She, Myself & I

by Whitney Gaskell

  “Boy or girl?” Scott asked.

  “They’re not finding out. I wish they would, it makes shopping hard, but you know how stubborn Sophie is,” I said.

  “It’s a trait that tends to run in your family,” Scott said, and he laughed.

  This is bizarre, I thought. Scott sitting again in the living room, teasing me, poking fun at my sisters. It was as though my life had suddenly looped backward.

  “So. How’s work going?” I asked.

  “Same as usual. Busy. You?”

  “Pretty good, I guess. I’m not so sure anymore. I’m getting a little tired of spending all of my waking hours destroying people’s marriages,” I said.

  “That’s just one way to look at it. Maybe you’re helping people get fresh starts,” Scott said quietly.

  “Like with you,” I said.

  He nodded. “I hope that for both of us.”

  I sipped at my wine and looked at him some more, and realized for the first time that I truly wasn’t in love with him anymore. I hadn’t thought about it in a long time—there’d been hurt and anger and numbness to distract me—but I now knew for sure that the man sitting across from me wasn’t the one that I was supposed to be spending my life with. My lungs felt open, and as I inhaled, the breath rushed through my body.

  “Well, that brings me to my first question. Did you know? When we got married, did you know that you were gay?”

  Scott shrugged and looked down at his wineglass. “It depends. I knew that I was different, and I knew that I wasn’t feeling all of the things that I should. Certainly I knew that I was drawn to men, and you were the first woman I’d ever had a strong attraction to. But no, I didn’t have any clarity about being gay, and the idea of living any kind of a life other than as a heterosexual man would have terrified me, if I’d allowed myself to think about it. And I did love you, and was in love with you when we married. You know that, right?”

  “It’s one of the things that I’ve wondered about. Not knowing just how much of it was fake, how much of it was real,” I admitted.

  “That’s fair. I really fucked everything up. I could bear screwing up my own life, but dragging you into it . . . that was the worst part,” he said. “And I even thought that maybe I could keep going on the same way, and never tell you . . . but then that didn’t seem fair to you, fair to either of us. Maybe it would have saved you the unpleasantness of learning the truth about me, but it also would have prevented you from pursuing a relationship with someone else, someone you could be real with.”

  “And if . . . the baby had made it?” I asked. I nearly choked on the words, but I had to know. I needed to stop playing the “what if” game in my head: what if Scott had never figured out he was gay, what if we were still together and raising our child, what if everything in my life hadn’t been turned upside down.

  “I don’t know what would have happened. I think I would have tried to stay, but . . . I don’t know how long I could have pulled it off. It’s like I was wearing clothes that didn’t fit,” he said. “I know, I’m crap at analogies, but try to understand: I was living a life that was a lie in almost every way. And once I realized that, it was never going to work.”

  I nodded. His wineglass was empty, so I gestured to him with the bottle, and he held his glass out so I could refill it.

  “How are you doing? I mean really doing?” he asked. He’d always been great at this, the listening part.

  “It’s been hard. I haven’t been dating much. It’s hard to get back out there again. I don’t really . . . trust myself,” I admitted.

  “Don’t do that. Don’t punish yourself just because I let you down. When we met and got married, I thought I was straight. So if I didn’t know, how could you?”

  “No, I get that. And I know that you didn’t mean to hurt me. But there’s also no guarantee that I won’t be hurt again,” I said.

  “Oh God, I did this to you, didn’t I?” Scott said, and he slouched down on the sofa, looking miserable. “You didn’t use to be this guarded.”

  “I’m not that bad, really. I’ve started seeing my therapist again, and I did go out with a guy last month.”

  “Yeah? How’d that go?”

  “Actually it was pretty great. I didn’t think he was my type at first, but I really liked him,” I said.

  “Are you still seeing him?”

  “No, I messed it up. I got kind of freaked out and didn’t return his phone calls. I called him yesterday to see if we could try again, but now he doesn’t want anything to do with me. That’s actually what prompted me to call you. I thought if I could get past everything that happened between us, then maybe I wouldn’t screw things up next time,” I admitted.

  “You deserve to be happy,” Scott said. “I’m really sorry, Paige. For everything.”

  “I know. But as far as you and I are concerned, we’re okay,” I said. “Who knows, maybe we can even be friends again.”

  “I’d like that,” Scott said. His eyes were moist with emotion. “It’s been so strange not having you in my life.”

  “Yeah, I know, it has been weird. So . . . what about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “You asked about my nonexistent love life, now what about yours?”

  “Are you sure you want to talk about this?”

  I nodded.

  “Well . . . it’s not nonexistent,” Scott said. “I met someone.”

  “Is this the chef?” I asked.

  “So you’ve been keeping tabs on me? Yeah, he’s a pastry chef, his name is Kevin. And he’s pretty great. In fact, he’s introducing me to his parents this weekend. I haven’t had to go through that since you took me home to meet Blair.” Scott laughed, and I did, too.

  Scott had been so nervous meeting my mother, he’d barely said two words at that first dinner. She concluded that he was a drug addict. Why, I don’t know, because I’m pretty sure my mom doesn’t know any drug addicts, and certainly not any mute ones. Later she fell in love with him, but that first meeting had been uncomfortable. Mom later claimed, with typical revisionist clarity, that she’d had a feeling that night that Scott was gay.

  “Speaking of whom, how are your parents? Do they still hate me?” Scott asked.

  “They’re fine. And apparently best buddies all of a sudden. But no, I don’t think they hate you. Of course, you’re also no longer their favorite son-in-law.”

  “Yeah, I can see that. My parents aren’t too thrilled with me either,” he said.

  “They’re not being supportive?” I asked.

  “They just pretend that it’s not happening. I tried to tell Mom about Kevin, and she just acted like she didn’t know what I was talking about. And my dad won’t look me in the eye,” he said.

  My heart squeezed. “That doesn’t sound like them . . . they never struck me as intolerant people,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, it’s different when it’s your own kid, I guess. I think they’ll come around. It’s just been a tough couple of years for all of us,” Scott said. “You, me, them, your family. We’ll all get past it eventually.”

  “I hope so,” I said.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Thanksgiving was only a week away, and promised to be especially grim this year. I was still divorced, Sophie was on bed rest and crabby as hell, and my parents were acting so strangely they had all of us on edge. On the bright side, Mickey had come home a few days early—no doubt with an enormous garbage bag full of dirty clothes and a bottomless appetite—and our resident court jester always lightened the mood of the family. She called me the day after she arrived.

  “What are you doing tomorrow night?” Mickey asked.

  “No plans. Why? Do you want to catch a movie or something?”

  “I’m at Sophie’s right now, and she wants us all to have dinner over here. But we can rent some videos if you want,” Mickey said.

  “Well . . . is she still being scary?” I asked.

  “Give me the phone. Hey, I heard that,
” Sophie said. “You have to come over, Paige. Mom and Dad are coming, too.”

  “I thought Mom said she was staying with you,” I said.

  “I couldn’t take it anymore, so I kicked her out. If she asked me one more question about her stupid crossword puzzle, I was going to sit on her. And that’s a real threat coming from a woman who’s about to give birth at any minute,” Sophie said.

  The idea of a family get-together was sounding less and less attractive.

  “I think I might be having a migraine on Saturday,” I said.

  “Don’t even think about it. You have to come, there’s no way you’re going to leave Mickey and I to deal with them alone,” Sophie huffed.

  “Okay, fine, I’ll come,” I said.

  “Good. Would you mind picking up the pizzas on your way over? And maybe you could make a salad or something, too,” Sophie said brightly. I heard Mickey shout in the background, “And Mickey wants some cheesecake. Mmm, that sounds good.”

  “Let me get this straight: You’re inviting me over for dinner, and you want me to bring the dinner? And the dessert?” I asked.

  “And although I can’t have any, you might seriously want to consider bringing a bottle of wine, too. Who knows how long Mom and Dad will be able to stay in the same room without going for each other’s throats? Truce or no truce,” Sophie said.

  I arrived at Sophie’s with three large pizzas—one veggie, one pepperoni, and one with everything—and also a store-bought salad, cheesecake, and two bottles of wine. Everyone was already there, and Sophie had descended from her bedroom for the occasion. She was lying regally on her Pottery Barn sectional sofa with a cranberry chenille blanket draped over her huge belly. Mom and Mickey were huddled on the couch together, looking at some photos, and they looked up when I came in.

  “Hi, honey,” Dad said, and he stood up to kiss me on the cheek.

  “Hi,” I said, hugging him. “Hey, everyone. What pictures are those?”

  “Hey!” Mickey said, and she jumped up and started rummaging through the shopping bags I’d brought.

  “They’re from Sophie’s shower,” Mom said. “Here’s a good one of you, Soph.”

  “No, I don’t want to see them. I’m sure I look enormous in every single one,” Sophie said. Her face lit up when she saw the pizza boxes in my hands. “The food’s here! Will you put it in the kitchen? Mick, help Paige get everything out. There are plates in the cupboard to the right of the sink . . . wait, never mind, I’ll just do it.”

  “No!” everyone shouted, and Sophie slumped back on the couch.

  “I’m sick of lying down,” she said pitifully.

  “You promised you’d stay off your feet. If you don’t, you’re going to have to go back upstairs to bed,” Mom admonished her.

  Sophie rolled her eyes. “I’m not five years old, you know,” she complained, but she stayed down.

  I walked into the kitchen with Mickey. Aidan was there, sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a beer straight from the bottle and reading the sports page of the paper. Aidan had been a quarterback in high school, and twelve years later, like most ex-jocks, his body had thickened while his hair thinned. Still, he was an attractive guy with an amiable face and brilliant blue eyes.

  “Are you hiding?” I asked him.

  “Hi, Paige. No, not hiding, just came in to get a beer,” he said, smiling, and pecked me on the cheek before sidling out of the kitchen.

  “I think we scared him off,” Mickey whispered in my ear, and we both laughed. Aidan was unfailingly polite to all of us, but he always found a reason to disappear when our family descended upon him.

  “Wow. The kitchen looks fantastic,” I said, looking around at the gorgeous cherry wood cabinets, the new granite countertop, the stainless steel backsplash and appliances. The floor was tiled in a slate gray, and the walls were a lighter dove gray. It looked like something out of an interior-decorating magazine. “Did Zack do all of this?” I wondered out loud.

  “Yup. Except for the floor—I had my tile guy do that,” a male voice said from behind me. I whirled around, and there was Zack, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, just as he had been the first time I saw him.

  I gaped at him, feeling like the breath had been sucked out of me. After Zack’s brusque refusal to have dinner with me, I’d fantasized about how fabulously cutting I’d be if and when I ever did see him again. But now that the moment was here, all I could do was stand there, feeling the sting of just how firmly he’d rejected me.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Your sister wanted me to install some built-in bookshelves in the nursery. And she was very insistent that I come over tonight to measure for them. I just got here. I thought I recognized your car when I pulled up,” Zack said.

  “Are you Zack? Hi, I’m Mickey,” Mickey said, and she held out her hand. Zack grinned at her, and Mickey colored. She turned to me and mouthed, “He’s hot,” and then scampered out of the room.

  I bit my lip, and considered throttling Sophie, since she’d obviously ignored my strict instructions not to interfere and I was now in the mortifying position of having to make small talk with the guy I’d had a one-night stand with. At least he seemed pleasant enough, and the curt edge had disappeared from his voice.

  “I didn’t know you’d be here,” I said, and paused. There were two courses of action open to me: I could take advantage of Sophie’s meddling by asking Zack for another chance, or I could turn around and walk away. I made my decision. “But actually, I would like to talk to you, if you have a minute.”

  Zack hesitated for a second, but then nodded. “Sure. Did you want to talk here, or . . . ?” His voice trailed off in a question mark.

  I looked over my shoulder and could see Mickey trying to look inconspicuous as she eavesdropped from the hallway. I rolled my eyes.

  “Not here,” I said firmly. “Let’s go outside.”

  We walked out of Soph’s house. I was glad that I hadn’t taken my coat off yet, as the wind that had been blowing all day had picked up a sharp bite now that the sun had set. I followed Zack to his vintage truck, and he opened up the passenger-side door for me.

  “It would probably be warmer if we got in,” he said. He smiled, but his eyes were shuttered, so I couldn’t tell if he was still feeling hostile toward me. Or if he just wasn’t feeling anything at all.

  I climbed up into the cab of the pickup, and watched through the window as Zack walked around to the driver’s-side door, and tried to figure out what in the hell I was going to say to him. I could always fall back on the eighties pop song lyrics of my youth: I want you to want me, or If you leave, don’t leave now, or I’ll stop the world and melt with you.

  Oh no, it’s happened, I’ve actually lost my mind, I thought. I balled up my hand and rested it against my forehead.

  Zack opened the driver’s-side door, letting in another blast of wind, and then slid in next to me and started the engine. He smelled wonderful, a combination of aftershave and freshly cut wood. And he looked distressingly handsome in his faded Levi’s and a dark blue T-shirt underneath a heavier plaid shirt.

  “So. What did you want to talk about?” Zack asked, glancing in my direction. He fiddled with his car keys, jingling them in his right hand.

  He’s nervous, I suddenly realized. He wouldn’t be nervous if he didn’t care about me at all . . . unless of course it stemmed from a fear that I was going to start screaming at him or turn into an obsessed stalker.

  “Just that I again wanted to say that I’m sorry. About everything. I don’t know why I didn’t return your phone calls earlier . . . wait, no, that’s not true,” I said, deciding that since I knew I didn’t have much of a chance with Zack anyway, I might as well be honest.

  “The reason I didn’t call you back is that I had intended for that night that we slept together to be a one-time thing. I was trying to prove something to myself, and I didn’t stop to consider your feelings. Or my own,” I continued.


  “Which were?”

  I took a deep breath and then forged on.

  “I was trying to convince myself that I could have a relationship with a man that was purely physical, with no emotional attachments, because . . . well, you know that I’m divorced. But I didn’t tell you why. My husband left me because he was—he is—gay. And since then I’ve been wary of getting involved with anyone,” I said, and squirmed a little at this last part.

  “Actually, I already knew that, about your husband and how it had messed you up,” he said.

  “Well, I wouldn’t say it messed me up. I was just a little . . . sideways. Anyway, who told you? Sophie, I assume? Right. After we finish here, I’m going to go inside and kill her.”

  “Don’t be too hard on her. She was trying to help. But that’s not what I mean, anyway. You said you didn’t stop to consider your feelings, and I wanted to know what those feelings are,” he said.

  I looked down, examining my hands. They were dry and needed moisturizing lotion. And the sensible beige polish had chipped away at the edge of the ring finger of my left hand.

  “Does it matter?” I asked quietly.

  “It matters to me,” Zack said, and he reached out and took my hand and cradled it between both of his. He didn’t seem to notice the dry skin or the chipped polish.

  “Well. I . . . I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you,” I admitted.

  I looked up at him, and he leaned forward and caught my lips on his. His mouth was warm and sweet, and then he was cradling his hand against my neck, pressing me closer to him. It rated as one of the all-time greatest kisses of my life.

  “I really hope that wasn’t a good-bye kiss,” I said when we came up for air.

  “Nah. I have to give you another chance to beat me at Scrabble,” Zack said, and he kissed me again.

  “No time like the present,” I said, grinning at him until the skin at the corners of my mouth was sore.

  “Don’t you have to go back in there and do family stuff?” he asked.

  “Well, no, but I should probably tell them I’m leaving. I don’t want them to think you’ve abducted me,” I said.