretend Renée had anything nice to say about her—or perhaps she appreciated finding out what kind of mother I would be before she handed over her kid permanently.
“What’s going on with you?” he demanded suddenly.
“Nothing.” She turned her back on him, putting down her purse, taking off her coat, getting comfortable in her home. She even walked boldly to the bedroom, took off her heels and slipped on her slippers.
He didn’t follow.
When she noticed that he wasn’t going to chase her, she took her time, deciding to change out of her work clothes, too, leaving the door open just in case he wanted to catch a peek at what he wouldn’t be getting tonight. Finally, looking young and cute in her fuzzy lounge pants and a long-sleeved shirt that hugged her chest beautifully, she went out to find him, nonchalance in her walk. He was in the same spot, duffel in hand like he had no intention of staying.
“What was that?” he asked in utter disbelief.
“What?” she said dumbly.
“We were in the middle of a conversation.”
“I was done.” She was needling him purposefully, knowing how to provoke an argument—she’d done it with boyfriends in the past when she wanted out.
“Seriously, Cat, what the hell is going on?”
And there it was. That word. Cat. He didn’t call her that. It was a subtle act of war that showed her things weren’t fine on his end either.
“Just say what you’re really thinking, Fynn.”
“I’m not thinking anything except perhaps that you’re a little crazy right now.” He added the universal nutcase hand motion to put it over the top.
“Crazy?” she huffed. He was making her crazy. This whole wedding and marriage and life together was making her crazy.
“That’s how you’re acting.”
“I’m just trying to figure out what the hell you’re doing here,” she blurted, scratching at her neck, feeling claustrophobic in her apartment, in her clothes, in her skin. “Why did you show up like this after what—”
“I came to see my fiancée. Why is that so hard to understand?”
She stood there, her face stony, refusing to answer the offensive question. She wasn’t an idiot. She knew he had “issues” to discuss with her. Issues that could end things. Be a man and come out with it!
“Obviously you don’t want me here,” he said, resigned.
Her heart tightened in her chest. She didn’t want him to leave now either. But she was too proud to say that.
“Can you just tell me one thing?” he asked, but he didn’t wait for permission. “Why are you trying to push me away?”
She could feel their relationship teetering, but instead of taking part to stop it, she watched it waver before her. She couldn’t lie and say she wasn’t pushing. She couldn’t blame it all on a weak and dying, meddling woman—a friend he had known infinitely longer than they’d known each other.
And just when she thought he had run out of things to say… “Sometimes I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into—”
“So do I,” she slung back, desperation lighting the fire within her.
He looked at her, pain in his eyes at the viciousness with which she wielded those words, as opposed to the hopelessness in his own.
“This isn’t working,” she said firmly and quickly, self-destructing before he could do it for her.
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t want this,” she said around the lump in her throat.
“What exactly are you saying?” Fynn asked carefully, every muscle tensed in his face and body. She could see he was trying to restrain himself. This conversation was going nowhere good and they both knew it.
“I’m saying that I’m giving up everything here—my job, my home, my life,” Catherine said helplessly, but the words were so brutal the way she shoved them out there.
“Your life?” His voice was so cold, much colder than the winter air outside the apartment had been.
“You know what I mean.” Her tone attempting to minimize what she’d said, like it was a figurative exaggeration.
“No, I don’t.” He was stiff, unyielding.
“It’s different just flying out for long weekends—going to see you was like going on vacation. We don’t know what the normal day-to-day is going to be like. And living there? Just what am I supposed to do 24/7?”
“Whatever you want to do.”
“I’m giving up everything, Fynn. Starting over completely. Don’t you get it?”
“Yeah, I get it,” he said sharply, his eyes piercing right through her.
“I’m taking on a daughter—someone else’s daughter! I don’t know what I’m doing. And you know that Renée isn’t happy with it,” she noted plainly, bringing the argument around to his side to attempt to make this his fault, too, forcing him to tell her the truth.
“What are you talking about?”
“You said she was mad… on the phone the other day.”
“No I didn’t.”
“Yes. When you were driving back from Iowa.”
He looked perplexed.
“You said we had to talk, that she was mad about—”
“When I lost my connection?”
She nodded curtly.
“I was saying that she was sure Cara drove you mad, because Cara wouldn’t stop driving her mad about all the fun she had.”
“Oh….” Catherine pulled back, totally confused.
“That’s what this is about? You’ve been angry about that all week? Making up some argument against us because of that?” Fynn challenged.
“I—”
“Why wouldn’t you just say something?”
“I didn’t know what to say. This whole situation is just plain weird. I mean, if Cara’s mom doesn’t approve—”
“First of all, Renée doesn’t decide who I marry. And if she doesn’t think I can make the right choice in a wife, then maybe I’m not the right choice as a father.” And with that he finally dropped his bag, both hands free.
Catherine’s heart retreated to her chest, relief flushing through her system. She wanted to melt into his arms and forget the whole crazy conversation she’d started in the first place.
“But if you feel like you don’t want this,” he cautioned, offering her the space and the rope to hang herself. “This is a package deal. Me, Cara, Nekoyah. If you’re unsure….”
“I just—”
“I need to know now. I’m not putting Cara through a wedding just to have it all fall apart. It’s not fair.”
“I—” But she didn’t know what to say. Of course she knew marriage was supposed to be forever, but to have him say—to put it this way—
“Well?” he prompted.
“I don’t even know who I am in Nekoyah,” she admitted. “Moving there…. It’s not like I can just buy a truck and take up working at the diner with Mel.”
“Of course not, Mel would never hire you,” he said, completely flat.
She searched his face for the joke, but it wasn’t there. He was shutting her out. She reached for his hand. It was cold to the touch, and right then she just wanted to warm it up, warm him up, suck all the words she’d
put out there back inside where they belonged—a bunch of ridiculous fears that didn’t matter because she would have him. That was what she wanted. Maybe she didn’t necessarily want Nekoyah specifically, but she wanted him. Couldn’t they figure out the rest from there?
She felt his other hand clasp around hers suddenly, and the warmth in their touch generated quickly. They were so good together.
“Do you want to get married?”
“Yes,” she said, stricken. “Of course.”
“To me?” He was gravely serious—too serious.
“Fynn—”
“It’s a simple question. Does this make you happy?” He motioned between them.
“What if living in New York makes me happy?” she asked, skirting his question.
“Then live here,” he said, dropping her hands, putting his own in his pockets. “Seems pretty simple to me.” He sounded relieved, like the argument or disagreement or whatever had pushed them to the cusp of—gulp—being over, was settled.
“So you wouldn’t mind living—”
He shook his head, resolve strong. “Without me. I can’t do that to Cara. You know that Nekoyah is the best thing for her.”
“But New York is—”
“The best for you,” he finished for her. “I understand. Hey, Cat, we missed it by that much.” He held up pinched fingers.
She felt her heart bottom out.
Tuesday, February 8th
-49-
She was wrong before; this was the worst Tuesday on record, without question. She’d called in sick yesterday so she could spend the day on the couch with Ben & Jerry and the Keebler elves. Then Chester Cheetah made an appearance and she took him to bed with her, waking this morning to find herself cuddling the empty bag of Cheetos to her chest like he was the love of her life now.
I can’t believe he left and I’ll never hear from him again. Not that there was anything more to say. What’s over is… over. They hadn’t been living together, so there was no dividing of stuff. He could keep what little she’d left behind in the dresser drawer at his place—or donate it—or toss it—or burn it. And she had nothing of his at all—except an old high school T-shirt that was so soft and worn and perfect that she’d lived in it for the past three days and had no intention of giving it back to him even if he asked for it. Not that he would ever speak to her again.
She looked around her desk, wondering where to begin. She had been working like a short-timer for months. Focused on her love life instead of her livelihood. And then the wedding had overtaken work and love. She’d lost focus. But she was here to stay now. Time to buckle down. A new start—
“Catherine, I would like a word with you in my office,” boss-lady Lillian said brusquely, leaning around the cubicle wall like she had to hold on in order to pull herself out of the jet stream of success long enough to chat with an underling.
“Uh—certainly,” Catherine said, completely uncertainly. “When exactly? Do you mean now?”
But Lillian was already gone, sucked down the corridor of power.
“What did you do?” Tara said breathlessly, arriving just under the wire and throwing herself down in her chair, yanking off her hat and gloves and scarf at the same time.
“I don’t know.” Catherine was stunned, pretty certain that just because she had no option but to stay that she was about to be fired. Karma.
“Don’t play dumb with me,” she hissed. “I know exactly what you did.”
“Why don’t you tell me then?” She wondered if she’d mixed up some files on Friday when she was trying to catch up with her backlog. Maybe she’d shipped some documents to the wrong clients.
“Smartass,” Tara growled.
“Lillian wants to talk to me. You’re bitching me out. What happened? I wasn’t even here yesterday, remember?”
“I’m not talking about work.”
“Then what the hell are you talking about?”
Tara stared her down. “I talked to Vinnie.”
Catherine felt her stomach flip and roll unpleasantly. She’d called Vinnie first thing Saturday morning. Canceled everything. Certainty born of anger and frustration and everything that had kept her up all night after Fynn left. At 9:13 he walked out of her life. She’d watched from the window as he got in a cab. He never even looked up. Never looked back. And twelve bitter hours later she voiced the words: “Vinnie, the wedding’s off.” It was the right thing to do. The whole idea had been crazy from the beginning. Their meeting—their relationship—their proposal—their wedding. Too spontaneous and fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants to actually work. But as the weekend wore on she didn’t feel so certain. She felt alone. Nobody called. Everyone probably thought she was with Fynn, and Fynn probably didn’t care where she was. And when she started rooting around for something to fill the hole that was ripped open inside her, she saw her wedding dress hanging there in the pantry as a talisman against the junk food demons, and she broke down completely—
“When were you planning to share your little secret? Or were you just going to keep wearing that?” Tara pointed disgustedly at the lying diamond on Catherine’s hand. “Pretend that all’s good and let us show up at the wedding only to wonder where the bride and groom are.”
“God, can’t anyone keep anything to themselves anymore?” Catherine grumbled under her breath. No one she surrounded herself with these days could be trusted, not her friends or family or her friggin’ wedding planner—who just so happened to be her friend’s family member. Figures.
“Cat, do you realize what you’ve done?”
“Saved myself from a divorce and the pesky division of assets?” she quipped, trying not to break down right here and now in the office. It was bad enough that people could certainly overhear their conversation, but to show weakness? Let them think she was okay—fine—good—relieved that her whole future had fallen apart. She was a take-charge gal who couldn’t be held back in a marriage. She was a New York City chick with a career and goals and a life to live!
“If we’re going to fix this, we need Georgia,” Tara said definitively.
“Oh my God, you didn’t tell her did you?” Catherine gasped. “If you told her, she’ll have told Lacey, and of course Lacey will have shared it with my mom, and that will be the nail in the coffin of my daughterhood,” she babbled, eyeing the clock. “My mom should be calling any minute—”
“I didn’t tell Georgia—yet.”
Catherine beamed at her with relief.
“I wanted first crack at kicking your ass,” Tara snapped, wiping the smile right off her face. “I knew I shouldn’t leave you alone for a minute. Not until after the wedding.”
“Then why did you?” she mocked in a nanny-nanny-boo-boo, take-that tone, like she could pin all this on her.
“Because I thought I could still have a life and be friends with you at the same time. My cousin’s christening was this weekend. I couldn’t tell them I’d have to miss it because I was busy babysitting a thirty-four-year-old bitch with commitment phobia.”
Catherine’s mouth dropped open in indignation.
“Don’t give me that look. It’s true. It just took longer with this one. I thought we were on the home stretch. But then I ran into Vinnie at the church.”
“How many freaking cousins do you have?” she lashed in frustration, beginning to wonder if everyone was related to Tara in some way.
“A lot.” Tara shrugged like it was to be expected. “Now explain to me what happened so we can figure out how to fix it.”
But before she could force the words out of her mouth, a message popped up on Catherine’s computer screen: I’m waiting.
Lillian.
*****
“Where are you?” Tara demanded through the phone. “You left for Lillian’s office so long ago I was afraid she ate you up and spit you out and had your remains wheelbarrowed off the premises.”
“I’m out. To Lunch,” Catherine said, spacey after what had just happened.
“You
’ve been gone for hours. What about your job?”
“Lillian took me.”
“Swanky,” Tara mocked. “I guess you’re not fired then. Not standing on the George Washington, staring into the water below, trying to decide whether you have anything left to live for,” she said bitterly, as if that was exactly what she’d hoped to hear.
“I got promoted.” She was still in shock. Lillian’s little talk had been a performance review. It seems that her work over the past several months was much more efficient and definitive and sharp. It turned out not giving a flying fuck about her job and living for weekends had made her better at it. At least Lillian was impressed. She wanted to make her a divisional account manager—more responsibility, more pay, even some travel.
“Promoted?” Tara choked on the word.
Catherine nodded her head even though she wasn’t there to see it.
“Is boss-lady there with you? Put her on the phone,” Tara said firmly.
“She left. Had a meeting or something. Told me to give her my answer by the end of the week.”
“So you didn’t take it?” The relief in her voice was obvious.
“I could hardly say anything let alone yes. I wasn’t angling for a promotion…. But now it seems like kismet or serendipity or something.”
Wednesday, February 9th
-50-
Catherine opened her apartment door to find the most somber surprise party ever. At least that was what first came to mind. Her friends… and Lacey, standing around her coffee table, stone-faced. No jolly hollering of Surprise! No noisemakers or hats. No banner emblazoned with “Congrats on Your Very Important Promotion.” And it wasn’t her birthday either. Is this a surprise wedding shower? She gulped. My bachelorette party?
“We need to fix this,” Georgia said, coming toward her like a nurse approaching a patient—a mental patient.
“You said you didn’t tell her!” Catherine squealed.
“After I heard the megalomaniac with the ‘promotion’ I knew you were about to do something stupid to compound your stupidity,” Tara charged.
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