How Lucky You Are (9781455518548)

by Kusek Lewis, Kristyn

  “I’d love to spend more time here, but I’m working all of the time,” Kate says, dragging a potato chip through a plastic container of onion dip.

  “Work, work, work,” I mock, pulling my cover-up—Larry’s monstrous “Cherry Blossom 10K” T-shirt—over my knees. We’re all feeling our alcohol but I’m frankly getting tired of hearing Kate complain about her charmed life, particularly since I got the voicemail from my accountant about my salary.

  “Jesus, I’m sorry,” she snaps. She slumps forward dramatically and puts her head in her hands.

  I look at Amy and raise my eyebrows. She shrugs back.

  When Kate announced that she was going to quit her job at the Post almost right after she got married (because it was nothing if not an announcement—she’d never even mentioned to me that she was considering it), I was floored. Kate had always loved her job—I mean, hell, I can’t imagine many people wouldn’t like the cushiness of being a travel reporter. She wrote stories about wine tastings in Argentina, long weekends in Nashville, summer bargains in Europe. I teased her that she went on vacation for a living, but I knew she took her work seriously, and I suspected that it was because it was one of the few things in her life that she’d done on her own merit. Her name had helped her get her foot in the door, of course, but she’d worked hard to prove that she wasn’t just a pretty face looking for something to do in between social calls. And she was good at it—she was promoted three times in two years.

  But she said that she had started to resent the running around now that she had Brendan in her life. With the long hours that he worked at his law firm, she wanted to be with him when he was off, not in a hotel room by herself in another time zone. She said that she would continue to do some freelance articles, and to her credit she did write a few, but that eventually trickled off, and until Brendan decided to go into politics, she mostly busied herself with spin classes, trips out to Middleburg to ride the horses at her parents’ farm, and spa treatments.

  Her mother tried to get her involved with one of her many causes: the American Red Cross, Friends of the National Zoo, the Smithsonian Institution, the Junior League of Washington. It took only two or three luncheons, surrounded by women who talked about table linens as if they were a matter of national security, for Kate to confirm that while she would happily write checks for charities, she wasn’t about to befriend groups of women whose aim was to be exactly like her mother. It was precisely what she’d always tried to avoid.

  I have to admit that when Brendan announced his candidacy, I was most excited about the fact that Kate would now have legitimate reasons to whine about being stressed and busy. She finally had something to do. Trust me, there’s nothing worse than venting to your best friend about your grueling day and then hearing her try to commiserate with you by recounting the horrible way that her facialist kept her waiting. She called her father, he wrote a check, and the campaign was off and running. She was behind Brendan all the way, pushing him squarely into it with both hands—if you ask me, because it gave her a purpose, too.

  “Listen, I know that I bitch about the campaign all of the time,” Kate says now, looking forlornly down at her toes. “But you don’t understand. It’s not just the hours, which are longer than you could ever imagine. Even you”—she nods toward me—“with the god-awful hours that you work.” I try to picture Kate operating the espresso machine at the bakery or sweeping up after a group of kids who’d come in for after-school snacks. One hour of assembling sandwiches alongside some of my college-aged employees would send her running and screaming back to the grind of personal assistants and private jets.

  “It’s not just having to be ‘on’ all of the time,” Kate rails. “I’m used to that. I’ve been doing it my whole life. You know my parents.”

  I nod. This is definitely true.

  “Or dealing with all of these idiots on Brendan’s staff who think that they’re more important than me just because I’m ‘the wife.’” She makes little quotation marks in the air with her fingers. “You wouldn’t believe it. Some of these people on staff, even the young women who should know better, treat me like I’m some bubble-headed society whore whose only ambition is to decorate the governor’s mansion and wear pretty ball gowns. Earlier in the campaign, they’d tried to butter me up, calling me Ms. Berkshire instead of Kate, constantly asking if I was hungry or if I’d like any coffee, wondering if they could do ‘anything, anything at all’ for me. Once they realized that I don’t follow the code of symbiotic Washington relationships, they stopped. Now they’re all business, with none of the bootlicking pretense: ‘Make sure you’re here on time.’ ‘Here’s the speech you need to read.’ ‘We need you to circulate at more of the events—you know, shake more hands, be with the people.’ They treat me like a child. Even Brendan acts that way.” Her voice trails off. She picks up her wineglass, rests it on her chest, and tilts it toward her mouth to take a sip. “He’s just…I don’t know.”

  I watch and wait for her to say something else. I’ve seen Kate through every boyfriend she’s ever had—the prom kings, the lacrosse stars, the tortured-artist phase that she went through at Brown, the cardiologist whom she dated afterward to prove that she was over it, the nationally ranked tennis player who was too self-​absorbed even for her. Kate dumped every single one of them, ridding herself of them as easily as if she was throwing away an empty milk carton. She never admitted to any specific problem in any of these relationships—they just ended. She sees things in black and white; they either work or they don’t, and her marriage to Brendan works. She complains about him all day long, but Kate is about as likely to reveal true relationship problems as she is to go on the news to talk about having hemorrhoids.

  “Okay, here’s the thing,” she says, sitting up again. She wobbles and grabs the sides of her chair to steady herself, gripping them as if she’s floating on a raft in the ocean before us. “I always knew that this would be the path we’d go down. It’s not a surprise. He told me on the night that I met him that he was going to run for governor.”

  I remember Kate calling me from the lobby of the Willard Hotel that evening. Larry and I were sitting on the couch, my feet in his lap, drinking beer and watching Three Amigos! on cable. She was at a family friend’s wedding and Brendan was a groomsman. “I’m ditching my date,” she’d whispered into the phone. “There’s just something about this guy.” This was true of course, given the way things worked out, but it wasn’t something I believed at the time—it was what she always said. It was the kind of thing you could say when you could have whomever you wanted, when the “something” you’d noticed about the guy was how he fell in love with you the minute he saw you.

  Kate takes another gulp of her drink, burps, and keeps talking. “I told Brendan to go for it. Hell, I fantasized about it. Governor and Mrs. Brendan Berkshire.” She points her finger into her open mouth as if she’s going to make herself vomit. “I just didn’t realize…” She shakes her head. “Sometimes it feels like I wouldn’t recognize him if he wasn’t standing behind a podium.”

  “The perfect couple,” Amy says, to no one in particular. When I turn to look at her, she’s gazing pensively out toward the ocean. Given her personality, you would think that she would be a bottle-rocket, bouncing-off-the-walls kind of drunk, but alcohol actually tends to mellow her out.

  “What?” Kate says.

  “Oh.” Amy turns to her. “I said ‘the perfect couple.’ You guys just always seem so perfect. Like JFK and—”

  “Don’t even say Jackie,” Kate snaps. “That marriage was hardly perfect.”

  “Have you talked to Brendan about this?” I jump in to save Amy.

  Kate looks at me as if I’d just suggested that she run off with one of my dishwashers.

  “And say what? Pay attention to me?” she whines. “All I’m saying is that I wish that we had some more time for us. Like there used to be. He’s like my father, always at work.” She grimaces as if she’s just tasted something rot
ten. “I guess I pictured that this would be more of a partnership and that I’d be involved in a way that doesn’t make me feel like I’m on Brendan’s payroll. I mean, sure, at these campaign events, we walk onstage together holding hands, looking very much like a team, but the truth is that I’m a minor player in this whole thing. Brendan hardly acknowledges me. Hell, when I want to talk to him, I have to go through Stephanie.” She tilts her head back, sighs, and rubs her shoulder with one hand. “God, I need a massage.”

  “Who’s Stephanie?” Amy says, her voice careful.

  “His horse-faced assistant. I swear he spends more time with her than he does with me. Most of our communication these days either happens through her or the notes he leaves for me at home on the rare occasions that he’s actually there. I hate those fucking notes. They remind me of the ones from my mother that welcomed me home from school when I was growing up—Won’t be home until late. Finish your homework. Order dinner. As if instructions printed on a piece of her personalized cardstock were an equal substitute for actual parenting.” She pulls the wine bottle out of the silver bucket on the table between our chairs, finds it empty, sighs, and drops it on the ground next to her. I watch it roll across the patio. “And now he says he wants to have kids.”

  I’m not sure I’ve heard her right.

  “What?” I blurt.

  “Kids?” Amy gasps.

  If there is one unwavering truth about Kate, it’s that she does not want children.

  “I don’t know how he thinks that’s going to happen given how rarely we even sleep in the same bed. Does he think he can just send a sperm sample through his assistant?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say. “Hold on. Explain all this, Kate. Kids? I thought Brendan was on board with you not wanting them.”

  “That’s what he said.” She shoves her hair behind her ears and looks up at the sky. “I don’t know. I guess he started mentioning it about a year ago. Around the time the campaign really got rolling.” She raises her eyebrows. “That’s probably not a coincidence.”

  “A year ago? Why didn’t you mention anything?” I ask.

  “Because I’m not having children!” she says. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “But he wants them?” Amy ventures.

  Kate shrugs. “I think he thinks he needs them.”

  “Oh, but people don’t really have kids because it’s good for their jobs,” Amy says.

  Kate snorts. “You are so not from Washington. I totally think that, actually. He started dropping small hints at first—stories about some of the staffers’ kids—and then his brothers’ wives both got pregnant…The next thing I know, he’s sending me texts about it. I mean, texts.”

  “What?” I say.

  “Yeah, jokey little messages about having a little Kate or Brendan. And then we’d be at a campaign stop and he’d see a pregnant woman in the audience and lean over to whisper to me about how adorable I’d be with a belly.”

  “I can’t believe this,” I say. “You’ve never mentioned anything.”

  “There’s nothing to mention,” she says again. “I’m not having kids.”

  “But Brendan wants them?” Amy repeats, a little too sympathetically.

  Kate shoots her a look. Then her eyes rest on me, and her face softens in a way that reveals that the issue is not so cut-and-dried.

  “We’ll figure it out,” she says, her tone implying that the topic’s closed for discussion.

  “Things will get easier,” I say, knowing it’s a lame sentiment, but it’s the best I can come up with given my shock and my alcohol consumption. “You’ve said that this is the most intense time in the campaign, right?”

  “It’s always intense, Waverly,” she growls. “He’s not running for class president.”

  “But he’s basically won, right?” Amy offers. “And once the campaign’s over, then the stress level won’t be so high? So maybe things will get better?”

  Kate vigorously shakes her head, sucking in her breath as she does it. She looks just like her mother. “No, Amy, he’ll be governor. Of Virginia. It’s not a small job.”

  “Well, I remember how stressful it was for us when Mike was finishing up his residency,” Amy says. “He’d have these thirty-hour shifts, and when he’d finally get off work, he was such a zombie that it wasn’t like we could actually do anything. It was a really tough time for us, but we got through it.” She nods emphatically. “You will, too, Kate. It’s just temporary.”

  Kate chuckles. “Yes, you’re right, Amy.”

  I jump in before she can say more. I can’t stand the patronizing tone of her voice, and she obviously just wants to complain. I’m tired of listening to it. A part of me is tempted to tell her about what I’m dealing with—that much reality would surely shut her up. “Well, no relationship is perfect,” I say definitively, clapping my hands together. “Larry and I have our issues.”

  “Please, like what?” Kate says.

  “Oh, you know, the typical stuff,” I say. “He’s a huge slob.”

  “Well, that sounds serious,” Kate says, rolling her eyes. “I think you should kick him out.”

  “No, it’s really bad,” I say. “He leaves plates of food on his nightstand, mail goes unopened for weeks. I feel like I’m constantly nagging him, and the last thing I ever wanted was to be was a nag. It’s not like me. Sometimes it feels more like we’re roommates. We go weeks without having sex.” I leave out the part about this being a hugely contentious issue for us right now. You would think that with all of the stress that I’m under at work that sex might be a good antidote, but I’m not remotely interested. When I get home at night, the last thing I want is one more person needing something from me. Larry, naturally, doesn’t understand—how could he, given that he has no idea what’s going on?—which makes me feel even worse. “Last week, I was working late on my laptop in the kitchen when he came in with that look in his eye. I gave him the least sexy excuse I could think of—digestive issues—blaming the chili that I’d eaten for lunch,” I say.

  “I understand that,” Kate says. “Here’s the funny thing about Brendan: We are almost never alone in the house together, but now? With this kid thing? Whenever he’s actually home, he’s trying to get me into bed. And there’s nothing romantic about it—I’m telling you, it’s just a means to an end with him, another competition he has to win.”

  I have to laugh. I can’t help myself.

  “It’s true!” Kate says. “I do it, of course. I have needs. And it’s rarely more than once every couple of weeks. He keeps needling me about going off my birth control pills. Little does he know, I got an IUD six months ago.”

  “Kate, that’s awful!” I say. I look over at Amy, who’s just shaking her head.

  “What?” Kate shrugs. “I’m not going to risk getting pregnant. I should really just get a hysterectomy. He probably wouldn’t even notice when I went into surgery.” She looks down at her lap. She’s far drunker than I thought—otherwise she’d never be so candid. “It’s pathetic. I’m the wife figure in his campaign and the incubator for his offspring. That pretty much sums up how he sees me.”

  “Oh, Kate,” I say, putting my hand to my heart. I can tell she’s really hurting. She never admits this kind of vulnerability.

  “Sometimes, in the middle of the night while he sleeps, I’ll rest my hand on his shoulder blade or hook my foot over his, and it actually feels strange to touch him. Even in his sleep, he squirms away,” she says. I can tell by her downcast eyes that she’s avoiding looking at me. “Anyway,” she says, matter-of-factly. “I have to remember that it’s just the job. It has nothing to do with me.” She turns to Amy. “What about you? How’s your marriage?”

  Uh-oh. I know this can’t be headed in a good direction.

  Amy shifts in her seat. “Oh, I don’t know.” She laughs and looks down at her lap. “I don’t know; we have the usual disagreements. We’re just normal, I guess.”

  Kate smirks at me. “So what�
�s the deal with him, anyway?” she says, grinning in the self-satisfied way that a high school bully might right before throwing a punch.

  Fuck. Kate!

  Amy shrugs again. “The deal?”

  “Yeah, the deal. He seems a little, uh, off these days.” She says off like it’s a code word for something else, which it is, of course—asshole, son of a bitch. “Like the incident at Waverly’s last week. What was that all about?”

  My heart jumps. “Kate, really, come on,” I say. “Amy, don’t listen to her. It’s nothing.” I still wanted to talk to Amy about Mike, but not like this.

  Kate laughs. “It’s just a question, Waverly. Right, Amy?”

  Amy looks at me. She looks tired, her eyes glazed over from all of the alcohol.

  “Waverly, I’m so sorry,” she says, her face crumpling like a paper bag. “All week long, I wanted to apologize, and when we went running the other day and you asked me about it, I just was so embarrassed that I blew it off. I should have said something then.” She looks so sad and worn down that I suddenly feel guilty for wanting an apology at all.

  “It’s fine, Amy.” I wave my hand at her. “Really, it’s no biggie.” There are tears in her eyes. I’ve known Amy long enough to know that disappointing someone is her biggest fear. “I promise, it’s over.”

  “But what’s his problem?” Kate slurs. “He’s really become kind of a prick.”

  “Kate!” I cry. “Stop.”

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” Amy says. Her face is crimson. “He’s just—he gets overwhelmed with work.” She fiddles with the tiny gold pendant she wears around her neck, a round disk with an engraved E for Emma.

  I shoot a look at Kate, whose nose is so deep in her wineglass that it looks like she’s trying to climb into it to get the last sip. “Well, I never liked him anyway,” she mumbles.

  Oh God.

  “You don’t exactly make it a secret,” Amy says flatly.

  Kate shrugs.

  I don’t know what to do—I could just sit back and let the two of them hash it out, but I know that Kate will bulldoze right over Amy, especially since she’s drunk. I decide to change the subject entirely. “You know what—let’s not talk about the men anymore. They’re not here and this is our weekend—they should be out of sight, out of mind, right? Kate, I would much rather hear what you were telling me on the plane about the neighbors next door. Something about him running some sort of prostitution ring?”