by Chelle Sloan
“Now, what fun would that be?” I say, beginning to start reaching for trash that has made its way into some shrubbery. “I had a feeling the other night when you asked if you could do more, it was because you didn’t feel like making a few phone calls was really volunteering. You don’t get much more volunteering than picking up trash on a Saturday morning.”
“That you don’t,” Garrett replies, jumping right in, filling his bag with trash and tree debris. “So, what made you want to volunteer with this group? Let me guess. You did this in high school and wanted to keep giving back?”
I flinch at his question, hoping that he didn’t see my reaction. The conversation he is trying to have is absolutely normal. Normal people, friends even, talk about what they were like before they knew each other. Normal people don’t physically recoil when the topic of their high school life is mentioned. Bringing up who I was back then isn’t something I want to do now, or ever.
“Yes, I was, but we didn’t do anything like this. What about you? You had to be. I bet you were. Were you valedictorian? Did you play sports? I bet you did. I’d peg you for a baseball guy.”
By the look on Garrett’s face, my habit of rambling when I don’t want to answer a question isn’t lost on him. But bless his heart, he doesn’t push the issue.
“Yes, I was valedictorian. No, I didn’t play baseball. I was a bit of a nerd back then, so sports and I didn’t mix. Yes, I was in NHS. Our community service was usually caroling at the nursing home and calling it a day.”
I laugh, trying to picture a younger Garrett singing “Jingle Bells” to senior citizens. “That’s part of the reason I help. These kids could have done something super simple, a one-and-done outing and say their duty was fulfilled. The fact that they chose to do something that requires a long-term commitment, well, I was proud that they did that and wanted to be a part of it.”
We continue picking up the trash while making small talk, because if we keep the conversation moving forward, then the chances are better that Garrett won’t go back to the topic of my life in Alabama. We finally share our ages—him forty-two to my thirty. I tell him about my students and the antics of his nephew. He opens up to me about his health scare and that his dad died of a blood clot, which is part of what really shook him.
Now afraid that the conversation is about to turn back to my family, I ask the first thing that comes to my mind.
“Does your wife mind you being out here this morning?”
OK, that wasn’t the question I meant to ask, but for some reason, it’s the one that came out.
Good move, Paige. So smooth. Not awkward at all.
I can’t lie and say I haven’t been curious as to how his wife has been reacting to his desire to give back more. I would hope she’d be proud. Heck, I’m proud of him and we are still practically strangers.
That is, if he’s still married. I noticed he hasn’t been wearing his ring, but that could be for a dozen reasons.
Or, I could quit lying to myself and admit that as a woman, who is attracted to a man, that I want to know the status of his marriage.
Not that I could do anything about it. I just want to know.
Geez, Paige, you’re even rambling to yourself in your mind.
“She doesn’t mind. Then again, I haven’t seen her since Tuesday,” Garrett says in a very nonchalant, I-didn’t-just-semi-admit-I’m-not-with-my-wife way.
“Garrett, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—”
He waves my comment off. “Don’t worry. I asked Annika for a separation.”
“Is she trying to fight you on it?”
“If your definition of fight means she is outright refusing to talk about the logistics by going MIA, then sure, she’s fighting it. That’s why I had dinner with Charlie and Mark after the fundraising meeting. I hadn’t told them yet either. They are supportive and just want me to be happy, just like I knew they would be. They even offered me their guest room until I figure out what my next move is. I might give him shit, but he’s a pretty damn good brother.”
“I’m so sorry. About Annika, that is. Is there anything I can do?”
I know my words don’t mean much, but it’s all I can think to say right now. And honestly, I don’t know what I could do. It just felt like the right thing to say.
Garrett’s eyes go soft as he turns to face me. “You have no idea how much you’ve done for me already, Paige.”
I blush at his words, though I have no idea what he’s talking about. “Me? I haven’t done—”
“Yes, you have,” his words cut me off. “From that first conversation we had in my hospital room, you flipped a switch in me. You’ve made me realize that the life I was leading isn’t the one that was going to make me truly happy. You’ve helped me find purpose again. You have been the friend I didn’t know I needed, and you have helped me so much, Paige. I can never thank you enough for that.”
If my cheeks were pink before, I’m sure they are downright red now. Though I did realize how much emphasis he put on the word “friend.” That is good. He needs a friend, and I can be that for him. The man nearly died, is eventually going to divorce his wife, and instead of crawling into a hole, or pouring himself into work or a bottle, he is trying to refocus his life on doing better for himself and others. That is amazing.
“I don’t know what to say,” I finally say, not knowing how long I left the conversation silent.
“How about, ‘You’re welcome, Garrett. Thanks for bringing me coffee this morning. You’re the best volunteering buddy ever.’”
Yup. Buddy. That’s what I am. That’s what he is.
And that’s how I want it.
Maybe if I keep telling myself that, then I’ll start to believe it.
Chapter Seventeen
Garrett
I spent my entire morning picking up trash. My back is sore, there is dirt under my nails, and I reek something fierce.
Interestingly enough, I’ve never felt better in my life.
Paige was right. Though I was volunteering and helping with the food drive, I didn’t get that satisfaction of getting my hands dirty. You can’t get your hands dirtier than picking up trash and debris off the streets. Even in suburban Virginia Beach.
After we were done, I took Paige to the breakfast place we visited after the 5K. I like that it’s becoming our thing. Well, at least I hope it is. I hope that today wasn’t the last volunteer Saturday with Paige Blackstone.
We ordered what is now our usual—though Paige didn’t order extra for any patients this time—and we ate and talked for hours. The breakfast crowd turned to lunch, but we didn’t notice. We were too involved in our conversation to realize it.
I’ve never felt more comfortable talking to a person in my life, even if our conversation went back and forth between the heavy and the light. She told me that despite growing up in Alabama, she didn’t know a thing about football. I admitted that I took golf lessons during medical school, realizing that it was the best way to kiss up to attendings and donors.
That admission led me down the path of telling her about med school, and how I missed out on the project because I didn’t have the right last name. Next thing I know, I’m spilling my life story to this woman. And I let it flow. Medical school, marrying Michelle, cheating on Michelle, restarting my life and opening up my new practice in Virginia, meeting Annika and going down the same path again, well, except the cheating.
When I stopped for air, and I realized everything I just laid in her lap, I closed my eyes and hung my head in shame. I never said all of it, out loud, consecutively, to another person in my life. Not to Mark. Not to my mom. No one.
I only looked up when I felt her hand lightly squeezing mine, and even then, I was slow to open my eyes. This woman is the best person I have ever met. There is not one thing about her that is not inherently good. And the shit that I just piled on her shouldn’t be within a one-hundred-mile radius of her untarnished soul.
When I finally met her eyes, I thou
ght I’d see disgust in them. Pity. Something that would mirror all the bad shit I have done in my forty-two years on this Earth. Which is a lot.
Instead, I was met with a smile. She told me how proud she was of me. How, yes, I made mistakes, but I’m trying to make them better. I’m trying to do something with my life that I can be proud of. A reformation she called it. And for that, she said what I was doing now was admirable.
I smile at the thought as I walk into my house. Just the thought of Paige’s praise and warm smile is probably how I didn’t realize that my soon-to-be ex-wife was finally home.
“Where in the fuck have you been?”
I look up to find Annika scowling at me from her seat in our front room.
“I could say the same about you.”
She huffs at my response, and I can feel her glare as I take off my shoes.
“I needed some space to clear my head after you suddenly asked me for… I can’t even say it out loud. I’m hoping the space I gave us allowed you to come to your senses.”
I blink a few times, making sure that I heard her correctly.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Of course I am.”
I let out an exasperated breath. My first instinct is to start screaming at her. To get it through her head that I am absolutely serious and we need to separate. Put us both out of our misery.
But during the breath I took, I caught a whiff of the smell of garbage from today, and if I’m finally going to convince her to start the separation, I’m not going to do it smelling like a dumpster. Plus, I feel like another round of screaming will only result in Annika walking out again. And that is the definition of insane behavior.
“Can we postpone this conversation for ten minutes while I grab a shower?”
She huffs before dismissing me with I believe a “whatever.”
During my ten-minute shower, I realize that I am glad I didn’t just react and immediately start yelling at Annika. This separation and divorce aren’t going to be easy. I just need to convince her, hopefully without screaming, that this is for the best for both of us. We need to live apart for six months before we can officially divorce, unless she will admit that she’s been cheating on me. Why else would she be gone for weeks at a time? This is the first time since moving to Virginia that I wish I was living back in New York. Divorces up there are much simpler.
When I come back downstairs, I half expect Annika to be gone again, so I’m slightly shocked that she’s sitting in the same spot. Which is probably why I blurt out the question that has been on the tip of my tongue for weeks.
“Why didn’t you come to visit me in the hospital?”
At first, I don’t think I actually said it out loud. She doesn’t move a muscle or react in any way. Then I see her blink slowly, and maybe, just maybe, I think I might get a real answer.
“Because I knew you didn’t want me there. And plus, you know I hate hospitals.”
“I almost died, Annika. Did you even care?”
“Of course, I cared. I’m not that much of a bitch.”
“I want to believe that, but you didn’t visit me once. Would you have cared if I died? It was Christmas and I was scared and alone…”
“You don’t think I didn’t know that? I had to attend the Mayor’s Christmas Eve Ball alone and tell everyone that my husband was under the weather. It was horrifying!”
My jaw is on the floor I’m sure. Did she really just say that? “Under the weather? I was on an operating table, Annika! I probably should have died!”
She brushes my comment aside, almost like she couldn’t be bothered with details. “Whatever. It’s in the past. That doesn’t mean we should get a divorce. Or a separation. Or whatever it is you asked for.”
“Yes, it’s in the past, but the hospital was the final straw. You didn’t call, text, contact my mom or Mark. I know we haven’t been in a good place for a while, but I didn’t think you were that heartless. It really made me realize how unhappy we are. And neither of us deserves to live a life like that. Are you happy, Annika? And not that bullshit answer you gave me a few months ago. Think about it. Deep down. Is this what you want for your life?”
At first, I think I got through to her. And then, if I didn’t realize before I was married to a robot without emotion, she says the unthinkable, “Of course it is.”
“Excuse me?”
“What’s not to be happy about? I’m married to a doctor. I’m a part of the upper-class. I have a black card. Well, I did until you cut it off, which we can address now. We used to have sex, which we can start doing again when you stop being an asshole. You have your things, and I have mine. I look good on your arm, and in return you get patients and donations, which gives me more money to spend. I thought that was what we wanted?”
I hate the fact that she’s right. When we first got married, all of those things she listed are what I wanted. What she wanted. It did work.
Not anymore. Now I want more.
“I thought so too. I don’t anymore, Annika. I don’t want this.”
I go to stand up and leave, and it’s just then she realizes that I’m serious.
“Are you cheating on me? Is that why you want this? You already found your new trophy wife? Am I not good enough anymore? Who is she, Garrett? Another nurse? You could never keep it in your pants around them.”
A flash of Paige goes through my mind, but I quickly push it away. And while I could ask her the same question, I’m not going to. I have no doubt she is cheating on me, but I don’t have proof. Though if I did, I wouldn’t have to endure this six-month separation before our divorce could be granted. Annika is grasping at straws now, even though this conversation is over. It’s past time for this to happen.
“I’ll be staying at Mark’s. Let me know if you need anything.”
I get up and walk out without a word. Annika doesn’t even try to call me back or attempt to salvage our marriage in any way.
And that’s when I know I’m doing exactly what I need to do.
Chapter Eighteen
Paige
My friends like to tease me that I’m not adventurous. They are always trying to get me to do something wild and crazy. They insist I live a sheltered life where I hide behind my volunteer work, my occasional coffee shop trips, and even more sporadic happy hours.
But none of them have to deal with a class of seventeen kindergarteners making “art” with finger paint.
That is the definition of living on the edge.
“Wow, Michaela, that’s a great picture,” I say as I look over her shoulder. “What are you painting?”
I’ve learned not to try and guess, because ninety-nine percent of the time I get it wrong, which then leads to a six-year-old dissertation on the art they are painting. You can only sit through so many of those before you learn your lesson.
“It’s my puppy. His name is Milo.” I think she’s done before she uses her little finger to ask me to come closer to her. “I think Nicky is painting something bad.”
I pat her on the shoulder before walking toward Nicky. My little class spy is right. My class clown is indeed painting an image of the poop emoji. Not exactly bad, but it is something that will completely work up a kindergarten class.
I continue my walks around the classroom, making sure that paint fights aren’t breaking out. For the most part, they are good. Messy, but good.
“Miss Blackstone, come look at my picture!”
Cullen’s voice carries across the room, so I make my way over to see how he’s doing. Like always, he is sitting next to Penelope. I can’t wait to see them at their prom, because mark my words, they will be attending together.
“Wow, Cullen! That’s awesome.”
And really, it is. Unlike his classmates, I can kind of tell what he’s painting. It’s definitely a house, and stick figures of what looks like him, his sister, Charlie, and Mark. And, a third adult?
“Who’s that?” I ask, pointing to the third, larger sti
ck figure, though I have a decent idea of who it might be.
“Uncle Garrett. He lives with us now.”
Cullen’s statement takes me by surprise. When did that happen? Does that mean the separation is official? Is he OK? I have so many questions in my head, I don’t know which one to ask first. But it’s not like I can ask Cullen. I mean, he’s my student. He just turned six. We’re in class.
Before I can even think about what I would ask him if I could, words no teacher wants to hear come from the other side of the room.
“Nicky spilled the paint!”
“You ruined my poop picture!”
“I did not!”
And just like that, all the questions I have about Garrett are pushed to the back of my mind.
I don’t know how I got so lucky that painting day fell on the same day that I drew carpool duty, but here I am, making sure students get in the right cars in the chilly January air. I really do live a glamorous life.
Cullen is the last one to be picked up, and he’s currently talking a mile a minute about some video game. I love the kid, but man, he can be a lot. As I pretend to listen, I check my phone for the first time since the morning and realize there’s another missed call from an unknown number. I get at least one every other day. All of which I ignore.
Want to know what I can’t ignore? The words “Garrett” and “breakfast” in the same sentence.
“What was that?” I ask, suddenly interested in the ramblings of Cullen Dixon.
“Uncle Garrett tried to make pancakes. I ate them to be nice because Mommy told me to. But they really tasted like shit.”
“Cullen James, what did I tell you about using swear words in school!”
“I’m not in school, Mommy! I’m outside of school!”
I chuckle because I can’t help it. This kid is too much.
“As you can tell, my son is still a heathen. It hasn’t helped that he is now getting it from his father and his uncle.”