“I’m going out the balcony to smoke. When you’re done, come join me.” She turns and walks away before I have a chance to respond.
I watch her retreating back. She’s ranged from barely civil to hostile since we met in the lobby to ride out to the boat Jack hired for the ceremony.
When I tried to talk to her, she said, “I’m just here for Jack.” And nothing else.
She brought a bottle of wine on board and drank half of it, straight from the bottle. When the captain of our little boat asked us about Jack, Matty said, “We used to be friends, but now, we hate her.”
Matty and I…we’ve always butted heads. I used to love that about us. It felt like our relationship flexing its muscles when we fought and made up.
I counted myself lucky to have such an authentic, honest friend.
We’re worse than strangers now and I can see clearly, the role I played in that.
What they did was wrong. But, no one forced me to help them. It’s wrong of me to punish them for my choices. It took Jack’s call asking me to come visit her in hospice to see that.
I spent ten years thinking she was angry with me and she spent ten years thinking I was angry with her. But when she called to tell me she was dying, all I felt was grief. I caught a flight the very next day and went to her home Sacramento.
Jack was barely a shadow of the woman she’d been last time I saw her.
Her husband told me that she was having a good day and it broke my heart to think what the bad days must be like. But I only smiled and sat in the seat they offered me.
I began with my regrets. “I was going to call… Six months went by and I didn’t know what I would say. So, I just…never did. I’m so sorry.” It was such a pathetic recitation of excuses
She’d just smiled and patted my hand. “I love you. I’m so glad you came.” That was all.
The rest of the time, we reminisced, I read her passages from her favorite book, Love in the Time of Cholera and we cried together when Florentino left after Fermina spurned him.
When I finished the book, she’d grabbed my hand with more strength than I’d felt from her since I arrived. Her eyes were clear and grave. “Don’t waste any more time wondering what if. You’ll regret it. And it will make the end of your life, whether you see it coming or if it happens in an instant, feel like a death sentence instead of a transition. You were my last regret. Make up with Matty, don’t let her be yours.”
She died that evening and I cried bitterly. Thinking back to it, I feel ashamed that her husband had to find space in his own grief to comfort me.
Shakespeare said that love is an ever-fixed mark that looks upon a tempest and isn’t moved. And it’s proven true. After all this time and all the muddy water that’s passed under our bridge, I still love Matty.
Even if she doesn’t feel the same, I want her to know that I didn’t just come here for Jack.
She’s leaning over the rails, staring out at the majestic panorama of beach, ocean and sky. I watch her for a moment. In so many ways, she’s unchanged. High, sculpted cheekbones, full lips, a regal nose and braids piled high on her head like a crown make a striking profile. Her dark brown skin gleams in the moonlight. Her yellow sundress is too big, and even though she’s the same size as she was in college, she looks frailer.
I feel sick at the thought she might be sick, with something that will kill her, like it killed Jack. I shake off the melodrama and shake myself. I know what’s wrong. It’s the same thing that’s eating me alive. She just doesn’t have the budget for make-up and facials that stave off the signs of the internal rot that comes with making your soul a vessel corrosive secret.
I take a cautious step outside and wait to see if she reacts before I take another. After three creeping steps like that, Matty’s head drops and she groans.
“Why are you being so weird? It’s a balcony not a minefield.”
“Are you sure? I feel like if I put one foot wrong, you’ll blow up and not speak to me for ten years.”
“I don’t know where you could have gotten that ridiculous notion from,” she sing-songs and my nerves are instantly soothed. Feeling a little more balanced, and like myself, I dive in headfirst.
“I should have called you after we fought,” I blurt.
“You couldn’t have, I blocked your number,” she says with a sheepish grimace.
We sigh in unison and look at each other for a long moment. The crashing waves and the strains of music fill the silence that falls between us.
Her expression mirrors everything I’m feeling.
Apology.
Love.
Hope.
“I’m sorry about what I said on the boat, I didn’t mean it. I just had too much to drink.” She finally breaks the quiet.
“Drunk man talk di truth,” I mimic my mother’s lyrical Jamaican accent. She always suppresses it in public and even at home. But when we were younger, before she became the Tina Wilde, she used to speak almost exclusively in her Patois when she scolded us.
“It’s not true. It never has been. You know that. We’ve been mad at each other and we’ve got stuff to work out, but the only thing I feel for you is love. I just didn’t know how to bridge the gap.”
There’s so much advice and common wisdom about what to do when romantic relationships hit road bumps. But you know what’s just as devastating? When a real friendship ends for reasons that make it impossible to repair.
“If I’d been a guy you’d fought with would you have blocked my number?” I ask her, curious more than anything.
“Probably not,” she admits and cringes at her admission.
“Why do we work harder for the men who hurt us than for each other?” I ask in consternation at the truth of it.
“Because a great dick is hard to find,” she deadpans.
I snort a laugh and she gives me a grudging smile. Sharing a laugh with my other best friend, puts a small seal on the crack that the loss of Jack created.
It hurts like hell to know we’ll never laugh together again.
“Unless of course, you happen to stumble across one on a shuttle,” she quips, and my face goes up in flames.
I slap my palms on my cheeks to hide the flush and turn away. “Oh my God, you saw?”
She bursts out in delighted laughter. “Not that I blame you. He was hot. God, I haven’t seen a man like that in person since in a long time.”
“Do you think everyone knew?” I ask, mortified at the thought.
“You were very subtle, but we were roommates in college and…sometimes when you were with Charlie, I’d watch. I know your O’ face,” she says with a sly, but embarrassed smile.
“No, you didn’t,” I gasp and lean away from her, but I’m not upset. In fact, there’s something…intriguing and hot about being watched. But I could never admit that to her.
Marcel is the only man I’ve been with in ten years and sex was never anything to write home about. He’s conservative and anything beyond missionary was sinful. He made me feel dirty the first time I asked him to eat me out. So, my sense of shame about the things I desire is too ingrained for me to share it even with my best friend.
“I’m married.” I remind her and hold up my wedding ring adorned hand, as if she’s the one who needs reminding.
She pushes my hand down and eyes with a probing expression. “I know what the paper you signed says. What does your heart say? There's a difference.”
I forgot how insightful and direct Matty could be. It’s what made her a crack interviewer. She’s good at reading people and she’s got great instincts that she always listens to.
I’ve kept my own council when it comes to our marriage. Tyson only knows the true state of things because he was visiting us when everything fell apart.
Matty and I may butt heads, but I trust her with my life. After the way I left things with Marcel, I would kill for someone to talk to.
Someone removed from my life and someone who doesn’t think the sun shines out o
f Marcel’s ass.
I look down at my hands. I’ve never taken my ring off. But I do tonight. What’s next, I don’t know. But I need to figure it out.
I sit up and clap my hands together. “For this, we need a drink.”
“Well? Spill it.” Matty prods when our server walks away.
I can’t look her in the eye, so I keep my gaze trained on the drink in my hand. “We haven’t had sex in five years. Not since I discovered Marcel’s affair. It wasn’t his first, but it was the first one he was careless enough for me to find out about. She’s pregnant.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.” I turn to meet her gaze. What I’m about to say isn’t the kind of thing you confess without the courtesy of eye contact.
“She’s eighteen. And our nanny. I hired her last summer, and she ended up staying when school started. The kids love her. And so does my husband, apparently.”
Her eyes bug out. “He’s leaving you for her?”
I laugh humorlessly. “Oh no. Marcel wouldn’t leave me. His pride will never let him admit that he failed at anything. He won’t even acknowledge they had an affair.”
She frowns in confusion. “But…then, how do you know she’s pregnant?”
“She told me. After I caught them together, I fired her. I asked her to pack and leave and then I took the kids to the beach so they wouldn’t see her leave. She came down an hour after us and sat down next to me and told me that she was pregnant. She said he asked her to get rid of it, but she wants to keep it.”
“How do you know it’s his?” Her question is one I know I’ll get a lot, but it irritates me.
“I don’t. But why would she say it was?” I ask and wish I cared more.
“Because he’s a billionaire and she’s trying to get paid,” she returns easily.
“Not everyone does everything for money, Matty.”
She purses her lips and glances away, “Time will tell. What did you say? Did you slap her?”
“No. She’s a kid. I said I’d help her whatever she decided.”
She snorts a surprised laugh. “You seem awfully sanguine about all of this. Has he gotten someone pregnant before?”
“No, of course not,” I say right away and then slump in my seat. “At least… I don’t think so. I mean…I don’t know. He’s had other entanglements.” I admit.
“So, he’s a serial philanderer.” In typical Matty fashion, she gets right to the heart of it.
We sit in silence for a minute and I wonder what she’s thinking. This is hardly how I imagined my life turning out.
“I know I can’t stay with him. I just don’t know where to start. Also, he will fight me every step of the way…and if I’m honest, it’s that brawl I’m avoiding more than anything.” I groan and run a hand through my hair.
“I wish I could say that the last ten years had matured me emotionally, but ending relationships still isn’t my thing.”
I glance at her and shake my head in fond exasperation. “Don’t tell me you’re still doing that,” I say. She used to ghost on men all the time when we were in college. I thought it was funny, until she did it to me.
She ignores my jibe. “But... I can tell you that hot, anonymous sex in a city where you don’t know a soul, is a really good place to start. Unclog those pipes so you can think clearly, first.”
“God, you make it sound so easy. That was the craziest and most reckless thing I’ve ever done. I could have gotten caught. He could have been anyone.”
“Regan, We’re stupidly hot women in our mid-thirties. This is the easiest it’s ever going to be. And that guy, he’s beautiful, and you’ll never see him again. You should find him and finish what you started.”
“I was thinking about it… but what if he saw my wedding ring?”
“Well if he did, it didn’t stop him. Not everyone cares about that. Did he seem like an asshole? When you were talking to him?”
I grab a handful of hair as the wind blows it around and lean in so I can speak quietly.
“Does asking for my panties make him an asshole?” I ask and then slap a hand over my mouth when her jaw drops. “Forget I said that.”
“Regan, there is no TMI between us,” she says when she recovers from her shock “It’s just…that’s hot. And he’s hot. He talks dirty and made you come without even touching you. Go find that man right now. If you don’t, I will. Did he have a big dick?”
I throw my head back and laugh, I don’t answer the last question, but my body tightens at the memory of his thick length.
I haven’t even considered an affair. But if I were to pick a man to do it with - that stranger, with his sharp, strong jaw, his full pink lips and the quiet, calm strength he exuded from every single part of his incredible body – would fit the bill.
My thighs clench at the thought of having that big, muscular body between my thighs. I haven’t had a man like him, ever.
My phone buzzes with a text and I look down. “It’s Marcel,” I say and read his text.
“Why aren’t you answering my calls? This is ridiculous.”
I delete it.
Matty’s hand covers mine and squeezes. “Play it cool and don’t be obvious, but the guy from the shuttle is here and he’s watching you,” Matty says under her breath.
I look up and pretend I’m looking around until I see him.
He doesn’t look away when he sees me notice him. I smile and wave.
After a beat, a smile tugs up one corner of his mouth and he waves back.
Matty nudges me “Go! Take him back to your room. Have fun.”
Why not?
It’s been a long time since I’ve wanted anyone, much less been able to act on it. And this is the perfect place. He doesn’t know me. I don’t know him. And there’s no denying the chemistry…
My phone buzzes again. I look down and frown when I see my mother’s name. Her timing is impeccable, as always. I turn away from Mr. Hot God, stand up and walk to a quieter section of the restaurant before I answer.
“Mommy?” My stomach lightens and my heart skips a beat when I hear my son’s teary voice.
“Henri, what’s wrong honey?”
“Where are you?” His little voice sounds so far away and yet I’m sure that if I closed my eyes I could reach out and touch him.
“Didn’t you get my letter today, baby?” I left each of them a note for every day I’m gone. My mother called it overkill, but it’s the first time I’ve been away for this long without them…and so soon after I went to visit Jack.
“Yeah, I did. But you didn’t say where you are,” he complains.
“I’m saying bye to a friend,” I remind him, gently.
“You can do that on the phone. I want you to come home.” I stiffen at his demanding, petulant tone. He sounds so much like his father. In fact, I’m sure he’s repeating something he’s heard his father say.
I keep my voice even and free of my internal irritation. “Of course, I miss you. And I’ll be home soon, Henri. Aren’t you having fun with your grandmother?”
“Not at all,” he declares, and I can just picture his frowning pink-lipped pout. “Uncle Tyson took us to Truluck’s again. He knows they don’t have a kid’s menu and he eats all this raw, slimy stuff. And he wouldn’t speak French with Martinez and that made Eva mad. Nana can’t work any of the TVs and she makes us practice our handwriting every day. I want you to come home.” He’s out of breath and fully in the grip of his misery when he’s done listing his grievances.
“I’ll come home early,” is on the tip of my tongue. But it’s stilled by the promise I made to myself that guilt over being away from my kids wouldn’t intrude on this trip.
I miss them, but I need this time to myself desperately. “I’ll talk to your grandmother about your handwriting, and I’ll be home on Sunday afternoon. We’ll spend the whole day together,” I promise.
“Will Uncle Remi be back soon, too?”
“I think so,” I say and pray I’m righ
t. Remi has done this before - taking off without a word. But never for this long. My kids love him more than just about anyone else. He’s more present in their lives than their father and his extended absence has been felt keenly by them. Especially by Eva.
“Where’s your grandmother and does she know you’re using her phone??”
“She’s in the bath. Eva stressed her out, so she needed to relax.” He affects my mother’s voice and I chuckle. He’s an excellent mimic. I normally chastise him for his impersonations - I don’t want him poking fun at people. But he’s so spot on and it’s more of an homage than a mimic and his answering giggle feels like a perfect place to say goodbye. “Alright, honey, I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
“Wait, can you help me turn on Paw Patrol, first? Evie’s locked in her room and she’s got that keep out sign on her door.”
My ten-year-old is on the cusp of tweenhood and her patience for her twin brothers’ antics is virtually non-existent, and the last thing I want is to be refereeing fights over the phone. “Of course, darling, but let me go somewhere quiet and I’ll call you back.” With a sigh of longing and one last look across the pool, I head inside.
Chapter 12
Chasing Venus
Stone
The view of the horizon from my poolside table is breathtaking. That kiss of sea and sky is a siren song extolling the vast and limitless adventures I’ve yet to take. Proximity to water is the thing I miss most living in Pamplona. It’s a stunning town set deep in the valley of a mountain range in Eastern Colombia called Valle del Espiritu Santo. It’s a humble, charming community that settled in the 16th century. It bustles with commerce by day and vibrates with revelry by night.
But the excellent food, the welcoming people, and the endless promise of adventure that can be found within a day’s drive of the city, can’t compare to the crash of waves and the cool, constant breeze that wafts over me like a Sea of Cortez’s sigh of contentment. This water is always where I find equilibrium. I could stay here forever.
The Rivals Page 74