Him (in his deep, sexy voice): Let me help you. Oh, were we?
I didn’t get what he meant until he pointed to the book We Were Liars by E. Lockhart.
Me (totally blushing): I guess we all are, sometimes.
Brian smiled. God, he has a nice smile. Small dimples in his cheeks, perfectly straight white teeth. And those blue, blue eyes. They look like the pictures of the lagoons in the Seychelles, the ones I liked looking at in the travel magazines Dad used to buy. Pools of water you want to dive into and swim around in for hours.
He introduced himself and my face got all hot. I bet I was glowing like a humongous tomato. I mean, Brian’s the coolest guy in the school. Not to mention the most handsome. He’s captain of the fencing club, too. I doubt he’s into video games, but nobody’s perfect. I’d cope.
And then...
Him (looking deeply into my eyes): You’re Sarah, aren’t you?
All I could think was he knows my name. My tomato head got so big it was in danger of bursting and splattering all over him. I mumbled something incomprehensible, and stood up.
Him (still looking cool): I’d better help set up science lab, but I hope I’ll see you around.
He walked away, then turned back after a few steps and smiled, just before Claire rushed over to me, saying, “Holy shitballs. What did he say, what did he say?”
She went all googly-eyed as I told her, her head bobbing up and down like one of those nodding dogs old ladies have in the back of their cars. Then she told me it was a good job I’d decided I didn’t like Zac because she’d seen him kissing Gargoyle in the cafeteria earlier. Gross.
I looked at Brian, who’d stopped to talk to Mrs. Cloisters. And you know what? I don’t care about Zac and Gargoyle. Like, at all. Brian Walker is way, way more amazeballs than Zac ever could be. I should ask Brian out. In fact, the next time he talks to me, I will. Although I’d better grow a pair first. And I’m not talking about tomatoes!
Later,
Sarah x.
PS. Word of the day: boffin, noun.
a scientific expert; especially one involved in technological research.
As in: I bet Brian’s a real boffin in the science lab!
NOW
ABBY
ALTHOUGH WEEKS HAD PASSED, every single day I kept reliving Liam’s kiss in my mind, over and over again. The perfect kiss with the perfect man. The one I wasn’t supposed to be with. And I kept asking myself: Why shouldn’t I? Why couldn’t I? Then I chastised myself for being stupid, blinded by two decades worth of perfection projections, and tried to convince myself for the umpteenth time I didn’t even know Liam anymore.
But I did. I’d always known him. Always loved everything about him.
When I got home that evening, a huge bunch of yellow daffodils stood on the table. And, selfishly, all I could think of was that if I were with Liam, they’d be lilies.
Later, when Nate gently kissed the back of my neck and slid his hands up my thighs, it felt like my skin was on fire. I pushed him away at first, then let him make love to me despite the fact that he wasn’t the one I thought of while he was inside me. And I hated myself even more.
Once again I avoided Liam. It was easier that way. People on a diet didn’t continually stare at chocolate cake or pastries. Cravings passed, I knew that. This would be the same. It had to be. Nate was the man I’d married, I reminded myself. He was the one who’d taken care of me, picked me up and put me together again.
“I’ve offered to help Nancy with some of their renovations,” he told me one evening.
I nodded. “That’s nice of you. I might sign up for a boot camp at the gym.”
He frowned. “Instead of going in the mornings?”
“No. As well as.”
“What are you trying to prove, Abby?” Nate said, his face still in a frown. “And what for?”
I looked at him. After all these years he still didn’t get it. It wasn’t about proving anything to anybody. It was about punishing. That’s what it had always been about. Disciplining myself for every single shortcoming, every aspect of myself I detested, every flaw, no matter how tiny, insignificant or downright invisible it appeared to everybody else. I didn’t bother answering him. What was the point? He wouldn’t understand. He’d strap on his tool belt and try to fix me instead, bring me more daffodils thinking he’d done something great—and it was my fault for letting him believe he had.
As all these thoughts raced through my mind, I sat in Sterling Engineering’s lunchroom supposedly listening to Camilla. She’d talked for ten minutes straight, with me occasionally making an “uh-huh” sound. But then she said something that pulled my attention back to her.
“Hang on,” I said, my mouth still half-full of quinoa and vegetable salad. “You and Josh are doing what?”
“Splitting up,” Camilla said as she took another bite of her BLT, a splotch of mayo splattering on her napkin. “Getting a divorce.”
“But...but why?”
Camilla continued chewing and shrugged. “We’re not happy, so what’s the point?”
I’m pretty sure my mouth was still open. My spoon certainly hadn’t moved. I looked around the room, leaned in toward her. “Have you met someone else?”
“Not yet.” She winked.
“Has Josh?”
She shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. He says he hasn’t. But it wouldn’t bother me.”
I bit my lip for a second. “What about Claire?”
“Abby,” she said after a sip of water, “she’s sixteen. She’ll cope. We’ll be around for her as much as we’ve always been. Except we won’t be living together. We’re telling her tonight.”
“So what’s happening with the house?”
“Josh is moving out in a few weeks. He’s already found a new place a few streets away. Simple.” Camilla popped the rest of her sandwich into her mouth.
“Sounds like a divorce made in heaven.”
She nodded. “You know what? It is.”
“But I still don’t understand why. You get along, don’t you?”
“Yeah, we do... I suppose. But we don’t have anything in common. Honestly, I don’t think we were ever that suited. From the beginning, you know?”
“No, I don’t. You always seemed so happy. I’ve never seen you argue.”
“Well, we don’t, not anymore at least. It’s almost as if—” she lowered her voice “—we’ve shifted into tolerance mode. You know—we put up with each other because that’s what we’re used to. Well, screw it.” She sat back in her chair, her voice louder again. “I’m forty-five. I don’t want to live like this for the next forty years... Now ask me about the sex.”
“Do I have to?” I shifted in my seat. Talking about other people’s sex lives made me feel like a reluctant spectator at a free peep show. “It can’t be that bad.”
She shrugged and sipped her water again. “Can’t remember. He’s never had a particularly high sex drive, but the past few years... God.” She waved a hand around. “You know the joke about Christmas coming more often? Well, let’s just say in that case we’re Jehovah’s Witnesses. Sorry, but I’m too young to be celibate.”
“I had no idea.” I wanted to reach out and pat her hand, but ate another spoonful of my lunch instead.
“Thing is, I know exactly where we went wrong.” Camilla crossed her arms and lowered her chin, her voice softer again. “When we first met, Josh was already into shuffleboard and bowling. I mean properly into it.”
“Okay...”
“Well,” Camilla continued, “I pretended I was, too. But I thought it was a pile of crap. I mean, calling a game you combine with copious amounts of beer and pork scratchings a sport? Please. They take themselves far too seriously. But I liked Josh and wanted to impress him.”
“Makes sense and—”
“Wait,
wait. You see, Josh pretended he was all romantic. Bought me flowers, took me to see all the Meg Ryan movies.” She smiled. “He wooed me, and I thought he was the bee’s knees. But after we got married, well, we stopped making the effort to impress each other.”
“You’re saying you’re getting divorced over chick flicks and bowling balls?”
“Abby, you’re missing the point. After we got married, we went back to being who we were before, our usual selves.”
“But isn’t that what most people do when they first meet? Be on their best behavior?”
“Being on your best behavior is one thing,” Camilla answered, “but in hindsight, pretending to be something you’re not is stupid. I reckon it’s why one in two marriages end in divorce. You can’t keep the illusion going forever. I think we’ve done well to make it this long.” She tipped the rest of her water into her mouth.
“But what about wasting the last, what, twenty years you’ve been together?”
Camilla waggled a finger. “Ah...you’re missing the point again.”
“Am I?”
“Entirely. I can’t do anything about the past. It’s gone. Done and dusted.” She paused for a second. “But the next twenty years? Those are the ones I don’t want to waste.” I must have had a puzzled look on my face because Camilla laughed. “You don’t get it, do you? Let me ask you this. If you woke up one day knowing you’re with the wrong person, would you stay?”
“Well.” I cleared my throat. “I don’t know, I—”
Camilla patted my hand. “I know it’s hard to imagine. I mean, you and Nate are perfect for each other. He worships the ground you walk on. You’re very lucky.”
“Yes,” I said, thinking about the flowers—daffodils or not—the notes, the lunches and all the little things Nate did for me. He’d never pretended to be something he wasn’t. Not once.
“Josh and I, well...” Camilla continued, “it’s taken us years to get to this point. We’ve had heated discussions and pretty nasty arguments about who we were before we got married versus who we are now.”
“And...?”
She scratched her ear. “We came to the conclusion it’s irrelevant. The fact is, neither of us wants to change. Neither of us wants to go back to being the person we pretended to be. So we decided, in a completely grown-up way, actually, that we’d be better suited to other people.”
I sat back in my seat, thinking about the possibilities. Wondering if it was a debate I could have with Nate, an easy discussion that led to, “Well, that was kind of fun but let’s split up now. Bye.” I shook my head.
“You don’t approve,” Camilla said, mistaking the gesture for criticism. “We can’t all be as happy as you and Nate, you know. Not everybody marries their soul mate.”
I exhaled. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Her eyes widened. “Explain?”
“Sometimes...” I sighed.
“What? You’re not happy?”
I looked at her. “Sometimes.”
Camilla played with her napkin while she waited for me to speak, but I couldn’t. If the words were out there, it made them real, it meant I’d have to do something. And I couldn’t tell Camilla, not unless I wanted the world to know.
“You don’t want to talk?” Camilla finally said.
“No. It’s just a phase. I’m being hormonal. But thanks for asking.” I put the lid on my plastic tub, picked up my bottle of water and smiled. “I’d better get on with the returns.”
Camilla refused to break eye contact. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”
Later that evening I went to the gym, planning on pounding out ten kilometers on the treadmill straight after my evening boot-camp class. I shut off the obscure music I’d let Sarah add to my workout playlist, opting instead to focus on my breathing, concentrate on my heartbeat and make myself put one foot in front of the other.
As I racked up meter after meter, a feeling of absolute fatigue spread slowly through my veins. It came from my fingertips and toes, crept up my arms and legs like a virus, higher and higher, until my breathing sounded raspy and my head spun. If I hadn’t dropped the pace on the treadmill to a leisurely stroll they’d have wiped me off the back wall with a sponge.
I shut down the machine, gasped and tried to catch my breath as I walked over to the mats, where I flopped down on one side.
“Hey, Abby. Are you okay?”
Opening one eye I saw a black-and-red shape in front of me. Jake, one of the boot-camp trainers, slowly came into focus. He was bent over at the hips, staring down at me.
“I’m fine, Jake. Thanks.”
“You sure?” He crouched down beside me. “You totally killed that class, but you’re really pale now. Do you want some water?”
“I’m just tired. I’ll head home in a minute.” He gave me a look, and I added, “Honest. I’ll be okay.”
Jake stood up and crossed his huge arms, his red shirt straining at the seams. “Okay.” He looked at me sternly. “I’ll finish my pull-ups, but I’m keeping an eye on you.”
As Jake walked away I moved into an iron cross stretch and closed my eyes again, focusing once more on my breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth, over and over. My arms and feet stopped tingling, so I let myself relax until it felt like my body was dissolving into the mat. My mind started to drift. And for once I allowed it to rid itself of the hundreds of thoughts that weighed it down.
My father’s abandonment. The pathetic excuse of a relationship I had with my mother, and who I now ignored. Nate’s love for me, which I’d never truly deserved or could properly reciprocate. The fact that I was spying on my daughter, and unable to bond with her properly. Liam, the man I’d walked away from, and desperately wished I hadn’t. And Tom, always Tom. My darling brother, for whose demise I’d forever be responsible.
I imagined a deep blue sky above me and let those thoughts go, one by one, as if they were helium-filled balloons floating upward, farther and farther, until they disappeared, leaving my mind empty and calm...
And as I lay there, in a semi-state of peace, it must have been the quiet humming of the other treadmills and the complete absence of chatter in my head that gave birth to the epiphany.
I finally offered myself up to the realization that had been calling out to me, quietly at first, then louder and louder, until it could no longer be ignored.
And at last I accepted I was tired. Worn out. Spent. The constant sadism—akin to self-flagellation, really—that I inflicted on my mind and body was too much, way too much. And for what? For whom?
Lying on the gym mat, stretched out as far as my limbs would allow, I decided there would be no more. It had to stop. It was enough. It was time.
Newfound energy seemed to flow back into my arms and legs, traveling through my weary muscles, across my back and chest. I gasped as I finally opened my eyes, feeling more alert than I had in weeks. Months. Probably even years.
I jumped up and bounded toward the changing rooms, giving Jake a thumbs-up. Then I grabbed my gear, walked out of the gym and straight into The Steam Room Café next door. As I stood at the counter, it dawned on me I’d never been there before. I’d always ignored the delicious scent of freshly baked scones, muffins and cakes, favoring my carrot sticks with “hearty hummus” instead, despite the fact that I loathed chickpeas.
“What will it be, love?” The waiter smiled at me. He was at least twice my width and the girth of his belly stretched out the letters of his black “Keep Calm—I’m A Barista” T-shirt.
I looked at the blackboard menu. If they’d served them, I might have considered asking for a gin and tonic. “A cappuccino, please. And, uh, can I have it with whipped cream on top?”
He smiled. “Absolutely. One cappuccino with whipped cream coming up.”
As he turned away, and before I coul
d change my mind, I pointed at the blackboard again. “Do you still have some sticky toffee pudding left?”
“Of course.” He patted his midriff. “It’s great. As is the chocolate mud pie.”
“In that case—” I slipped off my jacket “—I’ll have some of both.”
I sat down and pulled out my phone, my fingers gliding through the contacts. “It’s me,” I said as soon as he picked up. “I need to see you.”
NOW
NATE
“THIS LOOKS GREAT, NANCY.” I put the paintbrush down and looked around the dining room. “I can’t believe how smooth the ceiling is. You did a brilliant job.”
Nancy smiled at me. Her jeans were speckled with droplets of paint, the smudges on her arms already cracked and dry. “I couldn’t have done it without you,” she said. “Thanks again for getting the sander for me. I’d still be at it if you hadn’t. And look—” she made a big sweeping movement with her arms “—it’s finished. And it’s fabulous.”
She was right. The stucco ceiling was now smooth as a mirror, and we’d painted the room in a pale gray color scheme I’d secretly questioned. Thankfully I hadn’t shared my doubts with Nancy or she might’ve made me eat my words along with the leftover paint.
Although I’d initially volunteered to help with the ceiling, we’d stripped, sanded and painted, busted down a wall and ripped up more carpet. Come to think of it, I’d probably spent more time with Nancy recently than I had with Abby. And with the amount of projects Nancy still wanted us to tackle, that wasn’t likely to change. I didn’t mind. I liked feeling useful. And, if I was being completely honest, I liked the way Nancy harmlessly flirted with me, too.
Abby didn’t seem to mind me spending time next door either. She had plans of her own. One night, as I read the paper after dinner, drooling over the pictures of the new Mustang—I’d always had a soft spot for American Ladies—Abby said something about me, running and mud. At least that’s what I thought she’d said. I lowered my paper. “You want to sign up for a what?”
“A mud run.”
“A mud run? I suppose it safe to assume there’s running involved?” I grinned.
The Neighbors Page 19