Beneath the Marigolds

by Emily C. Whitson

  “Do you have a second to catch up?” he presses.

  “Yes,” I say. “Yes, I do. Let’s start with why you lied to me.”

  His face contorts. “What are you talking about?”

  “Reese didn’t attack you?” By his expression, I can tell Trixie was telling the truth. “You said she was happy, no problems. That doesn’t sound happy to me.”

  Nick pauses, exchanges a glance with a nearby handler. I have the distinct feeling that I’m being watched. Played.

  “Do you think I’m an idiot?” I say as I point to the handler. “I can see you looking at each other.”

  “No,” he sighs. “No, I don’t think you’re an idiot. Not at all. Will you just listen to me? I’ll explain.”

  He walks to the periphery of the backyard of the mansion, pulls a pack of cigarettes from his sport coat. I cross my arms, tap my feet on the lanai. My need for answers outweighs my pride, so I follow.

  When we’re alone, out of earshot, he hands me a cigarette. I only think about refusing for a split second. This will be my last one, I tell myself.

  “I didn’t lie,” he says as he lowers the flame to the butt of my cigarette. My hands are shaking, so he holds them steady. “I just didn’t tell you everything. Reese did seem happy, from what I saw, apart from that night.”

  “Why would you not tell me she attacked you? That’s a pretty fucking important detail.” I take a deep drag, praying for the dopamine rush to hit me quickly.

  “Because I thought it would embarrass you.”

  “Embarrass me? Why would that embarrass me?”

  “Because she thought I was your ex-boyfriend. It took me a while to put it together that you were the Ann she was talking about—I thought your name was just a coincidence, your reaction to me that first night was a coincidence, until you mentioned you were friends with Reese. That’s when I put two and two together.” He exhales, a cloud of smoke distorting his image.

  “Oh” is all I can muster. Before I can stop it, a portion of my rage directs at Reese. I admire her loyalty, her unwavering friendship, but sometimes she can be so unbelievably stupid.

  “You want to tell me about him?”

  “Not really.”

  “What?” He snickers. “So you can keep secrets, but I can’t?”

  My mouth tightens. He’s right. And I need him on my side. I need him for information. I’ll spit it out quickly.

  “He was the first guy I really cared about, and the relationship sort of imploded. It was a rough breakup. Happens to everyone. I’m not sure why Reese made such a big deal about it.”

  “Why’d it implode?”

  I take a long drag, let the smoke fill my lungs until it pushes everything else out.

  “I developed a drinking problem, and then my parents died in a car accident.”

  He purses his lips, nods solemnly. “That’s rough. I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah.” I laugh—a small giggle, then I cut it off. “Sorry, sometimes I do that when I feel uncomfortable. I think it’s the nicotine.”

  “So where’s the guy now?”

  I start to chuckle uncontrollably. I hold my stomach as the muscles tighten.

  “He’s married to my best friend.”

  33

  Ann

  Nick doesn’t laugh. Not even a flicker of a smile. “How did that happen?”

  “I’ll need another cigarette for that story.”

  He hands me one, lights it. As I breathe in, I organize my thoughts. It’s been nine years since I discovered Honey’s affair, but the memories still take the wind out of me. I flick ash from the butt of the cigarette onto the patio. I desperately want a drink. I’d kill for just one, repercussion-free sip.

  “Actually, it’s not even much of a story. My friend Honey started dating him after we broke up. I found out a year later, which is when she claims the relationship started, but I’ve always wondered if they got together sooner. She says they both tried to ignore the mutual attraction, but they fell in love. It was inescapable.”

  I think back on the moment I discovered they were seeing each other. It was a brutally cold day in Nashville, a day where the wind cracks your skin open. Reese wanted to get some flowers, to have a little summer in the middle of winter, so we went to a boutique garden center near her apartment. I’d never been to the place before—it was nowhere near where I lived, or where Honey lived. Which is maybe why Honey chose to shop there; she thought I’d never see her.

  Honey and I had grown distant since my relationship with him started. This was partially because I was consumed by him. I didn’t have time for anything, or anyone, else. I was like a statue that had been brought to life. I saw and felt the world in ways I had never experienced, and I never wanted to go back to the way things were. I remember watching him sleep one morning, the daylight creeping in around the edges of my curtain. He was so peaceful, so beautiful. I remember thinking, So this is it. This is what it feels like to be in love.

  But Honey and I also grew apart because she didn’t like my new drinking habits. She didn’t even recognize me, she said.

  “Honey, I’m just having some fun,” I argued. “I never have fun. Or take breaks. I’m always studying or working or worrying about something. Why can’t you just be happy for me?”

  “I am happy for you,” she pleaded. “But I know you, Ann. You can’t do anything halfway. I’m just worried, that’s all. But if you’re happy, I’m happy.”

  “I am fucking happy,” I screamed and slammed the door in her face.

  I started ignoring her calls. I was burning with rage at her callousness, at her hypocrisy. I had stood on the sidelines for years as Honey went through a string of relationships, always telling me that I’d find someone someday. And now that that someday had come, Honey couldn’t stand not to be the center of attention. I noticed how she studied my ex, how she peered at him with longing, how she gazed at our embraces with envy. It made me want to tear her hair out.

  But subconsciously, I was angry because she was right. I was spiraling toward a place of no return. I could feel my wings melting as I got closer and closer to the sun, and I didn’t have the humility—not at that time, at least—to ask for help. Like everything else in my life, I thought I could fix my problem with hard work and sheer force of will. Besides, I couldn’t have a problem. Not me. Not Ann, the model student and child. I was a normal person with a normal life and a normal family. And the more I failed to turn things around, the more I drank and the angrier I became.

  And then one morning, I woke up in a soaking-wet bed, no recollection of the night before. I was disgusted. I was disgusting. The shame burned my skin, little flames biting at my neck. I noticed my boyfriend, sleeping on the floor. How many times had I apologized? A hundred? A thousand? Every morning, I promised to be better. And every night, I was worse than the day before.

  I wrote a note telling him I’d buy him a new mattress, again, and then I grabbed my purse and left. It wasn’t until I reached the nearest gas station, with bare feet and tear-stained cheeks, that I realized I’d left my phone in his room. I made a call on a pay phone, digging for the few coins I had remaining in my purse. When I finally found enough change among the cocktail of drugs, I called my parents. I asked them to come and get me. I was in trouble, I told them. I needed them. They told me to stay right there, they would come straight away. They were so good to me, and I cried harder, because I didn’t deserve their kindness.

  But they never came. Some teenager was texting and driving. On the highway no less. My parents tried to avoid her car, I was told, but it was an overcorrection, and their car flipped. Not once, not twice, but three times. They died instantly.

  It was the most beautiful spring day, not a cloud in sight, and I remember thinking that something so terrible couldn’t possibly happen on a day like that.

  So when I saw Honey in that nursery a year later, her arm around my ex’s waist, slap-happy smiles across their faces, I felt it was a punishment I had earne
d.

  “And you’re still friends?” Nick asks. “And her name is Honey?”

  An expression crosses his face, one I can’t put my finger on.

  “Yeah,” I swallow. “Yeah. It was hard at first, but after my parents died, Honey was the closest thing to family I had left. I couldn’t afford to lose anyone else.”

  Nick taps out his cigarette in an attempt to hide his disbelief.

  “So, if you and Honey are still friends, why did Reese act like she hadn’t seen me—or, rather, your ex-boyfriend—in a decade?”

  “I don’t think she has.” I try to remember if there’s an encounter I’m overlooking. Honestly, I haven’t even seen him much since the wedding. He’s sort of a don’t ask, don’t tell thing between Honey and me.

  “She rarely sees Honey,” I continue. “They don’t like each other much. Different crowds, different interests. It is weird that Reese would get so angry about something that happened so long ago. She was having a rough go of it before the retreat, so maybe her own stress tipped her over the edge.”

  I remember my conversation with the sweaty dance director, the encounter with Reese’s mother, and I shiver. Nick rubs his chin before speaking.

  “Well, it sounds like Reese is a loyal friend.”

  “She is,” I whisper, so quietly it’s almost inaudible.

  Nick takes my hand, massages my thumb. His gaze is so intense it makes me uncomfortable.

  “I’m sorry, Ann. About everything.”

  I give a terse smile, a quick bob of the head. If I speak, I know my voice will break. He leans forward then, and because of the nicotine, or the lack of sleep, or the uncomfortable memories, I let him kiss me.

  Perhaps I understand Reese’s romances more than I thought I did.

  34

  Reese

  The next week came and went with relative ease, thank goodness. No physical altercations, no blood, no drama. The bruises on my eye and fist started to fade, and with Magda’s help, I hid the lingering discoloration with makeup. At cocktail parties and between dates, some of the other participants started to talk to me again. They were hesitant, after everything, but with time, their apprehension faded. That’s the thing about time—it can dull just about anything. One of these days, I’d look back on this period of my life and laugh. Wasn’t the host of that retreat just so strange? Wasn’t it just so funny when I got in the middle of a fight and got a black eye? Ha-ha! Oh, good times.

  Nick was also embroiled in his own drama, so that helped take the spotlight off me. He was interested in two different women—or, more accurately, they were both interested in him—and he couldn’t decide which one he should seriously pursue. Now, I know I’m a bit biased due to his doppelgänger status, but to me, he was your typical want-what-you-can’t-have guy. As soon as one of his love interests’ attention waned, his attention was piqued. It seemed very unfair. He seemed very unfair. But it was like watching a car accident; you couldn’t not look. It dominated the chatter among participants. Conversations typically went something like this:

  “Can you believe how Nick is acting?”

  “Such an asshole.”

  “You can’t have your cake and eat it too. That’s not how it works.”

  “I just feel bad for the women. They are being played.”

  “I want one of them to grow a backbone and move on.”

  Christina was not immune to this attraction. Where the action went, she followed. You’d think she would have invested most of her time in couples that were doing well, as that was her retreat’s supposed mission, but that wasn’t the case. Not at all. In fact, she seemed almost annoyed if you had no problems to discuss. During one of our talks, which I came to dread more and more with each session, she wouldn’t let me leave until I shared something negative about Lamb.

  “So, Lamb,” she had said. “Tell me how that’s going.”

  “Much better,” I said. It had been seven days since the clash with Luca, and Lamb had been excessively gentle with me. Every touch felt like a whisper, a piece of silk. And when we were together, he only had eyes for me; he barely acknowledged anyone else. On the surface, everything was great.

  But, deep down, I still wondered about Trixie. Plus, I hadn’t seen Luca since his fight with Lamb, and with every passing day, I grew more and more anxious that he had talked to his friends. I jumped at the slightest sound, wondering if it was them, coming to find me.

  Of course, I wasn’t going to tell Christina any of this.

  “No more fights?” she prodded.

  “Nope, none. It’s been smooth sailing.”

  “What about his dates with other women? Does that bother you?”

  “I understand it’s part of the process—”

  “Journey,” she interrupted. Just like everything else—our attire, our food, our dates—she was very specific about words we could use. The word “process” was a no-no.

  “Excuse me,” I corrected myself. “I understand other dates are part of the journey, so I’ve made peace with it.” That was a lie. I was not cool with the other dates, but it was in the contract that we had a one-on-one date with every participant before getting more serious with one. Lamb was diligent about reassuring me before and after each date, telling me it was just a formality, that he only had eyes for me. The concern still nagged at me, though, worming its way into my thoughts and mood.

  “But what about his dates with Trixie? He seems interested, does he not?”

  I sighed, telling myself she was just trying to get a rise out of me. I don’t know why she did that, but she did. She was a very, very odd woman.

  “He says he’s not. He says you kept pairing them up despite his wishes.”

  “Is that what he tells you?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “Yes,” I repeated, but with less confidence.

  After our session, I gave myself a mental pep talk. Don’t let the strange woman get to you, I thought. She’s just interested in some drama. Things between you and Lamb have been great. Perfect, even. No need to worry about something that doesn’t exist.

  I repeated these musings to myself as I walked down the long corridor to my room. The talk with Christina and the endless yo-yo between creeping doubt and self-reassurance was making me tired. I fantasized about the lushness of my bed and the temptation to sleep the rest of the afternoon away. I didn’t normally take naps. In fact, I didn’t sleep much at all—I could usually get by on five hours of sleep or so. I never wanted to miss out on the sunshine, the action, the promise of a new day. There was always something to do and someone to talk to. But the long nights and early mornings were getting to me.

  My daydream about sleep was interrupted when someone snatched my wrist and pulled me into the closest room. I took in the surroundings. The room was a replica of mine: white bed with a white carpet, white armchairs, and a white-marble bathroom. Another participant’s room, surely.

  Then I registered the person who seized me: Luca. His nose was still swollen from Lamb’s punch. His eye socket was a sickly yellow. The cut on his lip and the bridge of his nose were still visible.

  “Luca, w-what are you doing?” I stammered. I needed to talk to him, but I was still afraid to be alone with the guy.

  “Shh,” he said as he put his finger to his lips and closed the bedroom door. “We need to talk.”

  My heart felt like it would explode out of my chest. I could scream if I needed to. Someone would hear me before something happened. He seemed to read my mind, as he walked to the bed and sat on the edge.

  “I’ll sit over here if it’ll make you feel better.”

  My heart rate did seem to slow with the distance. That gave me a running start if I needed one.

  “Did you . . .” I faltered. “I mean, did you tell your friends where I am?”

  “What?” He seemed to have completely forgotten about that very important detail. “No, no. I shouldn’t have gotten you involved with
them in the first place. They think you skipped town, and since it isn’t a lot of money, I think they’ve stopped looking.”

  I didn’t realize I had been holding my breath. “Thank you, Luca.” I sighed. The tension I’d been holding in my shoulders seemed to ease a little.

  “No, there’s something else I need to tell you.” He eyed the door. “But I’m still afraid someone can hear us from here.”

  Yes, I thought. That’s a good thing.

  “Let’s go in the bathroom. We can turn the faucets on.” He raised his hands. “I promise I won’t hurt you.”

  I shook my head.

  “Please? I could get in a lot of trouble for sharing this.” He took a step forward, and I moved backward. I felt the door handle on my back, and I wrapped my hand around it.

  He looked desperate. “Reese, you’re making this more difficult than it needs to be. I really have changed. I went to a therapist, anger management sessions. I’m not the same guy you dated.”

  I shook my head again, gripped the door handle tighter. He dropped his shoulders and lowered his voice. “Ok. fine. Look, there’s something you don’t know about your relationship with Lamb.”

  “What?” I tried to sound casual, but of course this piqued my interest.

  “It’s not . . .” His eyes darted around frantically. “It’s not real.”

  My stomach sank. Luca wasn’t the most reliable source, but it was too coincidental for both he and Christina to say the same thing. “So . . . you’re saying . . . all this stuff he’s been telling me . . . us having something special. It’s not true?”

  “Exactly.”

  35

  Ann

  That night, I dream of Reese.

  The dream starts on Phaux Island’s beach. I’m walking alone. Despite the humidity and the heat, I’m not sweating; I’m not even warm. I feel empty and cold. I eventually wade into the ocean, drawn by some unseen force into the water. Just let me drown, I think. Just make it stop. But my reflection in the water gives me pause, waking me from my trance. My eyes—my mother’s green eyes—are gone, hidden behind a veil of black.