by C. Spencer
“We’ll celebrate,” I say.
“We’re already hitting Franco’s after work.”
“Franco’s?” I say. “Who is?”
“Sebastien, Anni. A few others.”
“Not what’s her name,” I say. “Darcey, was it?”
“How do you remember that?”
As I round a corner, blasted by a gust of wind and thinking, I remember everything.
“They’ve invited our entire office,” she says. “Not sure who actually plans to go.”
“Have you called yet about Labor Day?” I say, hopping a curb.
“I plan to.”
“You plan to? We’re getting tight on time,” I say. “I should let them know, either way. Just say yes.”
“Maybe.”
“God, I’m sorry,” I say. “Un momento. Could I get a grilled flatbread, please, with feta to go?”
“Shit. That’s my weekend.”
“Swap,” I say. “Add a root beer seltzer. Yes, please.”
“That would require—”
“I know, I know,” I say. “It would require speaking to Aline.”
“Can’t this wait?” Madisen says.
“I’m happy to call her for you,” I say. “Just tell her we’ll take two weekends in a row in exchange for this huge favor she’s about to offer. Yes, to go, please.”
“I forgot to tell you—,” she says.
“I love you, too,” I say.
“Not that. I mean, yes that. God, now I can’t think. Let me shut the door.” And this right here would be why I rarely go for takeout—$17.50 is ludicrous for a sandwich and flavored water. “She called me the other day.”
“Who…Aline?” I say. “Then why didn’t you ask her?”
“I couldn’t exactly work it in,” she says. “The thing is, she and her girlfriend, you know, they apparently split up.”
“The one she left you for?”
“Yes.”
“So what are you telling me?”
“Just that she called, and you know, she’s torn up. That’s all. I’m trying to be reasonable. Accommodating. Supportive. And no, not what you’re thinking. I’m just trying to shelve the obvious for a while. Does that make any sense?”
“Why?”
“You know,” she says.
“I can’t say that I do.”
“Trust me on this, all right? But your meeting went well?”
“I’m charming,” I say.
“I already knew that. Let’s celebrate when you get home. Just the two of us.”
“It’s not a big deal,” I say. “So what are you afraid of?”
“I shouldn’t have brought this up,” she says.
“What, that your ex might want you back?” I say. “As if I should care.”
“Exactly.”
“Should I?”
Laughing. “She doesn’t,” I hear. “Come by?”
“I’m not back until really late,” I say.
“I’ll wait up.”
“No, you won’t.”
“I can try,” she says.
But she won’t. And at some point after our good-bye, after gazing at porcelain and stoneware and kilns and paint-splattered sinks for hours, filling up I don’t know how many memory cards with a thousand shots, I merge back onto the highway and dodge sun glare for a few more hours while juggling another overpriced sandwich against the wheel accompanied by my in-progress audiobook, which I’ve all but saved for this exact commute.
I’ll have to postpone this call with Avery for another day, like tomorrow, because I don’t have the energy for that level of perk.
Simon & Schuster audio presents—
Skip.
Chapter Two—
Skip.
Chapter Six—
I mean, why would I assume things were good? That we were anything?
And why’d I put on all the pressure to call a clearly interested ex?
Perhaps there was a reason she didn’t want to.
Or perhaps, what I should be asking instead is what type of situation have I gotten myself into where Call your ex is even a conversation that we have?
And can I just say, it’s not what she said that bothers me: Don’t think things. Because what should I be thinking? I wasn’t thinking anything until she said that.
Now I’m wondering what they had to talk about. And why they felt the need to talk about any of it. And doesn’t Aline have someone else she can call? And why would Madisen care?
And when was this? Today, yesterday, last week? I think that matters. The length of time matters. Because why didn’t she tell me?
Just stop, really—she told me. She waited. So what? I would’ve waited. I’m getting way too strung out about this.
Chapter Seven—
And I’ve missed this entire chapter over it.
Rewind.
Chapter Six—
It’s been an unusual day, that’s all. A long-drawn-out and exhausting day, which could be why I’m reading so far between the lines.
Either that or…I don’t know. What bothers me the most, I think, is being compartmentalized, separated, removed from her other life, her Jordan. Her Aline. Her everything. The nonweekend part.
It’s seedy, don’t you think?
This has been a presentation of Simon & Schuster audio.
When I pull back into town, the dash illuminates in its blue and I catch that hint of fertilized farmland. Red traffic lights flare against a blackening skyline.
I’m exhausted, as is she, slow as we make our way up tall stairs and tuck under the duvet. Listening to the sound of crickets. Amid air that settles with its damp chill, it’s unusual calm, stillness.
She weaves her fingers into mine, my arm weighing around her waist, then slipping beneath her shirt. And just knowing she’s here, feeling her hips at mine, the sound of her breath like this—it’s all I’ve ever really needed to feel okay, centered, as if none of the rest even matters. As she falls asleep.
But I don’t.
My mind won’t sit. It won’t silence. Instead it’s everyplace I don’t want it to be as I gaze across the room at the clock advancing through another entire hour of her tossing, her turning, her sound asleep. Until I can’t even take it anymore. So I roll over to stare at the door instead.
Because why, why can’t I let this go?
Chapter Eighteen
Unhappy Anniversary
Madisen
After a week that could only be described as professionally fulfilling yet personally problematic, this right here had been out of mind. That is, our no longer relevant wedding anniversary. That’s not to say I wasn’t reminded of it thirty days back thanks to those automated alerts that sync across my many gadgets—alarms set years ago to help in planning some sort of dreamy indulgence, something not cliché, anything that might somehow one-up what I surprised her with the year before.
And so much good that did. Because happy anniversary.
Still the fact that it’s August 16 isn’t the reason Aline and I are sitting across from one another small-talking like old friends over a couple of chocolate chip scones that she happened to grab fresh from the drive-through bakery. It’s also not the reason Jordan’s now upstairs in her room laughing along with her television as she unpacks an overnight bag and fuels herself with the Egg McMuffin she chose instead.
It’s simply a favor. Aline was out, and it would be easier and could save me a trip to her place. In other words, it’s procedural, practical, routine even. It’s what people do. It’s how co-parents co-parent. I’m not so arrogant to read into her impromptu call the other night, which might’ve overlapped my own moment of…well, reminiscing. The thing is, she isn’t pining to get me back. Let’s be real. Why would she be?
So why do I feel so guarded?
“Four foot four,” she’s telling me.
“And that’s—?”
“Average,” she says, “or just slightly taller—according to her doctor’s charts.”
/>
“So she takes after you,” I say.
“Let’s hope not,” she says. But taking after Aline wouldn’t be so bad. Jordan already has that wry sense of humor, doesn’t she? Her vocal fry, those middle-class mannerisms. Those lips, full and round but not plump. Sadly I keep catching myself admiring them. But I’m not quite sure why.
“How’ve you been?” she says as the sun catches her gaze. “Aside from the obvious—work.”
“Needing a vacation,” I say, “which can take some finagling.”
“Time off, as in home or—”
“That all depends. I had my sights set on Labor Day. Who knows? Maybe a trip up the coast,” I add, shrugging it off with “I don’t know,” and I take in her posture, upright, standoffish, a haze of light now harsh across her face, almost blinding, which must be those clouds parting, the glare only making her light-colored eyes that much more transparent. She squints, then it passes. “The kid would love that.”
The kid, I think. What do I even say? “The thing is,” I add as she breaks off a piece of pastry and pauses. “I don’t know. What would you think if we, maybe, swapped next weekend for the one after that?”
“Oh? You’d rather go alone?” she says.
Then I glance up as she gazes away, and I get a better view, that comfort, her ease in this space, her space, that self-assurance in this low button-down, her long legs crossed in a pair of slack-fitting shorts with sneakers, no socks. I glance to where her knee crosses the other and then back up to her lips again, though I’m trying not to. And I sense her doing the same as I glance away, her gaze wandering all over me. Until I hear, “This is so strange. Seeing you today.”
“I can’t say that it’s not…difficult.”
“Yeah. But it feels ordinary,” she says. “Don’t you think? And at the same time—”
As my lungs swell. To be honest, I’m not exactly sure how to take this. But I could finish her sentence in a million different ways. Uneasy, maybe. Final. Sad. Maddening? And I pinch a few crumbs off my finger since I don’t really know how I should respond, shifting in my seat instead as I blurt out something foolish. “It’s a nice day.” A diversion, I guess.
Then she says, “I keep thinking about…things, you know?”
And I’m lifting my mug to hide my reaction. “That can’t be good.”
“Not like that,” she says. And it’s just a joke. But it’s not as if I meant it that way—the way she’s taken it. I meant it the normal way. But I’m fine with her interpretation. So I let it slide. “Where to?” she says.
“Just the coast. I’m not sure yet.”
And the next time I feel her gaze, it’s so heavy. “I’ve missed you.”
But why did she have to say that? Couldn’t we go back to pediatricians and small talk? Then it dawns on me—why does this now feel a touch entitled? It didn’t before. Or maybe she hasn’t a clue what she’s doing or saying. She doesn’t care, really. She’s speaking off-the-cuff.
“Jordan’s awfully quiet up there,” I say. “I should go check on her.”
But she’s propped elbows on the table, bending across. I catch another trace of that scent, light citrus or herbal or something like that, summery. And I gaze along and up her forearm to that ringless knuckle now settling against her lips. “I don’t know what I was thinking,” she says.
“We can’t talk about it anymore,” I say. Because, what, it’s only now that she’s alone that she considers me? But even still, it’s hard not to feel anything at all. And at the same time, I hate the fact that I’m weak.
Because that’s exactly what I am as I catch her, fixed as much on me as I am on her. I’d forgotten this side of her, how she softens. How she moderates our conversation. “I don’t know how to apologize,” she says.
“I wouldn’t know how to accept,” I say. Because what if it isn’t a coincidence, nostalgia, this certain day on a certain morning like this? What if she really does, I don’t know, regret some of it?
Then again, what if I’m wrong?
I hate that I’m entertaining any of it. And next, Rae comes to mind.
As we finish what few bits we have left. I take a drink of coffee, room temperature now, not scalding like it had been when she came. I thank her for bringing it by, for stopping by. She nods, reclining against the chair with that jilted look in her eye. That silent sort of outburst she’s always been so good at. The silence that always makes me lean in, agree with her.
Observing how casual she seems about it all. As if this was hers. This place, that boxwood at the fence, me. I slide my empty plate to the edge to get it out of the way, daring to glance up. Afraid to, actually. Afraid of what I might feel if I do. And I’m trying to figure out if my heart’s still broken, or is it, instead, now aching for her.
Feeling that as much as she tried to take it all—the kid, our life, my every last tomorrow—the only real thing she took was my heart. Maybe that’s the worst part. It’s the only thing I couldn’t afford to lose. It’s the only thing I can’t seem to get past. That part of me that feels forever lost. The gap nothing and no one else could ever fill except her.
“Why is this so hard?” she says, extending a hand across the table as I draw back. And just then, I feel her ankle brush against mine. It settles me. I’m half relieved. It’s comforting.
“Isn’t this how it works?” I say. But this heaviness in my chest. Like I’m trying to breathe, but I’m holding on, holding it in—just so I won’t feel it.
But how long has she been looking at me like that?
As I try to read her.
Because maybe it means…who knows? There’s nowhere left for us to go. I’m just disappointed, that’s all. “Would you rather I leave?” she says, followed by a grin as the glow of sun shifts across her lips. I ponder it for a while, what she said. I think I enjoy having her here. I can’t say why. But, no, I don’t want her to go.
In time, though, this holding it in begins to crush my chest. I can’t want her, but of course I do. I always have. How do I turn it on and off and on again? Over and over. It’s not a switch. “I really should clean up,” I say. “I have a billion things to do today.”
As I get up and she follows me to the door and walks at such a pace that makes it all feel too proper. Proper and citrus and herbal. Ringless. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t know how to be around her and not want to be touched by her.
The birds have resumed their singing now, or maybe they always were, and Jordan’s upstairs. I can hear it now. I catch the scent of geraniums, too.
I pause at the door to rest my hand on the knob, with this heaviness at my shoulder. How long has it been there, her hand? Her lips. I can taste the sweetest cream in her words. They’re against mine now.
“I’m sorry,” she’s telling me.
But I wish I could understand.
Because wasn’t love supposed to be pure and innocent, the kind that never leaves? The girl who never thinks twice. But what if love is this right here, twisted and flawed and shifting—something so hard to stop and hold on to, something you can’t control. It’s not a fairy tale but agony and endurance and forgiveness and holding on and never ending, even when life feels bleak.
Loving her was never contingent upon her loving me. It still isn’t. Of course I still love something in her too much. I want her, and I want to feel this. And the only way I won’t cave, the only way I’m able to stop from leaning in, from letting her kiss me again, is with anger. What good would it do to fall apart with her, when I don’t even know if I want to try anymore—not for someone who left, let alone that way, not for something else, and certainly not for someone else—when I have too much to lose because maybe I still do believe in that fairy tale. And maybe I’ve already found her.
“This was a mistake,” I say. But my words already breathe against her. “Maybe we’re not ready for this.” And my heart sinks when I hear it, as I catch her gaze fading into something, I guess you would say, raw. At least that�
��s how it feels all over again as she walks out the door, like I’ve made the worst mistake of my life. Have I?
So I call Rae. It’s either this or stew over nothing or, worse, cry again over a few backward feelings that wanted to drag their feet through my foyer.
“I need to get out of here,” I say.
And she mumbles a reply, something like, “Okay.”
It’s nine o’clock. “Please don’t tell me you’re still in bed.” Though now I wouldn’t mind being there myself.
“I’m not,” she lies. And afterward, she’s getting up. “I’m glad you called.”
“Would you be glad to see me?” I say. But why am I crying?
“I thought you had Jordan this weekend,” she says, “and wanted some time alone.”
So I did. So I didn’t want my kid thinking Mom’s preoccupied, or worse—that I’ve deserted her or replaced her with some achingly hot absolutely wonderful woman I don’t even deserve.
“I take that back. I would really love to be entertained by you for the rest of the day.”
“Okay,” she says. And when she does, I can feel my shoulders sink. “Should I even ask? Did something…happen this morning?”
“Let’s just see a movie,” I say, resigned, because not answering is not a lie and because it was a mistake to have her by. And because whatever happened will never, ever happen again. “Jordan’s begged and begged,” I say, “but I can’t possibly endure a theater packed with preteens on my own,” which is good enough of a story to get her on board. Besides, that last bit about being the only adult in a kid-filled theater was no exaggeration.
And by the time we arrive, by the time I’m reclined beside her on the sofa, she’s still caffeinating, and Jordan’s darting recklessly around a few carved partitions before ogling that painting over her stack of pillows, spinning beneath beams that span a tall ceiling—as if she’s found her own private studio for ballet.
The rest of our day jazzes by in much the same way, feeling better than a frozen margarita seaside in Cancun. Crammed with fountain wishes and musty bookshops. Add the spin of that new vinyl shop, where music pours onto the sidewalk. It sucks you in. We grab chili dogs from the cart and get through the movie before heading home, our wallets stuffed with charge receipts. And somewhere in the midst of this, I share my news about Labor Day to a rather enthused girlfriend.
