by Kylie Scott
Leif just nods. And it’s the pity that kills me. The sorrow in his gaze and lines set in his face. I can’t do it. I can’t face him like this.
“I’m so sorry. About everything. Him turning up here and . . . I’m sorry.” And I get out of there as fast I can.
CHAPTER TWO
The first sign that something is wrong is the silence. It’s so complete the house seems to echo with it. No music. No chatter. Nothing. Mom hates the quiet and her car is here, so I know she’s home. It’s been over a week since I visited Leif and my outlook has not particularly improved. Nor will it be improving in the next short while. Because there’s a bump like someone knocking into a piece of furniture and it’s followed by a giggle.
Oh, God. She wouldn’t have. Surely.
Then my worst nightmare comes true. Assorted friends and acquaintances leap out from behind various objects shouting, “Happy birthday!”
Fuck no. Kill me now.
I paste a smile on my face as Mom steps out from the kitchen. Her grin is huge and hopeful. People hug me while someone presses a glass of champagne into my hand. There’s Zola, Lucy, Cho, and James from the inn where I used to work. My old neighbors, Julia and Will. Erin and her girlfriend Angie from the tennis club where I used to play. And last but not least, Briar from college. Thank goodness she’s here.
No wonder Mom said she wouldn’t be available to pick me up. And I look a mess, having only braided my wet hair after showering post hydrotherapy. Same goes for my pair of denim cutoffs and an old blouse that are more yard work than surprise birthday party. Glam I am not.
Forget pink champagne, I require hard liquor.
The team from the inn hangs back after offering felicitations. There’s a nervous sort of energy to them. Fair enough, considering their boss is my former best friend Celine, the husband fucker. No wonder I no longer have a job. As if I could ever go back there. Us both sleeping with the same man makes for quite the conflict of interest in the workplace. Not that I’ve slept with Ryan, or anyone, in the last ten or so months. How awkward.
My old neighbors are likewise an awkward situation waiting to happen. Any and all previous socializing was done as part of a couple. Picnics, potlucks, things like that. We were like mirror images of each other. Two upwardly mobile professional around-thirty-year-old couples. And I am now distinctly uncoupled, out of work, and have mobility issues. No wonder I didn’t want a party. Not that anyone asked me. Hear me whine.
One close friend of mine in days of yore was Ryan’s sister Natasha. But she’s been suspiciously quiet since I woke up. It’s amazing how people prefer to disappear over facing their own foibles. Or their family’s foibles. I’m certainly not immune to engaging in this behavior, but it doesn’t make it any easier to be on the receiving end.
Although Mom has been cautious with the guest list, everyone here knows that my husband banged one of my best friends. Awesome. Whelp, no point in avoiding my guests. I square my shoulders and face the crowd with a smile.
The question is, who are you when your job, your relationship, and one of your best friends are gone? I’m adrift in a sea of what the fuck. I’d like to think that Celine will come crawling on her hands and knees, begging me to return to working at the inn. But the fact is, I’m not irreplaceable. And they’ve had over half a year to replace me. At this point, I doubt I’ll even be getting a well-deserved glowing reference.
“So good to see you!” Erin smacks a kiss on my cheek.
“You too,” I say.
Angie grabs my hand and presses it to her bulging belly. “Say hello.”
“Hello, little one,” I say dutifully. It’s impossible not to be happy for Erin and Angie. There’s such an air of joy to them, a feeling of growth. They also don’t give a crap that Ryan isn’t standing at my side. What a relief. I don’t know them very well, but what I do know I like.
“You look distinctly uncomfortable,” says Briar. She’s a short, curvy black woman with killer style and a law degree. “Is it physical or emotional?”
“Both.”
“Ah. Sit down and drink up then.”
“Good idea.”
We grab some chairs in the corner of the dining room, facing the table laden with tastefully wrapped gifts and small decorative plates of appetizers. Hummus on slices of cucumber, fruit and prosciutto bites, and a cheese board. Mom believes in healthy food to speed my recovery and protein to build up my muscle mass. To balance this, there’s also a beautiful cake with buttercream frosting surrounded by berries. When she passes by with a plate of goodies, I grab her spare hand. “Thanks for this.”
She delicately snorts in a ladylike manner. “Please, you hate it. But life goes on. I wasn’t going to just let you ignore your birthday. Happy twenty-seventh, sweetheart.”
“Thank you.”
And despite giving my shabby outfit a skeptical glance, she just nods. God bless Mom. She can’t help herself. We really are every bit as judgmental as Leif says. And there I go again, thinking about him. It’s not helpful. Though at least it doesn’t hurl me into a pit of despair like contemplating my husband does.
Interestingly, Dad isn’t here. But Dad hates any socializing that doesn’t take place on the golf course. Perhaps I’m more like my antisocial father these days. Though I’m never going to play golf.
At any rate, Leif was right: my mom in action is a beautiful thing. I have deep thoughts about Leif more often than I should. I’d been so embarrassed by Ryan showing up and trying to start a fight that I got out of there pronto after he left. No one needs that kind of drama in their life, or the person who invited it in.
On the other hand, knowing someone supportive who’d survived the same accident was nice. Comforting. Even if it was brief. Perhaps I’ll find the courage to see him again. Maybe. In the meantime, I’m going to stop thinking about him. Right now.
“I should go put on something more suitable,” I say, not moving an inch.
Briar crosses her legs. “Catch your breath first.”
“If I’d known this was happening I’d have at least shaved my legs.”
“Never mind. I hear the Viking look is in this season.”
“Nice.” I laugh. “Are you suggesting I could braid them?”
Her brows rise. “Now that would be something.”
Over by the front windows, the group from the inn is huddled together. Lots of side-eye going on. Lots of whispering. Ugh.
“Ignore them,” says my friend.
“Have you heard from her lately?” I ask.
Briar, Celine, and I met as neighboring dorm buddies and moved up to sharing an apartment in our senior year. Many a fun time was had. I met Ryan when we were freshmen. We’ve been together ever since. And it wasn’t perfect, but it was good. There were times we had to work at it. Times when we had to fight for it. But we always did and I thought we’d be together forever. Right up until we weren’t. Talk about life slapping you in the face.
“Not since I told her exactly what I thought of her so-called unfortunate lapse of judgment. If she expected me to be understanding, then she was severely disappointed.” Briar takes another sip of her drink. “I don’t care how scared and exhausted either of them were. You don’t open your legs to comfort your still very much alive friend’s husband.”
“Hmm.”
“What does hmm mean?”
I sigh. “She texted me again the other day. I didn’t respond. It was the usual, ‘We’re both so sorry. Neither of us meant to hurt you. Please try and understand. We still love you and care about you very much.’ I think it’s the ‘us’ and the ‘we’ that aggravates me. The continued implied coupledom. The unity. He’s my fucking husband. Or he was. I don’t know what he is now.”
Briar just shakes her head.
“He was so sorry, you know? He even cried,” I say. “I can’t remember the last time he cried. When his grandma died, maybe?”
“And?”
“I’ve tried to understand. I mean, it must hav
e been hell for him, going through all of that.” My shoulders slump. “I’ve tried to put myself in his position and imagine if it was him on that bed and me not knowing if he’d ever wake up. And even if he did wake up, not knowing if he’d be the same person.”
She sighs.
“I still wouldn’t turn to his damn friend,” I add. “I wouldn’t disrespect him that way.”
“Exactly.” Briar tries for a smile, but it doesn’t quite work. “She always did use too many exclamation points when she messaged or texted.”
“Ugh. Yeah. Wait, are we being unnecessarily petty?”
“I debate your use of ‘unnecessary.’”
“Lady, you make me laugh. You know, he’s been pushing for me to move back home and do couple’s counseling,” I say, staring off at nothing. “But I’m not sure we can come back from this. How can I possibly trust him again?”
She takes my hand in a warm grip. “Anna, I’m going to send you the name of a local divorce lawyer that I recommend. My cousin used her a few years back.”
I pause.
“No pressure. Just in case. It’s always good to have a backup plan.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Deep breath in, slow breath out. My parents have been married for thirty years and I can’t even manage two. The thought of taking this final step is . . . shit. Not just failing so spectacularly, but having everyone know. It shouldn’t matter, but it does. It’s like there’s a crack inside of me widening a little more every day and out pours all of the hope and love and everything that ever meant anything to me. My marriage has been upended and my reality has been reset—I can’t keep up.
“Is this why you’re back in town for a few days?” I ask.
“That, birthday cake, and the annual sale at Braun’s Books. You know I never miss that.” She grins. “You needed to know your options. And that you’re not alone.”
“Thank you.”
“You could come back to New York with me.” She taps her elbow gently against mine. “Start over in the big city, away from all of this nonsense. What do you say?”
“That’s a big move. I don’t know.”
“Could be fun. Even if it was just for a little while.”
“Yeah, but do you remember how I used to drive you crazy when we shared a room back in college?”
“You color coded my wardrobe.”
“I told you not to give me the edible.”
She laughs. “I thought it might relax you. Little did I know that your version of relaxation is organizing someone else’s life.”
“I’m not that bad.”
A snort from the lady. “I beg to differ.”
“Well, my control freak ways have had a setback. Rest assured.”
“Hmm,” says Briar. “I have yet to see any proof. You look pretty good to me.”
I slump back in the seat. “The proof is my life. My whole being now is . . . I don’t even know the word. Boom maybe? Kapow perhaps?”
“Your life blew up, huh?”
“Just a little.”
“As long as you’re not dwelling on it and feeling sorry for yourself,” says Briar.
Now it’s my turn to laugh. I’m such a basic bitch these days.
Suddenly, I hear a commotion in the foyer. Mom’s mouth is a perfect ‘o’ and Ryan stands there with a bouquet of long-stemmed red roses. Once again, turning up without an invitation. There’s no way Mom would have given him one. But he knows if he just shows up, she doesn’t know how to say no.
“Quelle surprise,” says Briar.
Cho gasps. James already has his cell in hand. Celine is going to know about this in approximately two seconds, given the speed at which James’s thumbs are moving.
That’s the other thing about all of this—I don’t quite believe it’s over between them. That it was a one-time thing. A mistake. Because whether or not they’re currently having sex, I think they’re still involved on some level. Each and every time I see my husband, the guilt in his eyes seems to have risen. Same too the resentment over how difficult I’m being about an unfortunate accident. His words, not mine. And he’s not referring to the car accident. Hell no.
“Happy birthday,” Ryan says, then smiles all hopeful like and bends down by my chair. He’s so handsome. Dark hair and blue eyes. Tall and strong. Everything I thought I could ever want. But I don’t see him the same way anymore. The trust and friendship are missing. The love and fidelity. He threw it all away. “These are for you, honey.”
“They’re beautiful.”
“Can we talk for a minute?” he asks. “In private?”
“Sure.” The weight of every eye in the room rests heavy on my shoulders. “Let’s go into the kitchen.”
He frowns briefly, as if he was hoping for my bedroom.
“Can you pass me a vase, please?” I point to the top shelf in the pantry. The blooms are big and bold and a perfect dark red. I fetch the shears to cut the ribbon holding them together and Ryan sets the vase beside me. “Thank you.”
“Your mother didn’t invite me, but I heard about it from Julia and Will.” His voice is tight and tense, leaving no doubt that my mom has done him wrong.
I just nod. Given the situation, she did what she thought was best. I’m not making excuses for her just to appease him. Bet he wishes my dad were here. Dad’s his biggest fan and can always be depended upon to make him feel welcome—which made for some uncomfortable situations over the past few months. It also does nothing to address the situation, being that if I don’t want him here, then I should ask him to go. Only I’m not sure what I want, what with being a heart betrayed and divided, so here we are.
“We need to talk,” he says.
“I’m listening.”
It’s hard to look at him. Like he’s a stranger, unknown and untrustworthy. Guess he feels the same way because his jaw shifts and his gaze wanders. To the fridge, along the counter, up to the window. Everywhere but at me.
As if there hasn’t been enough furtive and shady behavior already. The apology for following me to Leif’s was grudging and half-hearted at best. Made only after I refused to answer his calls or respond to his texts for several days. This is what we’ve become . . . this ruin. Though he doesn’t have a hair out of place. His white button-down shirt is immaculate. Same goes for his pinstripe pants. No tie. He would have removed it in the car after he left work. I can just picture him tugging it free and casting it aside. The tension in his broad shoulders easing the farther he drives away from work. I know him so well, but none of that seems to matter these days.
I fill the vase with water and lift the first rose. No thorns. The florist must have dealt with them. Too bad someone can’t do that for my life. “What is it, Ryan?”
“You haven’t heard . . . never mind. Of course you haven’t.”
I frown. “What are you talking about?”
His face is both empty and set. Giving nothing away. “Celine’s pregnant.”
Everything stops.
“Anna . . .”
I take a deep breath in and let it out slowly, trying to pull myself together. It’s like I’ve been sucker punched. My brain is reeling, the information refusing to sink in, to make sense. “I really wasn’t expecting that.”
He moves to come closer but I hold up a hand to stop him. “Please, honey. It doesn’t have to affect you and me.”
There’s a stabbing pain inside of me. My heart, I think. Like the last piece of it is breaking, shattering into smithereens. I ran out of tears a while back. Our love has become this brittle thing I couldn’t fix even if I wanted to. That’s the truth. “We were going to try for a baby this year,” I say in a broken voice.
A little human, half him, half me. A family of our own. It might have been hormones, but the thought used to thrill and delight me. And now he’s done that with Celine. A bridesmaid at our wedding. One of my oldest and most trusted friends.
“We still can, if you want,” he says.
I wrinkle my nose.
“Holy shit. Are you serious?”
“Yes.” And he is, God help him. “There’s no need for that kind of language.”
“How far along is she?”
His lips morph into a thin line. Which is answer enough.
“Four months,” I say helpfully. “This is where you say ‘four months’—and tell me that she’s just starting to show. Because you swore you only had sex the one time, remember? A terrible, horrible mistake that just happened once. You remember the story. I’d been unconscious for six months. The doctors had just suggested flicking off the switch and you turned to each other for consolation. So Celine should be four months pregnant.”
Only she’s not, she’s less than that. I can see it all over his face. The last little bit of hope inside of me dies. It sucks to be right. I wanted our marriage to be stronger than this. For our love to mean more than this. But it isn’t and it doesn’t and I’m done. You can only volunteer to get knocked down so many times unless you enjoy living on your knees.
I cross to the sink, taking the flowers with me.
“Anna—”
Mom’s waste disposal roars to life at the flick of the switch. She really should get it fixed. It clunks and clatters and sounds like it’s coming apart. More than loud enough to drown out the worst of my husband’s useless bullshit protestations that I’ve heard a thousand times. How he still loves me. How he’s sorry. How he never meant for this to happen. How we can still make this right if I would just let him fix things. Only some things can’t be fixed. Shouldn’t be fixed.
Other people come to the kitchen door to see what’s happening, but I ignore them. Awkward and embarrassing and whatever—I don’t care. If we have an audience, so what? I haven’t had control over any other aspect of my life lately. Let them see my meltdown in all its furious shambolic glory. Let them witness the final death throes of my supposed great love. It sure makes for one hell of a dramatic birthday. Forget party games, spectacle is the go. It’s his own fault for coming here and doing this now. The idiot.
One at a time, I feed the beautiful, glorious roses into the machine. It churns and crunches and gurgles and grinds them into a gooey pulp. And I don’t stop until every last rose is gone. It’s cathartic, really. Satisfying. Like some weird piece of domestic performance art. And I’m not even artistic.