“Well,” she said, shooting her husband a look. “We knew each other through a friend. We didn’t start dating until they broke up and we ran into each other at a concert a year later.”
“Um … are you still friends with her?”
“Dani? No. She didn’t want anything to do with me when she found out.”
Darius cleared his throat while Jolene downed her wine. So much back story I was missing. Dani … Danielle? Dannika? Daniella? I wanted to be able to go home and look her up.
“Well, I guess it all worked out in the end,” I said. “You two are together, and I’d say that trumps friendship, yeah?”
Darius raised his glass to that. Then he leaned forward and said, “I would have left her for Jo five years sooner, but it took a little Hootie and three beers to throw me some courage.”
Jolene slapped him playfully on the arm. “You call staring at me all night courage?” She laughed.
“Yes, you’re really aggressive. I was taking a risk. Besides, you didn’t hesitate when I asked you to lunch.”
“Yes, because it was lunch,” she said. “Lunch is not a date, it’s just two acquaintances catching up. That was your winning move. If you’d asked me to dinner I would have said no.”
Darius clutched his heart like he was hurt.
I’d read somewhere that women who were unhappy in their marriage started noticing the males closest in proximity first—a friend’s husband, a personal trainer, a coworker. When their happiness failed, they fixated on the good qualities of other men, weighing the option that someone else could better meet their needs. During the hard times with George, I fixated on the FedEx guy, a muscular Topher Grace lookalike who always made small talk as I signed for my packages. He never wore a wedding band, and I always fantasized that he would ask me out for coffee one day. We’d meet up at Tin Pin and laugh about how slutty the girls dressed, averting our eyes, and also only having eyes for each other. I found out that his name was Tom, and I noticed that he always stepped aside on the sidewalk to let women pass. A real gentleman. And when he spoke to me he looked me in the eyes, something George hadn’t done in years. Then one day he stopped delivering my packages and was replaced by a dikey middle-aged blonde named Fern. After Tom it was a guy from the gym. We never spoke, but I could feel the tension from across the room as he ran six miles a day on the treadmill. He was as into me as I was into him. I started calling him gym husband in my head. One day I imagined we’d reach for the sani spray at the same time, and we’d laugh and start up a conversation. I’d leave George for him, and though it would be messy, in the end it would all be worth it.
“Fig?”
“What…? Huh?”
They were both looking at me. My bad. I needed to be more alert.
“Dinner,” Jolene said. “It’s ready.”
I followed them into the kitchen.
Tessa arrived with swollen eyes and a hopeful smile plastered to her face. It hurt my heart to know what he’d done to her. And for what? Some slut who hadn’t weathered the storms of life with him like Tessa had? Where was the loyalty? Where were the vows? We’d stalked the little slut online, traded pictures back and forth saying the things that always came with cheating: How could he? And, she’s not even as pretty as you. Do you think he’s bored with me? No, he’s just a pig. Men do these things because it makes them feel big.
I hated him, but I couldn’t say too much. I was careful.
“You’ve lost so much weight!” she said, once we were in the car. “You look great, Figgy.”
I wanted to tell her that she had too, but it seemed more like a reminder than a compliment, so I kept my mouth shut.
“Will I get to meet your new friends? The neighbors you keep talking about?”
“Yes! They want to meet you too,” I told her. I reached out and squeezed her knee. “Whatever you want to do. I want you to see my city. I thought maybe dinner in the Space Needle.”
She nodded. “I’d love that.”
Despite our plans for fun, Tessa spent most of the next three days on the phone with Mike, the big, fat cheater. On the first night I think she woke up half the neighborhood with her screaming. I stumbled out of bed, glancing at the clock. It was three AM. I found her in the living room, pacing around like a wild woman, a bottle of vodka in her hand. I spent the next two hours consoling her on the couch, while she cried into my lap saying how much she loved him. The future was sealed: my sister would return to the cheater. A woman’s heart was an awful curse. She’d take him back, but probably remind him of his failure for the rest of his life. That was the nature of forgiveness. It came with a price.
“I know how you feel about George,” she said softly, as I stroked her hair. “I’ve felt it myself with Mike—the frustration and desperation. But, it’s not that easy to leave. You can’t judge me. George may not have cheated, but you know it’s hard to leave, no matter what.”
I nodded and squeezed her harder, but I didn’t agree. George had felt like prison right from the start. I made the best of it, but desperately wanted a way out. Tessa had a clear-cut path to freedom. People would judge her less harshly if she left her cheating husband. It was never that easy for me. The situation with George had been—was—different. He was dead inside, but he’d never really done anything wrong.
On her last night I kept my promise and took her to the Space Needle for dinner. For once her phone was away and she was smiling. Mike had sent flowers to the house that morning, two-dozen red roses. Once she saw them, the watery look in her eyes disappeared and she had a new resolve about her. We wandered around the large gift shop before it was our time to ride the elevator upstairs, touching sweatshirts, and shaking snow globes, laughing and being sisters. Tessa saw me eyeing the metal replica of the Space Needle that I’d seen in Jolene’s house.
“You should get it,” she said. “It would look good in your new, fabulous house.”
I bit my lip, undecided. It was pricey. But, I wanted it.
“I can’t,” I said. “New house responsibilities.”
Before I could protest, she snatched it from the shelf.
“I want to get it for you,” she said. “For hosting your annoying little sister.”
“Okay.” I smiled, excited. I knew exactly where I’d put it.
When Tessa and I got home after dinner, there were at least a dozen boxes waiting on my doorstep.
“I went a little overboard,” I said, guiltily.
“Nonsense,” she said. “You went a little Tessa.”
We laughed and carried them inside. I unwrapped my Space Needle first, setting it on the mantel above the fireplace. Then together we unpacked my new teal living room on my kitchen floor, passing a bottle of Prosecco back and forth. Yes, this was me. This was who I was now.
She was sitting on the back stairs smoking a cigarette, elbows on knees, and her hair in disarray. I didn’t know she smoked and I’d never smelled it on her. Mercy was nowhere to be seen—in bed probably. The house was mostly dark except for the pantry light, which I could see was on through the kitchen window. I debated walking around the front of the house and knocking on the door, but chances were she wouldn’t hear the knock, and I didn’t want to wake Mercy with the doorbell. I decided to try the garden gate. Blackberry vines covered it. The thorns stung my hand as I pushed them aside to reach the latch. I knew she saw me when I shoved it open and walked through to their yard, but she didn’t smile or acknowledge I was there. A chill ran through me.
“Jolene?” I said, tentatively. “Are you all right?”’
No response. I took a few more steps forward. I could smell her cigarette now, stale and strong. Cigarettes gave me terrible headaches.
“Jolene…” I said again, now a mere three steps away. Her eyes moved from the ground to my face where she suddenly looked surprised to see me.
“Fig, you scared the living shit out of me,” she said, rubbing her fingers across her forehead.
“Why are you back here?” I a
sked. “Where’s Mercy and Darius?”
Jolene waved away my question, sending a cloud of smoke my way.
“Darius took her to his mother’s for the weekend. She lives in Olympia.”
“Oh,” I said, sitting down next to her. “Why didn’t you go with?”
“Because his mother is a cunt.”
“Oh,” I said, again. “What does Darius think about you not going?”
She stubbed her cigarette out on the concrete and looked at me, her eyes bloodshot.
“Does it matter?”
I had a million things to say about that, like—yes, it does matter. And—marriage takes compromise. And—when you get married to someone, you marry their whole family. But something told me my opinion wouldn’t matter tonight. Or maybe ever.
“Did you have a fight?” I asked her. “Is that why…”
“-Why I’m drinking and smoking?” she finished. “No, Fig. I actually do these things every once in a while and it doesn’t have anything to do with Darius and me having a fight.”
I felt stung. Chided like a small child.
“I’ll just leave you be then,” I said, standing up. Her eyes suddenly softened and she grabbed my hand.
“I’m sorry. Here,” she said, lighting up a cigarette and handing it to me. It was thin and long, something I imagined Cruella de Vil smoking. I wanted to tell her I didn’t smoke, but it seemed like a peace offering, and I wanted to hear if she had anything worthwhile to say. She lit up another of her own and placed it between her very red lips. Had she gone out? I hadn’t seen her car leave. She was wearing ripped black jeans and black boots. I suppose if you were the emo type or one of those suicide girls, you’d leave the house looking like that. I took a puff of the cigarette and immediately started coughing. Nasty.
“I want to be a good friend to you,” I said, suddenly. “It’s not always easy to talk to your everyday friends about things—they land up judging you and then things get awkward.”
She looked at me with interest now, so I kept going. “But, if you had a neighbor, someone neutral to bounce things off of—or maybe just to vent to—that would be perfect.”
Her stony face dissolved, and she readjusted the cigarette between my fingers so I was holding it the right way. I took another drag and this time I didn’t cough up a lung. It made me feel lightheaded.
“I love Darius,” she said. “We chose each other.”
I waited for her to say more, but when she didn’t, I started fidgeting with my cigarette until I burned my hand. I sucked on my knuckle, wondering if we’d sit here all night in silence, or if I should say something else.
“Is there a but to that statement?” I asked, after a while.
“No,” she said. And then, “I’m not good at monogamy.”
My heart rate sped up. Was she confessing something to me? Was I supposed to press or just let her speak? I decided to tell her something I heard on the radio.
“Humans are monogamous creatures. We stray when our happiness is threatened. Happiness is tied to survival. We feel as if we are failing if we aren’t happy, especially when we open any social media panel and see our friends hashtagging all the good things in their lives. It’s all fake. We are all more in limbo than we are happy.”
She stubbed out her cigarette and pivoted her body to face me. “He does everything right. He’s the best father, he lets me be me. He’s kind and gentle and spends his life helping other people be healthy humans.”
“Is there someone else?” My voice was low and conspiratorial. It reminded me of high school, how girls always had their heads together discussing the various dramatic happenings of their lives.
“No … not really…” Her voice dropped off and I knew there was something she wasn’t telling me. I decided to change tactics.
“Did you go somewhere tonight? You’re dressed up,” I said, pointing at her boots.
“Yes,” she said, lighting her third cigarette.
I shifted my butt around on the stair, starting to feel numb. I didn’t have as much cushioning as I did before.
“Do you not trust me, is that why you’re giving me one word answers?” I tried to look as wounded as possible, which I sort of was anyway. I’d not given her any reason to doubt me.
“I don’t trust anyone, Fig. Not even myself.” She sighed, stubbing out her cigarette before she had a chance to smoke it. “Come on,” she said, standing up. I watched her dust off the back of her jeans and walk through the door into the kitchen before I stood up and followed her. She was making tea, setting out the mugs and sugar cubes. She didn’t bother to turn on the light, choosing instead to fumble around in the dark.
“I saw an old friend today,” she said, setting down a mug of tea in front of me. “From college, actually. He was in town visiting his best friend and invited me to have dinner with them.”
“Oh?” I said, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Did … something happen?”
She waved away my question, furrowing her brow. “No, nothing like that. It was lovely to see him after all this time, you know? I think I’m having some sort of young and free college nostalgia.”
“Are you attracted to him?”
She paused. “I’d be lying if I said no. He’s very attractive.”
“Is that why Darius took Mercy to his parents? Was he upset that you went?”
She appeared to grow uncomfortable at my question.
“He didn’t like it. But, we have an agreement. He doesn’t try to change me; I don’t try to change him. I’m not that girl who locks herself up after she’s married. If a friend comes into town, I see my friend. End of story.”
I imagined she’d said those very words to him.
“You shouldn’t have to change,” I said. “He married you for who you are. When you start changing little things, the big things change, too.”
“Exactly,” she said. “That’s exactly right.”
I felt excited. I was speaking her language and she was trusting me a little more with each sentence we exchanged.
“A relationship should have complete trust. If he truly knows who you are then he should feel comfortable with you having dinner with an old friend.”
“Thanks, Fig. I needed to hear that.”
“The guy you had dinner with … did you ever…?”
She was shaking her head before I’d even finished.
“No, nothing like that. We barely know each other. In college we ran in separate groups. We connected more after we graduated. Checked in every year or so on Facebook. It’s a loose friendship.”
“Then why in the world would it make you question if you were monogamous?”
Her hand stilled over her mug of tea. She didn’t look at me, but even in the near dark I could see the muscles working in her jaw. She was into this guy. No matter what she said. Or maybe she just wasn’t into Darius anymore. She was constantly complaining about how little he was around. She didn’t know how lucky she was. Darius worked hard, and it wasn’t like he was working some shallow, soul-sucking job. He was helping people. She should feel proud of that.
“It’s getting late,” she said, moving her mug over to the sink. “I think I need to go to bed.”
“Of course.” I stood up. I made my way over to the back door as she rinsed the mugs, her head down.
“Will they be back tomorrow?” I asked.
“What?” She looked surprised that I was still there.
“Mercy and Darius…”
“I don’t know. Goodnight, Fig.”
I was disoriented for a second, not knowing which direction to walk to get to the gate. Did she just dismiss me after I spent an hour sympathizing with her? I was worried about her. I came over to see if she was all right, and all she did was dismiss me in the end. That’s exactly the type of friend she was. And why was I surprised? She’d stolen her friend’s boyfriend, after all. My last thought as I climbed into bed, exhausted and smelling of cigarettes, was about Darius and Mercy. They
deserved better.
I did not see the Averys for two whole weeks. That’s a lie. I saw them getting into Darius’s car on Sunday, a chipper happy family, Jolene carrying a casserole dish. And on Monday, I saw them out the back window eating dinner around the picnic table in the garden, Darius and Mercy sword fighting with corn on the cob, and Jolene laughing and taking pictures. And on Wednesday, I saw them taking a walk, holding Mercy’s hands and swinging her between them every few steps. On Thursday, Darius brought a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of red wine home, and later that night I heard them making love through their open bedroom window. Friday, I didn’t see them at all.
I drew my curtains and lay in the dark, listening to Barbra Streisand sing “Woman in Love” and feeling lower than I had in a long time. What was I upset about anyway? Jolene’s dismissive attitude? Darius not seeking me out or inviting me over for dinner? Or was it because it had been two weeks since I’d seen my little Mercy? I was about to roll over and order a pizza when a text pinged on my phone. My heart started racing as soon as I saw her name. Well, speak of the devil, I thought smugly, typing in the password to my phone.
He texted me.
It took me a minute to figure out who he was. Ding! Ding! Ding!
Who texted you? I sent back, playing dumb.
Ryan, the guy I met up with a few weeks ago.
“Ryan,” I said it out loud. We now had a name.
Well, what took him so long? I asked. Then, thinking I needed to add something to keep things light, I added a smiley face emoji.
He sent me a couple songs he likes, said he hopes they help me write.
I could feel her panic through the phone. She obviously wanted perspective on what this Ryan guy was doing. I immediately looked him up on Instagram, searching through the people she followed to find him. He was vastly different from Darius; edgy, with one of those hairstyles that was shaved on the sides, leaving a long strip of hair down the middle of his head. He had tattoos and he liked to wear purple. He matched her, sort of like the way I matched Darius. Most of his posts were of nature, or the downtown area of wherever he lived, with the occasional serious-faced selfie thrown in.
Bad Mommy Page 7
