It’s true. I’ve often wondered how our lives would have been different if he never made it to the NFL. If he’d become an IT tech like his father and if I’d worked an ordinary office job. If we moved into a simple house and lived paycheck-to-paycheck like most families, would we have been happier?
“Can you sit down, please?” He pats the cushion beside him.
I perch on the edge of the love seat.
“Look, we’ve both made a lot of poor decisions—”
“Like dragging me through the house and locking me out?” I say sharply.
“I told you I’m sorry about that.” He places his hand over his heart. “I’m sorry. That was wrong. I was upset. I woke up, and you were sneaking out like a thief in the night. Then you had your buddy downstairs with the engine running. The whole scene was messed up, Blair,” he says, “I just wish you would’ve sat me down, talked to me face-to-face and told me you wanted to leave.”
“You wouldn’t have let me.”
“Let you? What was I going to do? Lock you in the attic? Yes, I would’ve tried to convince you to stay, but at the end of the day there was no way I could’ve stopped you. See it from my perspective, Blair. The night before we had everyone over for my birthday. We had a good time. We go to bed, you kiss me good night. And then I wake up to find a “Dear John” letter on my nightstand. After everything we’ve been through you couldn’t find it in yourself to talk to me?”
He’s right, but in order to maintain my resolve, I quickly remind myself of all the ugly things he’s done in the past. I may have acted questionably that night, but he’s in no way innocent. The paternity test scam and then those text messages. They were the final straw. Everything after that was foggy; I was simply going through the motions. I don’t bother mentioning the texts because he’ll only deny it or tell me I misconstrued what I read, but the DNA matter is cut and dry. And because we’re being all honest, and this is likely the last time he and I will have such a discussion, I bring it up. I tell him that what he did troubled my conscience, forcing me to look at him in a different light.
“You can’t be serious,” he says. “I did that for us! To clean up the mess you made.”
“It was wrong!”
He stands. I stand too and scurry behind my chair, bracing for an explosion.
“The whole thing was wrong. Yeah, I was wrong for cheating. And you were wrong for what you did with... Wrong to lie to me about Morgan. But I tried my best to get over it. To act like it never happened. To ignore the fact that she even looks like him. To save your face and pretend like she was ours—” He slumps down onto the couch, masking his face with his hands. “The whole situation was fucked up. We … we just messed everything up, Blair. We had the world at our fingertips. Everything we both ever dreamed of, and we fucked it all up.”
It’s true. We did have everything and we ruined it—together. It doesn’t matter who struck first, but like an intense game of chess, we each played our parts, reacting to each other’s moves and collecting casualties along the way. And here the two of us stand. Tattered, weathered and tarnished. Incapable of loving each other the way we once did.
He notices Morgan’s stuffed rabbit laying on the floor. The sadness in his eyes lends to the de-frosting of my heart. He picks it up.
“Where is she?” He looks past me expectantly. “Is she here?”
I shake my head and tell him she’s with a sitter.
“How is she?”
“Good. Getting big.”
He leans over to the end table, where two framed pictures rest. They aren’t recent, but he’s never seen them before. He picks up one—of her on a slide at the park—and studies it for the longest time. My heart is all but de-iced. We stare at each other for an uncomfortable stretch. He’s the first to speak.
“I really miss her.”
A small part of me wants to offer him the opportunity to see her, but my logical self tells me it’s unwise. And unfair. To Vaughn, because it will only make it harder for him to walk away. To Morgan, because it will only confuse her. To Dylan, because it would only anger him and to me, for all of the above.
Thankfully he doesn’t ask. Instead, he returns the photo to its place and turns back towards me. Then he reaches inside his jacket pocket and pulls out an envelope. “This is the reason I came.”
I sit beside him on the couch. Now that I’m close, I take in the slight details I hadn’t noticed when he first arrived. Details like the light beard he’s grown since last I saw him. And that he’s wearing the platinum dog tag I bought him while we were on vacation in St. Thomas. I wonder if he’s wearing it today for my sake. I somehow imagined he’d thrown out everything which reminded him of me.
He hands me the envelope, studying my expression as I break the seal. I open it, remove the document and unfold it.
Our divorce papers.
“It’s pretty much final now,” he says. “All you have to do is sign and it’s official.”
I scan the paper, my eyes resting on the sentence … the bonds of matrimony now existing between the Plaintiff and the Defendant are dissolved…
“But why are you bringing these? I figured my attorney would.”
“Because I wanted to. I figured this is something we should do together. Just the two of us.” He points to his signature. “I already signed.”
Our eyes meet, and I’m struck by an overwhelming sense of sadness although I’m not quite sure why. This is what I wanted. The day I’d be free of his control and out of our sham of a marriage, but those words don’t hold the same weight anymore. It wasn’t a sham. When we recited our vows we were in love. We made a lot of mistakes along the way, lost sight of the bigger picture, but there’s no question in my mind that we were in love, and a small part of me still loves Vaughn. And always will.
It’s that part of me that hesitates when he hands me a ballpoint pen.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, a thread of hope in his voice.
“I don’t know. I just didn’t expect it to be like this.”
“Like what?”
“It’s just all so final. I sign my name and that’s it. It’s all over. Just like that.”
He nods sympathetically. “I know.”
For another long stretch we’re both silent, awed by the significance of this moment. At least I am. I’m soon convinced that he is too when I see the glassy mist in his eyes. If those tears, pooling in the corners of his eyes, make their way down his cheek, this will be only the second time I’ve seen him cry. This is really it. The end of Vaughn and me.
I take the pen from his hand, tentatively bring the point to the paper and scribble my name just above his. Quickly, before I can change my mind. From the corner of my eye I see Vaughn wince. Maybe he believed I wouldn’t have the courage to sign it. I, too, am surprised that I did. But, I quickly refold it. I don’t want to look at it anymore. Don’t want to read those words a second time. I stuff it back into the envelope and return it to the coffee table, resting it besides Vaughn’s pen.
He takes the envelope and returns it to his jacket pocket. Then he stands, reaches for my hand, and I stand too.
He cups my face in his hands and stares down into my eyes. “Two things…”
I take a deep breath and look up at him.
“…I’m sorry for everything and … And I’ll always love you. Don’t ever forget that.”
He brings his face to mine and kisses me. His warm, familiar lips press against mine. Then he kisses my forehead and hugs me close to him. His chin resting lightly on top of my head. We hug for a long time until he pulls away, wipes his eyes and says he has to go. He lets himself out, and I sink into my couch.
He is now officially my ex. I try and say it aloud, but the words don’t come. My ex-husband. It’s crazy. As much as I’d convinced myself I wanted out of my marriage, I never actually considered this moment. Signing those papers was much harder than I ever thought it would be. Vaughn and I are officially untethered. Twelve years. Di
ssolved with the simple swirl of a pen.
THIRTY-SIX
I pull up in front of Dylan’s house to find Gayle standing in his open doorway. His car isn’t in the driveway, so I check the time to ensure I’m on schedule to drop Morgan off. I am.
Before I can even push the gear into park, Gayle is at my window. “Dylan had to go into the office this morning,” she says. “He’s running a bit behind, but he’ll be back within the hour.”
A moment later, she and I are seated across from each other in the living room. Morgan—who’s become quite at home here—scurried off to her bedroom as soon as we stepped inside. We make polite chit-chat about the weather, both remarking how much rain we’ve gotten this spring and how we both can’t wait for the summer. Then more silence. Not only is it awkward for the obvious reasons, but I just don’t want to participate. I’ve accepted the fact that this is the new woman in his life. I even half-heartedly accept that she’s to be a part of my daughter’s life. But she and I will never be friends.
She eyes her watch for the fifth time before telling me that she’s sure Dylan will be here shortly, but if I need to go, it’s okay. Despite my discomfort, I’m not ready to leave my child alone with her. I tell her no, I’m fine, I can wait.
Another twenty, excruciatingly long minutes pass before we hear his car in the driveway. We’re equally relieved. In a moment he enters the door to two sets of eager eyeballs. “I’m sorry, Blair. I was called into a last minute meeting and—”
“I told her.” Gayle says.
He tosses his jacket on an armchair. “Where’s my girl?”
“In her room.” Gayle and I say in perfect unison.
Dylan darts off to Morgan’s room, leaving the two of us alone—again.
Gayle surveys me, likely wondering why I’m still here. Then she gets up and hangs Dylan’s jacket in the hall closet. I offer an awkward smile before joining Dylan and Morgan in her bedroom. The two of them are on the floor engaged in horseplay, neither even noticing me standing in the doorway. I don’t want to leave. I could stand here and watch this all day long, but I know I’m on borrowed time; Gayle is likely watching the clock out there, wondering just how long I’m going to linger. I scramble for something to talk to him about, to justify my presence, but I have nothing. There’s no logistics or scheduling to discuss; we’ve become quite efficient at this co-parenting thing. Today is his day. I agreed to drop her off early and come back later this evening, but what I really want to do is spend the day with them both—sans the woman in the living room.
“Everything okay?” Dylan eventually asks. “You look upset.”
I tell him I’m fine.
“You sure?” He hands Morgan his cellphone, her newest fascination.
“I don’t know if I would do that.”
“It’s okay, it’s locked. You sure you okay? You don’t look like yourself.”
“I’m just tired I guess. I started a new job.” I tell him about my part-time gig at the bookstore.
“Yeah? When?”
“Last week. It’s going to be mostly weekends, maybe a night or two during the week.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you needed the money? I can probably pick up some online classes.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “It’s not just for the money. Gives me something to do on the weekends when Morgan’s with you.”
“Still not speaking to Norah?”
I shake my head.
“Will Elle be coming back up anytime soon?”
“I doubt it. She just got promoted, so she’s been pretty busy. I’m sure she’ll be up during the summer. Or maybe I’ll go down there for a weekend.”
“That sounds like a good idea. I can get your tickets when you’re ready. I have a bunch of miles I’ll probably never get to use.”
“No? Can’t get the time off?”
He shakes his head. “Nah, Gayle really doesn’t like to fly.”
As if she heard her name, she appears in the doorway. How long has she been standing there?
“I’m making grilled cheese sandwiches,” she says. “Anybody want?”
I’m pretty sure I’m not included in “anybody,” not that I’d eat anything she cooked anyhow. But Morgan’s interest is piqued. She drops Dylan’s cell phone and squeals, “Me! Me. I want cheese sandwich.”
Then she runs for the door, stopping only to reach up for Gayle’s hand to lead her to the kitchen. I don’t love the way she so eagerly reached out for Gayle, yet it conveniently leaves Dylan and I alone. For what, I don’t know, but being alone with him offers me a subtle sense of comfort. However, this alone time is fleeting; we only have the short span it will take a slice of cheese to melt on a piece of toast. We sit in silence as he smooths down Morgan’s comforter and I adjust the dress on her Dora doll. Soon, the scent of toast streams into the room, marking the end of my visit.
“I’d better get going.”
“You sure you don’t want to stay and eat something?”
I smirk. “Like a grilled cheese sandwich?”
“We have other things to eat. Matter of fact, I was thinking of making some of that tortilla soup you like—”
He stops short, and I think I know why. We’re treading into nostalgic territory that goes way beyond soup. I won’t acknowledge it, knowing it will unlatch the door to a floodgate of memories. Memories that only matter to one half of us.
“No. I really have to go. I’ll be back later tonight.” I start for the door.
“Blair.”
“Yeah?”
He gnaws his lower lip.
“Yes?”
“I—”
In runs Morgan, her little feet making loud noise on the wood floors. Simultaneously, we chide her for running in the house. Then Gayle appears in the doorway carrying a sandwich on a dainty dessert plate. It has no crust—just the way Dylan likes it. I’ve got to get out of here. Now.
I kiss my baby goodbye and tell her I’ll be back tonight.
I drive a whole eight miles away before I pull over at a Mobile gas station and compose myself. But this time my positive affirmations are failing. I want to be mature about this, God knows I do. God, believe me when I say I’m trying. My big girl pants are on, but they’re uncomfortable as all hell.
I’m handling all of this the best way I know how. My financial downgrade has been much harder to embrace than I ever imagined. Every time I pass a store window or a fancy restaurant I ache inside, not necessarily because I want a new dress or an expensive meal, but because I know I can’t have it even if I wanted.
But I’m dealing with it.
In the same way I deal with my daily descent into that stifling, underground petri dish, they call a subway. Where grown men push women out of the way to nab a seat, where I’m crammed into the cars like a pack of cigarettes, side-by-side with people who sneeze without covering their mouths and step on my feet without apology. I even manage to smile each morning when I enter the office and spend eight hours pretending to know what I’m doing, although I don’t. I also pretend not to notice the subtle stares and snickering about me, the new girl, who’s earning less money a week than the price tag of her red-bottomed heels. I’m sucking it all up, not complaining to nary a person because I know this is my cross to bear—repercussions of ten years of bad decisions. I’m handling it all with a grace and perseverance I never knew I possessed, but the one pill I can’t seem to swallow is watching Dylan with Gayle.
Late that evening I text Dylan and ask him if he wouldn’t mind keeping Morgan for the night and that I’ll pick her up in the morning. I don’t want to go back over there. He says he’d love to keep her. Tomorrow, he has a conference upstate but can drop her off early in the morning before heading up to Rochester.
I go home and busy myself with chores. When the laundry is done and the apartment is clean, I’m forced to confront my least favorite task—writing out my monthly bills. I stack the envelopes and one by one tally the totals of each so I can determine my total deb
t. I need to see just how long it will take me to wipe it out. According to my last calculations, I’ll be able to pay off my credit card bills in the next twenty-four months if I stick to my budget, eighteen months if I really buckle down. I shake my head at the balance of my Chase Visa. I can’t even recall one thing I purchased on this card. One by one, my confidence is shaken as I take stock of the true balances, not the estimates I speculated in my head. Eighteen months my ass. I’ll never dig myself out from this hole.
I remember my mother negotiating deals with her creditors when I was a child, so I take a stab at it. The worst they can say is no.
A moment later I’m on the phone with a Chase customer service rep, prepared to cop a plea, and ask what’s the minimum I can pay without a penalty.
“Mrs. Hill, I’m confused. Do you have more than one Visa account with us? I don’t see the balance you’re referring to.”
I double check and read her the account number again.
“Yes,” she says, “that’s the account number in front of me, but there’s a zero balance. There’s no minimum payment due.”
“Are you positive? I’ve got the bill in my hand. It says I owe eight-thousand-four-hundred-and-two dollars.”
I hear her clicking keys. “Uh yes, that was the last standing balance, but that was paid on the sixteenth. Yup. The balance is zero.”
After I hang up with her, I call American Express, then my three MasterCard accounts, followed by Neiman Marcus, Henri Bendel and Saks Fifth Avenue. They’ve all been paid, too.
Vaughn. He made good on his offer. I’m speechless. If he’d done this a month ago I would have believed it to be some sort of plot, but now I know there’s no ulterior motive. It’s his way of apologizing—again. I sit in my chair in a daze. While to him, it’s a tiny transfer of cash, to me it means the world. Just what I need, a step towards that fresh start.
A Delicate Truth Page 25
