Oh, great. First I screw up her ability to have kids, and now my family has made her not even want to adopt a needy one. Nice. What’s my next trick? Maiming her? Letting Mr. Muffin go?
I absently pick some corn pudding out of my ear before I answer. “That was MaryKath, and yeah, Gussie’s offspring are a special breed of vicious, aren’t they? You know how some families are musical or they’re great at languages or they can all fox-trot, which they show off at relatives’ weddings? Our specialty is quiet, cutting cruelty. My mother’s family crest would read, ‘Aw, sugar, I simply asked if you were pregnant ’cause you have such a healthy glow.’”
“Sweet baby Ray! Is the whole family like that?” Nicole gasps.
“The Beaulieu side, yes. Grandmamma’s big claim to fame is having once made Jackie Kennedy cry. She’s still proud of that, too, like it’s her crowning achievement. Also? She’s over ninety years old and still driving herself. Not well, but no one’s brave enough to say otherwise.”
Duke comes to life in the backseat, adding, “That’s because evil’s impossible to kill. Like the Terminator. Only at a tea party.”
He’s not wrong.
I say, “You’d think because my mother’s people are all so blond and pretty and pressed that they’d be nice, but that’s the opposite of true. I caught Thomas—the gorgeous little boy in the plaid pants and the blue blazer—stealing all the cash out of my wallet, and when I busted him, he goes, ‘Clearly you’re just gonna spend this money on pizza pie, so I’m doin’ you a favah, Auntie Melissa.’”
“Your poor father,” says Nicole. “How has he put up with all this for so many years?”
While we ponder, Duke quietly comments, “The question isn’t how. The question is why.”
After that, we spend the rest of the drive home in silence.
* * *
Following yesterday’s unpleasantness, I’m cautiously optimistic about the reunion. Even if I find that I negatively impacted every single LT grad’s life, the night still won’t be as bad as Thanksgiving à la Beaulieu.
Nicole and I arrived early at the Drake to take care of the last-minute details, with Duke to join later. Currently Nicole’s busy with the bartenders, making sure they understand how to fix our signature cocktail called the Lion Tamer, a blend of Southern Comfort, lime juice, and powdered sugar. Sounds disgusting to me, but you can’t beat it in terms of a clever name, right? (No wonder Nicole’s in charge of MCPR’s event planning.) We’re also providing top-shelf liquor, craft beers, and an excellent assortment of wine, none of which comes in a box. I made sure of that. I kind of wish I’d been more cognizant of the company’s finances before I wrote a corporate check to cover the open bar, but it’s also possible that we weren’t experiencing negative cash flow until I started writing corporate checks. Again, I’ll think about that later.
As for me, I’ve been working with the deejay on the playlist, substituting Poison for Boys II Men and Lita Ford for Mariah Carey. Listen, with enough Lion Tamers in them, people will like the playlist and they will dance. Seriously, my dime, my decision.
Even though I’m practically walking distance from the Drake, Nicole and I got a room here so we could primp together before the party, exactly like we did in college. Out of everything I missed by springing ahead in time, I may be the sorriest to not remember our sorority days at IU. From what I understand, they were epic. Oh, well. We have our whole future ahead of us, right?
Satisfied that the ballroom is ready and all the players are in place in regard to bar service and catering, we dash upstairs to fix our hair and put on our dresses. Nicole’s sleek and lovely in a short black number, while my pink tulle is an homage to my prom dress. For a minute I considered pairing it with Doc boots, but then I remembered exactly how stupid they look through contemporary eyes. Instead, I choose a strappy pair of silver Choos.
Dresses on, hair done, makeup refreshed, we’re ready for action! Somehow Nicole’s roped me into working the registration desk with her. I have no desire to be here, but she said she needs me and that’s reason enough. A stream of recognizable faces begins to trickle in and we handily pair the right badge with the proper guest.
Turns out I was right the first time: People can read and they do know what they look like. We’re superfluous to the process, and yet I must admit to enjoying sitting here and having classmates not only recognize me, but also remember me fondly. I’ve been waiting to bask like this. So worth it!
When Steve-o arrives, he gives me a hug bordering on bad-touch but I let it go. Without Adam Levine in his life, my ass is the finest one he’s likely to ever paw, accidentally or otherwise.
I recognize Elyse, Duke’s former-life divorce attorney, the second she steps into the hallway. That bitch still looks incredible. I curtly hand her a name tag and she seems vaguely hurt at my snub. Sorry, honey, but you can’t unring that bell.
Nicole and I are just about to pack it all in and join the party when I hear a gratingly familiar voice. “Ohmigod! It’s the Belles, as I live and breathe.” When I glance up, all I can see is a blur of red cannonballing at me. I’m hugged so hard I’m almost knocked from my seat.
“Lissy! Nic! You guys! This is so, so incredible! I missed you soooooo much! You totally suck for ditching me at UCI with no one but Kimmy and April! Spill! Spill! Tell me everything!”
Nicole and I trade a wary glance. “Hey, Tammy,” I offer.
“How’ve you been?” Nicole politely queries. After the Amy Childs incident, I learned that the Belles didn’t hang out like we had previously. We were all still friendly and cordial (keep your enemies close, as Mamma says) but we were never the same. After Nicole and I went to a different college from the rest of the girls, we lost touch on purpose.
Tammy starts to launch into a whole retrospective of her life, but Nicole quickly suggests that we catch up inside the party instead, as we still have tags to distribute.
“Then you’d better give one to my husband,” Tammy demands, shoving a bald, slope-shouldered man in our direction. “Sugar bean, say hello to Lissy and Nicole.”
“Hi, there,” I offer, already scanning the few tags left on the table. “What’s your name? Or did you RSVP as ‘sugar bean’?”
He clears his throat. “Actually, it’s Brian. Brian Murphy.”
I immediately look up. “Brian? Across-the-street Brian?”
Because, no.
It can’t be.
Before I went back in time, I finally unearthed Brian’s photo in an archived issue of Forbes and he was handsome and ruddy and had filled into his frame. Also? He had hair. A lot of it, and not just coming from his ears and nose like this one. This grayish, shriveled creature is what supercutie Brian Murphy would look like having been trapped in a plaster cast from head to toe for a month.
“One and the same.” The smile he offers is tired and doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
I try not to let on my shock at his appearance. “Hey, Brian, so good to see you! I was just thinking about you when I heard the new album by Wildstreet. But I’m sure you’re totally aware there’s a whole third-gen glam-metal revival out there, a lot of it coming from Sweden, and—”
That’s when it registers.
Brian Murphy is Tammy’s husband. Tammy married Brian. My (not really, but still) Brian.
In what kind of bizzaro, fucked-up alternate universe is it possible for him to marry her?
Oh.
That’s right.
The one I created.
That bad, bad feeling I’ve thus far avoided this evening is back with a vengeance.
Tammy shoves Brian out of the way. “He doesn’t listen to that punk-rock garbage anymore. Tell Lissy how we saw Kelly Clarkson in concert last month!”
Numbly, Brian nods, affixes his name tag, and is summarily swept into the ballroom by the crimson tide that is Tammy.
Nicole merely shrugs as they retreat, while she sweeps up her clipboard and Lion Tamer. “I thought I’d heard they hooked up long ag
o. I guess I heard right.”
Tammy and Brian and Kelly Clarkson. What happened?
My night’s mission is to find out.
* * *
Well, here I go again, only this time I recognize the sleeping pit and I understand why I’m wearing a Central Asian Ikat robe.
So there’s that.
At some point last night, I came to realize that not only are Lion Tamers not disgusting, but they are in fact the most delicious of all beverages. So I drank many. Many, many, many. I’m aware that there’s a reason behind my consumption, but for this blissful moment, I’m simply enjoying the feel of yak pelt and the gift of not yet remembering.
“Namaste, Lissy Ryder! Was the sleeping pit to your comfort again?” Deva asks.
“I’ma get me one of these,” I respond with a grin, and then I wince. Smiling hurts. Damn you, SoCo!
“Are you hungry?”
Oh, I’ve definitely been here before. “Pfft. Not for wheatgrass,” I reply.
“Actually, I’ve become smitten with the cleverest concoction. They’re little sticks of French toast and they come with a cup full of dipping syrup. So self-contained! So mobile!”
Now, that’s a shock. “You’re eating Burger King breakfast?”
Deva seems taken aback. “You haven’t cornered the market on change, Lissy Ryder. Also, the food at the retreat? Blerg! Shaman Bob actually had us lick lichen off rocks one day. Even I have my limits. A couple of times I was able to sneak away from the forest reserve into the BK in Lahaina, and trust me, the French toast sticks were the best thing I ever tasted in that moment. So light! So golden! So not lichen! Here.” She tosses me a bag and I dive in. There’re hash browns, too! Woo!
“You’re a lifesaver.” The smell of hot grease and sugar fills the space around me.
“I’m more of an aura saver, but we can split the difference.”
Before I can even stuff the first hash brown mini in my mouth, I remember Nicole. “Hey, where’s Nicole? Is she okay?”
Deva nods. “Nicole is perfectly fine. She left the party a little early with Steve Ramey.”
I sit straight up and the whole room spins so hard I have to brace myself on a body pillow. “What? Do we need to find her?”
Deva’s quick to calm me. “Fear not, Lissy Ryder. She’s safe and sound. Steve Ramey has a lovely aura and she’ll be perfectly fine. I think they’re back in your hotel room. I believe if you find a sock on the door, you might want to knock before you enter. He said something about rocking her like a hurricane?”
I shudder. I wonder if he takes off his jewelry to do that? Then I remember something else. “Wait, what about Duke?”
Um . . . is it weird that I should be more concerned about my friend than my husband?
And that’s when the drinky-drinky portion of the night suddenly comes crashing into the front of my mind.
Last night I was waiting behind a privacy screen on the far side of the lounge to use the ladies’ room. I quickly realized that Duke was deep in conversation with Elyse on the couch on the other side of the screen. They had no idea I was there, so they were completely unaware that I could eavesdrop on every single word.
At first, I thought he was hitting on her and I was ready to tear down the screen and confront him, but then I really started to grasp the content of his conversation, and frankly, that was way worse.
“She doesn’t hear me,” Duke started.
Oh, yes, I do, asshole. Loud and clear.
“I tell her what I want and what I need and I’m completely shut out, like I don’t matter. Yesterday she was all upset over how her mom treats her dad and yet that’s exactly the way she acts with me. She is her mother, minus the ‘y’all.’”
I was really about to pop through the screen then, until I realized he wasn’t exactly wrong.
“She bulldozes over everything and everyone. At least her father has some power, because he’s the breadwinner. I’m just a fucking trophy husband and I’m sick of it.”
“Have you tried to talk to her?” Elyse asked gently.
“Only a million times. She’s incapable of understanding anyone’s wants outside of her own.”
Um, ouch. I honestly thought I’d gotten better about that.
“For example, I tell her how I’m feeling, I tell her what I need, and it’s like I’m talking to a wall. I’ve been explaining how bored and lost I’ve felt since she had me retire and her response is always, ‘Take a spa day!’ or ‘Go buy yourself something pretty!’ as though that’s what’s going to make me feel like I have value.”
Sweet Jesus. I’d rather he were hitting on her.
“For what it’s worth, I’m really sorry,” Elyse replied. “Are you prepared to take the next steps? Do you need representation? If so, here’s my card.”
He paused for not nearly enough time before he decided to completely explode our life together. “Yes. I want out. I can’t take it anymore. And I don’t need any of our marital assets.”
Elyse was quick to jump in. “Whoa, hold on. Are you saying you don’t even want your house? It’s half yours. Duke, if you choose to hire me, I’m going to insist on a fair settlement; that’s my job.”
But Duke was resolute. “Don’t want it. I’ve been kicking around in six thousand square feet when all I really need is a one-bedroom condo. The idea of being on my own and rebuilding my life is actually pretty exciting. I want to see what I can achieve in my professional life. I was great at my job and will be again. I need to rebuild on my own, for myself. I need a reminder that I have value, too.”
That’s when I slipped away from the screen, my business in the washroom forgotten.
“Deva, is it possible we’re not meant to be together, Duke and me?” I ask. “I thought by changing the past, I’d guarantee us our future, but that’s clearly not the case.”
“Let me ask you something, Lissy Ryder—were you ever happy? Really, truly content and in the moment and so in love with Duke that you couldn’t even believe your good fortune at being together?”
I toy with the fertility god perched on the table next to me. “That’s a tough call. I can remember being really, truly happy in a lot of moments, like when I’d best him in an argument or when I could get him to see things from my perspective. But just day to day, do I feel an overwhelming outpouring of love, like I can’t function without him in my world? I’m not—”
“Then no.”
“Wait! I didn’t say that!” I protest.
Maybe I thought it, but I didn’t say it.
“Clearly, Lissy Ryder, you’re in love with the control, not the man, and that’s not fair to either of you. It’s best you understand this now.”
“Hold on, sister! You’re putting words in my mouth!”
Deva helps herself to one of my untouched French toast sticks. She takes a bite and practically purrs. “Am I? Seems to me that if you were truly, madly, deeply in love, you’d not hesitate to have told me. Proclaiming your love for him would be as natural as breathing. Yet the first place you go is winning? That’s not love, Lissy Ryder. Not by a long shot.”
I’d argue but the shameful truth is, she’s not wrong.
Didn’t I want to change the past at first just so I could dump him on my terms? Our relationship was always about winning, my winning.
Now that I think about it, I didn’t start dating him because I thought he was funny or nice or hot. I doggedly pursued him because I heard Elyse liked him and I was not about to let her have anything that should have rightfully been mine.
Whether or not I actually wanted him was beside the point.
I was aggressive; she was demure. I won.
Oh, Duke or Martin or however you want to be addressed, because I never really bothered to ask—I’ve done you a terrible, terrible disservice.
“You’re saying I should let him go.”
Deva chews, swallows, and shrugs. “I’ve not said anything, Lissy Ryder. All I suggest is that you examine the construct of your relat
ionship. Is the foundation of your love built on sand or is it built on rock?”
As I reflect on our twenty-plus-year history, both in the first past and the present, I’m hit with a terrible realization. . . . The only thing we actually ever had in common was love.
More specifically, we were both in love with me. And that’s not nearly enough. This realization is way too deep for this early in the morning.
“Do you mind if I cry for a while?” I ask.
“Knock yourself out, Lissy Ryder.”
But I try and the tears won’t come. Instead, I’m flooded with guilt because I don’t have the depth of feeling for Duke that he deserves. Was the homecoming dance something special for us? Absolutely. But that’s it. I think I was more swept up in all the events leading up to the dance than in actually being with him.
And I don’t dare say this out loud, but I think I’m in love with my handbag more than my husband.
As I can’t even properly cry for him, my only choice is to let him go without a fight. Were I to fight, it would be only so I could be victorious, and not because I really can’t bear the idea of living without him. I hate myself a little for never having seen this before. He’s too good a man to not be with a woman who worships him.
So, if we’re not meant to be together, then do I wish for him to be with someone who cares about him?
You know what?
I think I might.
“Is he going to wind up with Elyse?”
Deva doesn’t hesitate to answer. “Absolutely, even though neither of them realizes it yet. Their chakras were lit up like Christmas trees, and the energy they radiated together was almost palpable! Plus, did you see her in that tight dress? My God, she looks exactly like Sofia Vergara! Va-voom! I don’t swing that way, Lissy Ryder, but if I did, I’d be all up in that.”
Here I Go Again: A Novel Page 19
