by Tawna Fenske
“Just last week, I signed the title on eight acres west of Denver.” He smiles and a flush of pride moves through me. Building a rustic resort in Colorado has been on his bucket list forever, and I’m thrilled I’ll be by his side as he makes that dream come true. “As part of that project, we’re building a new a state-of-the-art performing arts center.”
This part is news to me, but okay. It sounds amazing, and I can’t wait to hear more. But come on, let’s get this show started.
Nick meets my eye like he’s psyching himself up for something. I offer an encouraging smile as he takes a deep breath. “Right now,” he says, “I would like to formally ask Laurence Judson to m—”
“Yes, I’ll marry you!”
Oh, shit.
All the blood drains from my head as I realize what he’s just said.
Laurence Judson?
My humiliated heart claws for explanation. Like maybe he’s seeking my father’s blessing, even though it’s patriarchal and outdated and—oh, God now my dad is striding toward the platform.
But everyone’s staring at me.
Everyone.
Literally, everyone.
Shame rushes icy and bitter through my veins as I square my shoulders and refuse to fucking cry. Refuse to meet anyone’s eyes as my throat squeezes tight and all those eyeballs drill into me. Disgrace tastes bitter on the back of my tongue, and it’s all I can do to stay upright, to balance on these mile-high heels and hold my head up as I quietly die inside.
How could you be so stupid?
My father grabs the mic and launches into a speech about the new Laurence Judson Performing Arts Center and his business venture with Nick. Surprise! They’ve kept it under wraps for weeks because—honestly, I stop listening because my ears are buzzing with the heat of humiliation. I fix my eyes on a potted plant in the corner, blinking back waves of embarrassment.
Do not cry. Do not cry.
My mother steps into my line of sight, her face filled with pity and concern and the tiniest hint of I-told-you-so. She’d never say it out loud.
She doesn’t have to.
Nick’s talking again, explaining how he plans to move to Denver for a year to oversee the project personally. Moving, for God’s sake. The opposite of proposing.
And the fact that he never mentioned it, never said a word to me about relocating to Denver…well, I think it’s safe to assume I’m not part of his plan.
I tilt my chin up and keep my eyes on my dad. Nick’s wrapping up his speech and I applaud so hard my hands sting. Now Dad’s saying something and oh my God is this almost over?
And then, it is.
And then, the man of my dreams is walking toward me.
I swallow hard and try to force my face into a smile. My mouth won’t cooperate, so I settle for balling my hands into fists and fixing him with a shark stare. Flat-eyed, no emotion. It’s what I do best.
Nick stops dead in his tracks. “Hey, Lauren.” He drags a hand over his head the way he does when he’s not sure what to say. “Uh—so I guess I should have warned you about that. About—well—”
“Moving a thousand miles away? Planning a project with my dad?” My voice sounds cool and calm, which surprises me. “That’s your business, isn’t it?”
Nick looks unsure for the first time I’ve known him. “You want go somewhere and talk?”
“About what?” I sound like an idiot, but I can’t help it. Maybe we can pretend this didn’t happen. Maybe we can go back to—
“I think maybe we’re on different pages, Lo.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, the distance between us a big, gaping hole. “Uh, marriage and all. It’s not really where I’m at right now.”
Like that wasn’t fucking obvious. “It’s fine. Everything’s fine.”
Everything is not fine, which he can clearly tell from my tone. Nick looks unsure for possibly the first time since I’ve known him.
“Look, uh—I’m gonna be gone a while on this project.” He pauses, choosing his words with care. “I assumed since you’re starting that new film, you’d be glad about having time to yourself.”
If there was any doubt Nick and I are on different pages, he just snatched the book and lit the damn thing on fire. I take a deep breath, insides quivering from the effort of keeping emotions in check. “Of course.”
Good God, I need to get out of here. I need this conversation to be over so I can run to the bathroom and sob like a pathetic little girl.
But Nick’s still talking, still hammering nails into my heart. “You’re amazing, Lo. It’s not about that. It’s just—”
“Let’s call it quits.”
Nick blinks. “What?”
At least he’s not misunderstanding. He knows I’m not talking about heading home to watch Netflix in our PJs with a bag of Ruffles. He hears what I’m saying.
My palms feel sticky and I can’t get enough air because my heart bangs against my ribs like it’s fighting to get out.
But I slam the door on that motherfucker and look Nick square in the eye. “We need to split up.”
***
Chapter 2
CONFESSIONAL 628.5
Walsh, Griffin (Head Brewer: Juniper Ridge)
This here is the 7BBL hybrid brewhouse system. The mash tun has a 315-gallon capacity with a front manway and variable speed mash rake. Over here is the boil kettle, and—Divorce? How do I feel about my divorce? [scowls] What the hell does that have to do with—right, yeah, I get it. [drags hand down face].
Uh, so, I mean…marriage is like a good wheat ale. You’ve gotta have the right ingredients and steep ‘em for a precise length of time before bringing it to a boil and then—[unintelligible muttering]
Can we just talk about my new hazy IPA?
“So that’s about it for the tour.” I stop in front of the brand-new boil kettle, trying to recall if I’ve forgotten anything. My right hand floats up like a helium balloon, but I stop myself and shove it in my pocket. The last thing we need is another filming break while they stop to fix my hair because I’ve dragged my damn fingers through it for the hundredth time.
Why am I doing this again?
My daughter’s face floats through my mind, which is all the answer I need. As my chest squeezes tight, I scan the assembled group.
“Any questions?”
I survey the cluster of new-hires like me. A hairdresser from Mississippi, a banker from back east somewhere, even a cop who grew up here in rural Oregon.
No one raises a hand. Gabe starts to lower the camera, but Lauren’s not done yet. “Tell us about the challenges blending different types of specialty grains for something like a German Dunkelweizen.” She folds her arms over her chest, the steel in her eyes making it clear she’s done her homework, and also that I’m wise to be a little afraid of the eldest Judson sister. “That’s the kind of B-roll we can use later when we’re layering in metaphors about relationships.”
I suck back the exasperated groan threatening to leak out. Also not a good look on camera, I’ve recently learned.
But I’m the jackass who signed up for this, so I give them what they want. “Wheat beers are the perfect marriage of wheat and barley. The wheat gives you that bright, summery element, while the proteins in the barley help create a long-lasting head.”
Gabe and Lauren exchange a private smile. I’ve pleased the show’s producers, so that’s a plus. It’s all I can do not to scan the room for Mari, which is dumb. The show’s shrink-in-chief has no reason to be on set, but that doesn’t stop me from hoping to catch a glimpse of her. We haven’t crossed paths since that awkward exchange in the boardroom, and I hate to admit I’m bummed about that.
“That’s a wrap.” Lauren nods to the lighting guy, who lowers the big glowing thing he’s gripping like a battle shield. “See you in the editing room in five.”
For a second, I think she means me, and I’m swallowing back waves of dread. But no, she’s talking to the show’s tech geeks, which means I’m off the hook. Stifling a sigh of
relief, I extract my hands from my pockets and move to check the new oxygenation system that arrived this morning.
The O2 tank seems a bit low, but the sterile filter is in good shape. I’m reading the label on the stainless-steel diffusion stones when a voice bounces off the wall beside me.
“Nice job there.” Mari Judson steps into my line of sight, her purse strap pressing a path between her breasts that I definitely do not notice. “Seems like you’re getting the hang of all this?”
I shrug and dust my hands on my jeans. “I’ve brewed about twelve zillion batches of beer in my lifetime. I could do this in my sleep.”
“I meant the production side of things.”
“Oh.” Hell. We’re destined to miscommunicate at every turn, which is a shame. Blame it on the golden warmth in her eyes, or the way she always looks like she’s staring right into my brain.
Scary thought, so I glance away. “Let me know if you want to try the new pale ale. We’re bottling it tonight.”
“Thank you.” Her smile is stiff and polite, which I’m taking to mean she’d rather gargle swamp water. “Actually, I came by to give you something.”
“Me?” I’m just dumb enough to think for a split second that she’s offering a kiss. Also dumb enough to think I’d accept, so it takes a second to regain my bearings. “What is it?”
She slides her hand into her bag and comes out with two paperbacks. “These books on adolescent psychology. This one with the white cover—it’s specifically about communication strategies for teenage girls. The other is more general. A focus on the difficulties and opportunities surrounding puberty, if you will.”
“I will.” My hand closes around the books, fingers brushing her knuckles and making me forget what the hell we’re talking about. “Read them, I mean. The books. I promise to read them.”
She smiles, and the bottom falls out of my stomach. “It’s not assigned homework or anything,” she says. “I just thought it might be useful after—after our conversation.”
Her cheeks flush pink, and I can see she’s about to apologize again, so I cut her off before she can bring up our awkward exchange. “Thanks.” I clear my throat and set the books on a bank of storage lockers. “Things are going better. With Sophie, I mean.”
“Good. Wonderful, I mean. That’s great.” She winces. “I really am sorry about—”
“Don’t.” I drag a hand through my hair. “Look, I probably owe you an apology. If I hadn’t been such a grumpy asshole, we’d have avoided the misunderstanding in the first place.”
She opens her mouth like she’s thinking about arguing, then presses her lips together. Her eyes search mine, and there’s a weird flutter in my belly. “Can I ask you something?”
I’m instantly on guard but feel myself nodding. “Sure.”
She pauses, choosing her words with care. “Are you uncomfortable around me? Or I should say therapy in general—is that something outside your comfort zone?”
I hesitate. I made no secret of my divorced status when the Judsons interviewed me to join the show, but I’m sensing Mari wants more.
For some reason, I feel like giving it to her. “My divorce was—ugly.” That’s a fucking understatement. “My wife—my ex-wife—was seeing a therapist for a while before she asked for a divorce. I guess you could say the request took me by surprise.”
Again with the understatement. I still see Gabby’s face in my mind, her green eyes filled with tears.
“I never realized before how unhappy I’ve become.”
Mari’s eyes search mine, and I could swear she hears that same echo of my ex-wife’s voice. “I see,” she says softly. “And you think she wouldn’t have asked for a divorce without the therapist’s involvement?”
I grit my teeth, reminding myself to tread carefully. “I don’t think the shrink put her up to it, if that’s what you’re asking. But I’m not sure she’d have reached that decision on her own.”
Mari nods, and I try not to get lost in her eyes. “That sounds very painful.”
“Yeah, well…” I trail off there, not wanting to get into it. “We also did couples’ therapy after that. Let’s just say it didn’t go great.”
Mari’s expression is one of solemn sympathy, and I wonder if they teach that in shrink school. “Couples’ counseling is typically about either saying hello or saying goodbye,” she says. “People often come to the process when they’re past the point of achieving the former.”
“Yeah. I guess that was it.”
I still remember Gabby sitting there like a statue, her mind made up. I knew by then she was just going through the motions, and I wished like hell the shrink would snap her out of it. To say something, anything, to bring my wife back.
But that’s ancient history. I’m over it now. Moving on with my life and whatnot.
Mari’s still looking at me, her expectant expression suggesting she might squeeze my brain like a grapefruit to get more out of it. “It’s understandable that might leave a bad taste in your mouth,” she says.
I’m still stuck thinking about grapefruit, so my brain does a weird short-circuit and blurts the first thing flashing through it. “Citra.”
She blinks. “I beg your pardon?”
“Citra,” I repeat like a dumbass. “It’s—uh—one of my favorite hops with lots of grapefruit and tropical flavors. I keep thinking I smell it, which is weird since I’m not getting a hops shipment until tomorrow.”
Looking startled, Mari touches her hair. “Oh. Um, it might be my shampoo. It’s some sort of citrusy fragrance. I’m sorry it’s a little strong.”
“No, it’s great—I mean, you smell amazing.”
Oh, God. Kill me now.
I’m sniffing the pretty shrink like some pervert, but she just smiles like she’s used to random strangers smelling her. “Thank you. And kudos to you for wanting a better life for you and your daughter. Being a single dad isn’t easy. It’s great you’re looking for ways to improve communication.”
“Thanks.” My shoulders relax as I recognize the olive branch. Talking about Sophie feels way safer than talking about my ex-wife or the smell of the sexy psychologist’s hair. “My kid’s amazing, so that helps.”
Like I’ve cued her to take the stage, my daughter bangs through a side door. Sophie’s wheat-colored hair is curly today, framing her face in wisps that remind me of the family photos we took on her fifth birthday. Her T-shirt is black instead of the pink daisy one she wore back then, and there’s black goop around her eyes that makes her look like an angry raccoon.
I bite my tongue, deciding to pick my battles. It’s not every day my kid comes to visit me at work.
“Hey, baby.” I hold open my arms, surprised when she launches herself into them like she’s waited all day for this hug. “How was school?”
“Good. I got invited to a sleepover and Mrs. Gibson is making us write a paper on Ivan Pavlov, so that’s lame. But he did do cool stuff with the dogs, so maybe it’s okay.”
This is about a dozen more words than she’s uttered to me in weeks, and I fight the urge to do a fist-pump. I dare a glimpse at Mari, whose face glows with an encouraging smile.
“Hello, Sophie.” She holds out her hand, and my kid blinks at it a moment before extending her own hand to shake. “I’m Marilyn Judson. Mari. We met at orientation?”
Sophie cocks her head and studies Mari. “You’re the shrink. Psychologist, I mean.”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Cool.” My daughter’s grin is almost bashful as she glances at me. “I was thinking about being a psychologist. Maybe a teacher, but my mom says shrinks make a lot of money.”
Hearing my ex-wife dragged into the conversation sinks my mood like a steel-wrapped brick, and I try to figure out a way to reroute things.
Mari’s way ahead of me. “Great job being open-minded about your future career,” she says. “When I was your age, I wanted to be a race car driver.”
“No kidding?” Sophie brushes he
r hair off her forehead and scuffs a sneaker over the floor. “If your name’s Marilyn, how come you pronounce it ‘mar-ee’ like it rhymes with…I don’t know—car pee?” My kid’s brow furrows as she replays the words in her head and finds them lacking. “I mean—”
“Yeah, that’s a good question.” I step in to save Sophie so she doesn’t keep twisting in the wind. “Seems like you’d go with ‘Mary’ if you just wanted to shorten things.”
The faintest cloud passes over Mari’s face, which seems odd. Her eyes flick quickly to Lauren, who’s over in the corner bossing the lighting guy. “I—well—” She clears her throat. “I’d been a clinical psychologist for a few years, not really part of the whole Hollywood scene like the rest of my family.” Her throat moves as she swallows, and I wonder what she’s glossing over. “When I started doing more TV appearances, the producers wanted something with a bit more pizazz.”
“Sexier,” I offer, then cringe. Why the hell did I say that in front of my kid? Or to a professional woman, for that matter. I open my mouth to apologize, but Mari bursts out laughing.
“Yes,” she says, swiping a curl off her forehead. “That’s it exactly. Names like ‘Lauren’ or ‘Lana’ just roll off the tongue, but ‘Marilyn’ and ‘Mary’ lack the same zing.” There’s that cloud again, drifting across her smile to drag down the edges of it. “Anyway, we settled on ‘Mari’ as a hat tip to the Latin word—mare—for sea, or Spanish—that’s mar. The producers thought it might resonate better with Latinx viewers, plus I liked it, so—” She shrugs, a gesture I suspect hides more than self-consciousness about her nickname. “What about you?” she asks. “Do you prefer Sophia or Sophie or—”
“Soph.” She slips me a side-eye, challenging me to point out this is the first time she’s asked to be called this. “Some girls at school said Soph sounds more sophisticated.”
My chest tightens at the thought of my little girl wanting to be sophisticated. Wasn’t it last week she wanted to be a hippopotamus?
Or maybe that’s when she was four. I’m not sure when time started moving so fast, but possibly the day I held my new baby girl in my arms and saw her first sweet, toothless smile.
