The Girl I Used to Be: A gripping and emotional page-turner

by Heidi Hostetter

  It was Ellie who’d reminded her that Aunt Sarah had said there were great life lessons in the lyrics of songs from strong women like Linda Ronstadt, Dolly Parton, and Aretha Franklin. Women she called “The Greats.” When Ellie began the playlist, Jill had been transported back to Aunt Sarah’s kitchen on Cape May the summer Bobby Collins broke her heart. Then Jill and Ellie had grabbed soup ladles from the drawer and began to sing, loudly and mostly off-key.

  The old songs had been like a balm on her heart, and Jill had felt a pinhole of light shine against what she was afraid would be a very dark future—like there just might be a path forward now, though she wasn’t sure of the terrain or direction. Still, it was something to hold on to.

  But that had been last night. This morning felt very different. With her head pounding in the sharp morning light, Jill pushed aside the cashmere throw and rose from her place on the couch. Ellie had stayed most of the night, but she couldn’t stay forever; she had her own life to tend to. Lewis the cat would be waiting for her and she had to work. After Ellie left, Jill had made her way to the couch, curling up because she couldn’t bring herself to return to the bedroom she’d shared with Marc.

  Eventually Jill stumbled to the kitchen to brew some much-needed coffee and spied the soup ladles they’d tossed in the sink. The one good thing to come from all of this was that she and Ellie had reconnected friendship bonds that never should have been allowed to splinter. By the time Ellie left, they’d cobbled together a loose plan that felt like progress. Even if she’d wanted to—which she definitely did not—Jill realized the impossibility of living in the Summit house. Financially she couldn’t afford it, and emotionally she couldn’t bear it, so she accepted Ellie’s offer to stay with her. She’d find a job and figure the rest out.

  She’d just started the coffee maker when the front doorbell rang, startling her.

  It couldn’t be Ellie; she’d left only a few hours before and she wasn’t one to use the front door—or ring the doorbell. Jill couldn’t imagine that any of the women in Marc’s circle would be inclined to drop by. They’d always viewed Jill as an extension of Marc, the plus one on every invitation that required couples. And except for Nadia, they only spoke to her when absolutely necessary.

  Jill brushed the fuzz from her yoga pants, straightened her T-shirt, and went to answer the door. The moment she opened it, she regretted doing so.

  “Cush.” Reflexively self-conscious about her appearance in front of Marc’s friend, Jill crossed her arms in front of her chest. There were many reasons not to like or trust Cush and she didn’t appreciate him showing up uninvited. “What do you want?”

  “Is that any way to greet a friend?” He cocked his head, offering a slick frat-boy smile that may have worked with those who didn’t know him. But Jill did know him, and she wasn’t fooled.

  “Marc’s not here,” Jill said, though of course Cush would know that better than anyone.

  “Yeah. He sent me a text asking me to come over because he’s not sure you’d want to see him.” Cush leaned against the doorframe. “Marc doesn’t want this, Jilly.” His voice was heavy, regretful. Fake. “You’re the one who asked him to leave.”

  “I did,” Jill countered as she crossed her arms across her chest. “Did he happen to mention that he’d been sleeping with a woman young enough to be his daughter?”

  Cush looked away and for a moment Jill imagined she saw something like genuine regret, until she realized that both he and Marc were master manipulators.

  “Yeah.” Cush grimaced. “And that was wrong. It was incredibly stupid, but it was a mistake—one he deeply regrets.”

  “It wasn’t just one mistake. He’s been sleeping with her for months.”

  “He wants to make it right, Jillian. He knows your situation and wants to—at the very least—see that you’re taken care of.”

  She eyed the briefcase he carried and was curious as to what Marc thought could possibly make this better. Then, from the kitchen, Jill heard the coffee machine sputter to a stop. She inhaled the heady scent of fresh coffee that had wafted through the air. At that moment, all she wanted was a cup.

  “Five minutes,” she said as she stood aside to let him in.

  He followed her down the hall and into the kitchen. Jill gestured to a place at the table. As he settled in, she saw him take in the mess she’d left—the spatter on the wall, the dented pot on the floor, the melted ice cream on the counter.

  He didn’t ask and Jill didn’t explain.

  She reached past the sink, piled with dirty dishes, into the cabinet for a pair of mugs. “You take it black, right?”

  He nodded, though she knew it wasn’t true. He drank his coffee with generous amounts of both cream and sugar. She used to like the taste of creamy coffee too, before Marc side-eyed every pour of half-and-half and she gave it up. Forcing Cush to drink the same black coffee Marc had encouraged her to drink was petty, but she enjoyed it anyway.

  Jill set his coffee down and took a seat opposite. She glanced at the briefcase and arched an eyebrow, though it aggravated her headache. “So what’s in the briefcase? A payoff?”

  His eyes widened in surprise and she regretted her comment the moment it left her mouth. Needling him was childish and counterproductive. Her argument was with Marc and she was taking it out on Cush. She drew a breath and apologized, which also seemed to surprise him. He’d clearly expected her to be angry and seemed thrown to discover that she wasn’t.

  Jill sipped her coffee, feeling knots of tension loosen as the warm liquid spread across her chest. She hoped Cush would leave soon, so she could lose herself in a hot shower. She had packing to do.

  The tap of Cush’s coffee mug as he set it on the table pulled Jill from her thoughts. She brought her attention back to him, saw him sitting with his hands folded and an expression of grave concern on his face.

  “As you know, Marc and I go way back. He’s the best friend I’ve ever had so I want you to think of me as your friend too—”

  Jill’s response was immediate—laughter bubbled from her chest so quickly she couldn’t stop it. Cush looked so affronted that she only laughed harder.

  “You can’t be serious,” she snorted. “You’ve never been my friend.”

  Cush opened his mouth in shock, then closed it again.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve never told him. Though I should have.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Last Christmas at the Weingolds’ party, you propositioned me with your new wife not three feet away.”

  “I would never—”

  “At the fundraiser last spring at the Summit Club, just outside the coat check. Then again, at the Dewberry Beach house not two months ago. Don’t you remember? The ‘best friend you’ve ever had’ went to get you a drink and you used that opportunity to corner me in the butler’s pantry.” She glared at him. “We’re not friends, Mr. Lawrence. We never have been.”

  It was then that his mask slipped, and the change was chilling. He looked away to hide it, but Jill saw the transformation, the hardness of his expression, the flint in his eyes. It was gone by the time he looked back, replaced by an icy calmness that seemed worse somehow, unpredictable. It made her wary.

  “I told him not to marry you.” His voice dripped with contempt. “But he wouldn’t listen to reason. He was crazy about you.”

  Cush’s eyes were wild, and it occurred to Jill that the two of them were alone in this house. Even so, she held his gaze, refusing to back down.

  “There were others before you, and others after,” he sneered. “But you were the one who got under his skin. You were the one he wanted.” He pushed the mug away and coffee sloshed over the side, pooling onto the table. “I reminded him you were nothing but a tramp from South Jersey. That all he had to do to keep you happy was rent a crappy two-bedroom in Paramus. But no. He insisted on giving you the very best of everything. And look what a mistake that was.”

  “You don’t scare me.” Jill leane
d back, recognizing him for what he was. “We’re the same, you and I, as much as you pretend we’re not. And I know you’re terrified to be sucked back to where you came from, so you do whatever Marc tells you. You’re a lackey, Cushman. Nothing more. Without Marc to give you a job and a fancy title, you’d be just another ambulance chaser.”

  Cush’s jaw clenched and for a moment, Jill was afraid that she’d gone too far. When he spoke again, his voice was even, though rage simmered beneath it. “Marc made me promise to ask you directly if you would consider taking him back—”

  “No.”

  “What if he offers to give up Brittney?”

  Jill sighed. They were so far beyond the Brittney problem that she seemed almost like an afterthought.

  “If your final answer is no, then he’s asked me to tell you that he’s sorry. That he wants to give you some money to help you start your new life.” With crisp efficiency, Cush pushed a folder and pen toward her.

  “What’s in there?” Jill gestured to the folder without touching it.

  “A check for $25,000.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Marc wants to help you move forward if that’s what you want.”

  Jill pushed aside the pen and opened the folder. Inside was a check clipped to a legal document. She glanced at Cush for explanation, though she wasn’t sure she could trust what he told her.

  “The paper is just a formality. A simple receipt.”

  Jill drew the paper closer and skimmed the first few paragraphs. The language was complicated, and she understood none of it. “This looks like more than a simple receipt.”

  “It’s a lot of money, Jillian,” he countered.

  It was true, and it was more than Jill would make as a temp in a year. The reality was that she had a tiny bit of money in a personal account and not much else. All the credit cards were in Marc’s name. The investment accounts, the savings accounts, the household accounts: all in Marc’s name. She’d quit her temp job after he’d proposed and hadn’t held another in the three years they’d been married. Everything she had came from Marc.

  “If you’re holding out for more, you won’t get it.” Cush misunderstood her hesitancy. “The prenup you signed before the ceremony was rock-solid. I drew it up myself.”

  “I just bet you did,” Jill replied, returning her attention to the paper.

  Although Cush insisted the document was a receipt, it didn’t look like one. It didn’t read like one. The money, however, was tempting. With it, she’d be able to pay rent to Ellie and share living expenses while she looked for a job. That kind of money would relieve a lot of pressure.

  Still, something was off.

  So she read it again.

  The language in the document was heavily padded with lawyer-speak and Jill hadn’t had nearly enough coffee. Finally, she gave up and settled her gaze on Cush. “If Marc regrets… if Marc is truly sorry, then why do I have to sign this? We can stop pretending it’s a receipt, by the way, because it’s clearly more complicated than that. If he’s sorry, why does his check come with strings attached?”

  Cush flinched at her directness but recovered quickly. “Because offering you this money goes against the prenup. Your signature says you won’t use his generosity now against him later, in court,” Cush said smoothly. “Standard practice.”

  What Cush said made sense, but the oily earnestness of his tone set off every internal alarm she had. His explanation sounded rehearsed.

  She hesitated.

  Cush sighed heavily, sagging in his chair. “Fine. I’ll tell you the truth, though you don’t deserve it. Marc wants his business protected so he can leave the company to his girls, intact. That’s all this document says—that you agree not to come after his business.”

  That sounded more reasonable. Marc’s father started the business and Marc had always intended it to go to his girls.

  “I have no intention of taking his business,” Jill said, because it was the truth. “It’s a family business and of course the girls should have it.”

  Cush pushed the pen toward her, and she reached for it.

  The chirp of an incoming text on Jill’s cell phone was startling. Three texts in quick succession, after days of silence. Thinking it might be from Ellie and that it might be important, Jill rose from her place and moved toward her phone, still plugged into the charger.

  The messages were sent from a number she didn’t recognize. A number that wasn’t in her contact list.

  Don’t sign anything.

  I know Cush is there. Don’t trust him.

  Don’t sign that paper.

  Jill’s heart beat faster. She felt Cush’s stare as she read the messages on her screen, and her skin prickled in warning as goosebumps rose on her arm. Not knowing what else to do, she locked the screen and docked her phone. When finished, she looked up to see that Cush’s expression had changed again.

  “Who was that?” His tone was wary.

  “Reminder for the dentist.” Jill shrugged, with forced nonchalance.

  Nothing in this situation made sense—not the visit, not the money, not the texts. Jill needed time to think. So instead of returning to the table, she collected the coffee mugs and brought them to the sink.

  It was just the break she needed.

  “Okay.” She turned from the sink to face him.

  “Okay what?” Cush asked.

  “If Marc is willing to admit that things may have gotten a bit out of hand, then I am too. I’ll go with you, right now, to wherever he is, so we can talk things through. Where is he? The Berkshires? We can leave now—right now.”

  Caught unawares, Cush spluttered. “He’s not at the job site. He and Brittney are at the apartment in Greenwich Village.”

  The information sizzled in the air like a lit firecracker.

  “Really?” Jill mused. “It appears that he’s not quite as broken as you led me to believe, is he?”

  Cush’s expression hardened as his face flushed with anger. He pressed his lips together in a thin white line, and when he spoke again, his voice was menacing. “Listen to me, Jillian. I’m finished playing games with you. You want this money, you sign the paper.”

  “No,” Jill refused, though she very much wanted that check. “I don’t think so.”

  “You’re being childish.”

  “You need to leave now.”

  “You’re making a mistake.”

  “I’ve made them before.”

  He rose. “You’re going to regret this.”

  “I regret a lot of things, Cushman.” Jill escorted him to the front door. “Add this to the list.”

  He stepped outside and she closed the door behind him.

  Eight

  After Cush left, Jill rushed back to the kitchen to retrieve her phone. She pulled up the anonymous text messages and read them again, but they still didn’t make sense. Too detailed to be a wrong number, they didn’t contain enough information for Jill to identify the sender. She thought about calling the number, but what if it was Marc? Or Brittney? They were the last people she wanted to talk to. Eventually, curiosity won and she tapped the text and connected the call.

  It was answered on the first ring. “Jill?”

  “Who is this?”

  “Is Cush still there?”

  “No, he just left.” The voice sounded familiar. “Nadia? Is that you? What number are you calling from? My phone didn’t recognize it.”

  “Yes, it’s me. This isn’t my phone. Cush has been monitoring my calls so I bought a disposable. Listen, I don’t have much time before he comes back.” Nadia’s voice dropped to a whisper, low and urgent. “Did you sign that paper?”

  “No. No, I didn’t.”

  “Good. Listen to me—”

  But Jill had had enough of people telling her what to do. She had questions of her own and she wanted answers. “Did you know about Marc and… that woman?

  Nadia hesitated for just a moment. “Yes, I did. We all did.”

  “W
hy didn’t you tell me? I thought we were friends.” Even if Nadia wasn’t what Jill would consider a real friend, like Ellie, she was the closest thing she had to an ally in Marc’s circle.

  “I thought this time was a phase. Like the last time.”

  “Last time? You mean he’s done this before?”

  “Twice.”

  Jill felt the breath leave her body and she wasn’t sure how to take another. She steadied herself against the counter as her legs threatened to give way.

  “Listen to me, Jill,” Nadia continued. “I’m trying to help you, and I don’t have long. I can’t be a part of this anymore. The money Cush offered means nothing. What’s important is the Dewberry Beach house. There are things you don’t know about it.”

  “How long, Nadia? How long has Marc been cheating on me?”

  “Jillian—you’re not listening. And if you don’t listen to me now, you’ll be in trouble. Marc has already filed for divorce. The papers Cush wanted you to sign are meant to distract you.”

  “Divorce?” Jill drew herself up. “What do you mean, divorce? Cush told me that Marc wanted to work things out.”

  “He lied. The divorce papers have been drawn up for weeks.”

  “You can’t be—”

  “Jillian.” Nadia’s voice was sharp. “I know this is a lot, but you have to keep it together. They’ve had a substantial head start, orchestrating an outcome that’s best for Marc. Things are happening, even now, and you have to be ready when it hits.”

  Jill sucked in a breath. “Tell me.”

  “I’ve listened at the door—the two of them meet in Cush’s office. I don’t know everything, but I’ll tell you what I’ve heard as long as you promise not to think badly of me.”

  “Think badly of you?” Jill parroted. “Nadia, that doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense.”