by Britney King
“You’re lovely,” he tells me. He lies. “Here, I think you should wear this one,” he says handing me a blouse from the stack lying on the bed. It’s beige, and it tells me what he wants from me today. He wants me to blend in. This is what happens when you spend decades with a person. You don’t question them because you want to know why they want what they want. You question them because you need to know you want the same.
“What’s going on with you?” I ask. He seems nervous. Especially lately. Different, too. Not that I’m complaining.
“There’s nothing wrong,” he assures me. “I just have a lot on my mind. Work.”
I think of our son and his birthday and our guests. “I’m sorry,” I say. I don’t quite know what I’m sorry for. For the last few months, for being so distracted lately, for not being more appreciative, for all of it, perhaps.
“You did good,” my husband tells me, slipping his arm around my waist.
I smile. “Remind me again why we didn’t have this at the clubhouse?”
He pulls me close and plants a kiss on the top of my head. We stand together watching the commotion as friends fill our backyard. “This is our home,” he says. “It should be this way.”
I take a glass of wine from a server’s tray.
“Plus,” he adds, squeezing my waist. “It’s nice to have our friends here. Our job is to unify and grow the congregation. What better place to do it than our home?”
“You’re right,” I whisper leaning into him.
He glances at me sideways. “You really are a lot smarter than I give you credit for.”
“Nice to know,” I say playfully. I jab his gut. Laughter breaks out. Our eyes follow. Beth and her husband are talking to the Bennetts. Tom and Mel have a small group around them, and the rest of our closest friends from New Hope are pittering about, enjoying the hors d'oeuvres. It’s the kids laughing. James is telling a story. I strain to hear, but there’s too much chatter to make out specifics.
“It is important to show the newcomers hospitality—” Grant says getting my attention. “You know, what an ideal family looks like. It gives them something to aspire to.”
I do know. Which is why I still haven’t told him I want out. My husband is particular about change. I realize I’m going to have to plead my case. Somehow, I don’t think this is the appropriate time.
Eventually, he pats my backside. “Go on,” he says. “Mingle.”
I down the last of my wine and mentally tally how many of these people will still be around when we leave the church. None.
He places his hand on the small of my back and pushes me into the crowd. “Social affairs are meant to be social.”
Halfway through the party, Grant cuts in via the sound system.
“May I have your attention?” His eyes scan the crowd. He’s looking for me. I’ve always loved my husband’s face most when he doesn’t realize I’m watching. He commands everyone’s attention.
His eyes land on mine and his face lights up. “First, I want to thank my beautiful wife for putting this all together,” he says raising his glass. “I’ll never know how I got so lucky.”
Our friends cheer. There’s clapping. Someone whistles.
“Secondly, I’d like to thank you all for coming. This community means everything to us. And I do mean everything.” He looks to me for confirmation. A lump forms in my throat. It hits me. It’s there, the truth in his expression. Leaving New Hope with his blessing is never going to happen.
I smile and look away, shyly.
“Also, to my son. James— What a lucky man I have been to see you grow into the young man you’ve become. I couldn’t be more proud.”
I feel tears brimming my eyelids. I watch my husband. I don’t want to give him up. His shoulders drop. His face relaxes. “To family and friends.”
I hold up my wine glass and repeat after him. “To family and friends.”
Mel is standing beside me. “You really are the luckiest,” she says, beaming. Her hand rests on her still flat stomach.
“The luckiest,” I agree.
She gasps and turns to face me full on, as though she’s about to share the depths of her soul. “I can’t wait to find out what we’re having.” She lowers her voice. “Tom says he doesn’t want to know. But I think he’ll come around. Otherwise, I have no idea how I’ll keep a secret like that from him. Can you imagine?”
“No,” I say. Then I remember. I’m supposed to talk with her. Grant will ask if I set it up. “Do you have time for tea on Tuesday?”
“Tea sounds perfect,” she smiles. She lightly touches my arm when she speaks. She trusts me. She has no idea.
“These are for you,” Grant says to our son. I can’t see what he’s holding from where I’m standing but I can guess. He presses the button on the garage.
James covers his mouth. “NO WAY. A Volvo.”
Grant looks at me and grins. The model he has chosen is one of the safest cars around. He slaps our son on the back and then makes his way over to where I’m standing. “Now,” he says leaning in. His lips graze my ear. “You don’t have to worry so much.”
He’s wrong.
“I have another surprise,” he announces. “One that’s more for you.”
James comes from behind and throws his arms around me. “Thanks, mom.” I turn and pull him into a hug. He’s taller than me, has been for a while, and it’s awkward. “You have your dad to thank,” I tell him, and then he’s off, obviously thrilled, as any kid his age would be. My eyes find my daughter. She’s standing against the car trying not to look as envious as she feels.
I walk over to where she stands. She pulls out her phone. “It’ll be your turn soon,” I say.
She chews her lip and stares at the pavement.
“Plus,” I say pulling her in close. “I have a surprise for you tomorrow.” I’m taking her shopping. She’s been so withdrawn lately. She’s retreated into herself, to a place I can’t reach.
She looks at me and offers a small smile. Fourteen is rough. Everyone says that. Grant told me the other night at dinner I shouldn’t worry so much. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be someone’s mother. He doesn’t have to. He doles out worries. I handle them.
“Cake,” Grant says slinging his arm around Avery’s shoulder. “Let’s have cake.”
She crosses her arms and plants her feet. “I hate cake.”
“Envy isn’t very becoming,” he murmurs. This time she goes with him.
I watch as they walk toward the house, his arm still slung over her shoulder. “Just think.” I hear him say. “By the time you’re driving, your mom will have relaxed a bit. You won’t have to have a safe car.”
“Yeah, right.”
He glances back at me. I raise my brow. “Yeah, right,” I say.
Back inside, the party resumes. “It’s almost time for the grand finale,” Grant whispers in my ear.
“The grand finale wasn’t the car?”
He bites the tip of my ear lobe. “You shouldn’t underestimate me, Mrs. Dunn.”
“I’m so proud of you for losing the weight,” he told me the other night over dinner. “I wasn’t sure you had it in you.”
“I told you,” I said picking at my salad. “It was just my period.”
He shakes his head, reaches for my hand, and rubs my fingers. “I’m just so glad we’re finally on the same page.”
I brace myself. I can tell there’s something more. I get the feeling he’s going to bring up the agreement. “Speaking of which—” he starts. I hold my breath. “I need to ask you a favor.”
I tilt my head. A waiter refills our water glass and then lifts the champagne bottle from the ice. I haven’t eaten much, so I’m grateful for the buzz. Grant shoos him off before he has a chance to refill my glass.
His eyes meet mine. “I need you to talk with Mel.”
“Mel?”
He glances away before leaning in. “She isn’t holding up her end of the bargain.”
; I’m confused. “What bargain?”
“Tom says she isn’t…um…you know…as willing…”
I understand then what he’s asking of me.
“She’s pregnant.”
“Yes, I’m aware.” He purses his lips. “Tom thinks she trapped him.”
I scoff. “Well, Tom shouldn’t have slept with her if Tom didn’t want to be trapped.”
I reach for the champagne. He holds his palm up facing me. “That’s not the point. As her mentor, it’s your job to see that she’s adhering to the agreement.” He replaces the bottle to its rightful place. My glass remains empty. “I need you to help her understand.”
“I don’t see—”
“Josie,” he interrupts. “Tom is adamant that she—” he pauses and lowers his voice. “Otherwise his tithe will be lower. We can’t afford for that to happen. ”
“She’s pregnant,” I remind him again. “No one feels like being at someone’s beck and call when they’re pregnant.”
“It’s her duty,” he says firmly. “How do you think she got that way?”
A photo of me pregnant, very pregnant in fact, flashes on the screen. We all gather around a projector in our backyard. Grant has put together a slideshow. This isn't like him. He isn’t crafty, and under normal circumstances he isn’t sentimental.
Another photo replaces it. I remember Grant taking this one. It was the night before James was born. We’d placed bets on when I’d go into labor and with each passing day, it seemed as though I might stay pregnant forever. I hear laughter. I look over at our daughter. She’s mortified to see proof that her parents do indeed have sex. “You were huge,” she says. “And so young.”
I was happy. Another photo of Grant in the delivery room pops up. He’s giving the thumbs up. He looked happy. Naive. Different. I guess we both were. I want to feel nostalgic, instead I feel something else. It’s stirring. Building.
“Look,” Avery says pointing to the screen. “Look how cute he was then.” I do look. It’s a photo of James taking his first bite of real food. He doesn’t know what to make of it. His face is twisted. I’m laughing. That was before I believed anything bad could happen. Before I understood life could turn on a dime. It was before all the rules, before New Hope. Before.
I think of Mel. I’m dreading Tuesday. I look over at her. She’s about to get her first taste of the far reaches of the church, and I hate to be the one to deliver it.
Someone laughs across the room. When I glance back at the screen, James is blowing out birthday candles on his first birthday cake and then every year after that. As pictures, one after the other, flash on the screen, I forget about Mel and New Hope. My eyes well up, and tears spill over. Grant beams. This is the reaction he wanted. There are vacations and school photos. There are photos of us napping and reading, and I can see my husband back behind the lens, back before capturing the perfect photo became so important. Before filters and coming up with the perfect captions. Back when he took them because he wanted to. When it was okay to be ordinary. Before we had anything to prove.
“Here,” Grant says, handing Beth my phone. “Take a photo of us. Would you?”
She arranges Avery next to Grant, James next to me. “Scooch in.”
“Now, switch,” she tells them, biting her lip, lining up the phone.
“Haven’t we taken enough photos?” James sighs.
I laugh impatiently.
Beth rolls her eyes. “Didn’t your parents just buy you a car?” She shakes her head. “Smile.”
Someone spills their drink across the room. It’s sudden chaos.
She snaps a photo and then checks my phone to make sure it’s a good one. “Nope,” she says frowning.
We take three more and then another. None are good enough.
Finally, around the seventh try the kids protest and we disband. “The last one was perfect,” Beth exclaims pleased with herself.
“You’ve done well here, Josie,” she tells me afterward. I smile. It takes a lot to get a sincere compliment out of her. “We need to talk about our social strategy,” she tells me, taking my elbow. She takes my phone from my back pocket. “We need more of this,” she says pulling up the photo. “This is what they want. To see behind the scenes. So—” she shrugs. “Might as well give it to them.”
“I was just telling Josie that last night,” Grant remarks. “She doesn’t realize how important her work on social media is.” I look over at him and offer a tight smile.
I glance down at the photo. My eyes are still glossy from the slideshow. The kids look happy. Things get more real around the seventh shot apparently. Still, their friends are here, Avery is smiling again. Grant’s expression says he’s taking it all in, contemplating how lucky he is.
“I do realize,” I say uploading it to Instalook. “See.”
He smiles as he brings the phone closer to his face inspecting it with a surgeon’s eye. Finally, he nods his approval, and I can see why. We look so happy, the four of us. Beth has framed it up so well that I don’t even bother using a filter. I caption it #bestdayever. I had no idea, not then, it would be the last best day.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Izzy
I shouldn’t have gone the first time. I knew I shouldn’t have. But once I’d made the decision, it was done. It’s kind of like telling yourself you’re only going to have one potato chip and then the next thing you know the bag is empty. That’s how it started. Just one peek, I promised myself. I mean, Josie Dunn had invited me there herself initially. Before. When things were so good, I had to cancel. Before Grant Dunn was too busy to return a simple text.
The other night I sat outside their house for hours. I watched the Dunns come and go. I had to. I needed to see for myself. Grant says he’s busy this time of year. It wasn’t a lie.
He has been busy.
Busy buying his wife earrings, and taking her to dinner. Busy throwing parties. But not busy keeping the promises he made to me. He said he wanted to get to know everything about me. He said he wanted to take care of me. Only he isn’t busy doing any of that.
I feel like you’re forgetting what you promised, I texted him.
How could I forget someone so beautiful? He wrote back six hours later. Six hours.
At first, I was relieved to see his name light up my screen. Then I remembered flattery is his currency. He doles it out like breadcrumbs. It isn’t genuine. I can’t believe him. He lies about everything.
Josie Dunn is grocery shopping. She posted a pic of flowers in her cart on Instalook three minutes ago. This means I don’t have long. I tell myself it’s fine being here. I was invited. Maybe not this time but if anything, I’ll just say there was a mix up. I’ll say I thought we’d rescheduled the dance lesson. Everyone knows teenagers get things wrong.
I check my reflection in the rearview mirror. My phone rings startling me. My heart races every time I hear that sound. It might be Grant.
It isn’t. It’s Tyler. I want to slam it into a million pieces. What good is it if the person you want to call isn’t? Not much.
I send the call to voicemail. I know what he wants. He wants his car back. I’ve been gone too long again. The last time I got by with a blow job. This time, I had to go through with the whole thing and then wait until he was asleep. It’s not even a nice car.
But you do what you have to do. Josh taught me that. Anyway, it was worth it, I realize, being here. I can breathe again knowing I’m one step closer. I’ve been suffocating under the weight of Grant’s absence, and then there were the Instalook posts of the kid’s birthday party. I didn’t know what to do, looking at them. I drove over. I wanted to be a part of things. I wanted Grant to welcome me inside. He had no reservations about setting up shop inside me, coming inside me. Making me erase his baby before it even had a chance. That’s okay. I didn’t want ‘maybe baby’ either.
What I want is him. What I want is for Josie to understand. I’m not stupid. I realize it will take some time. I know women don’
t just let go of their men like it’s nothing. Believe me, I know.
But this time it could be different. We could be friends. Times have changed. We could do that thing everyone is doing these days where we co-parent. They could consciously uncouple. We could celebrate holidays together, take a vacation or two. It always works out in the end. And if it hasn’t worked out, it isn’t the end.
I mean, I don’t really like kids. But hey, like they say, you can’t help who you fall in love with.
In any case, I can see that things will need some sorting out. Maybe it isn’t that Grant is busy. Maybe he isn’t good at logistics. And why would he be? He has people to work all that out for him. Also, they say transitions are the hardest part. Maybe he just hasn’t grown into himself yet.
Me, I’m changing. I apply lip-gloss to drive home the point. It’s the kind I saw Josie tag on Instalook. I got a manicure, too. Midnight blue. Now, I just have to make her understand. It’s not that I want her out of the picture. I think there’s room for all of us.
“James?” I cock my head, narrow my eyes. He opens the door a little wider when I say his name.
He’s studying me intently trying to place my face. “I’m Izzy,” I say extending my hand. He’s Grant, only younger. We shake on it. He’s polite. Maybe all kids aren’t as bad as I’ve made them out to be. Maybe it won’t be as hard as I think to accept this kind of baggage. “I’m here to give Avery her dance lesson.”
He raises his brow and removes an earbud from his ear. He wasn’t even listening. I could be anyone. They’re those new cordless kind; I hardly noticed. “Avery’s out back,” he tells me, stepping aside. I guess he reads lips. He points. “In the studio.”
“Ah,” I say following him in. “I guess she got a head start.”
I follow him through the house to the back door. I could probably find my way if I wanted to. I know it from Instalook, I know every room. I’ve studied it. Designed the layout in my mind. I wasn’t far off. Except the kitchen—it’s bigger than I thought. I have lived and breathed these rooms. I have imagined myself sitting, loving, sleeping beneath this roof, and now here I am. I follow him onto the patio.