On Second Thought

by Kristan Higgins

  Her voice droned on, but the words started blurring together.

  Nathan had never mentioned this story. I didn't know he'd gone skiing in Utah. Did I even know he liked skiing? Yes, yes, I did. We actually went skiing in Vermont over Thanksgiving weekend. Right, right.

  But this story? This Robbie-stuck-on-a-lift person? I didn't know him. Why hadn't Nathan ever told this story? What else didn't I know? How was it that there was a great (maybe) story from his youth, and I didn't know it? Hmm? Huh?

  What's-her-name kept talking. She was extremely well dressed for the grocery store, I noted. I was wearing my If Daryl Dies, We Riot T-shirt. Must avoid Walking Dead references when one is a new widow. Must also remember to wear a bra.

  God. She was still talking. Was this normal, people ambushing widows in the grocery store to tell them things they didn't know about their husbands? I nodded as if I was following the story, and the spike in my throat turned harder.

  In the background, I suddenly heard the piped-in music. "I Will Always Love You" by Whitney Houston (who was also dead).

  "You gotta be fucking kidding me," I said.

  "Excuse me?" the woman said.

  "It's the grief talking." Someone else had said that. It was a good line. I planned on using it often. Horribly, laughter rolled through my stomach. I clamped my lips together hard. Nathan, do you see this?

  The lady nodded. "Dear...you're not wearing shoes."

  I looked down. "Huh. Look at that! I wondered why the floor was so cold." My toenails were still bloodred. Nathan had painted them for me as I lay on the couch one night a couple of weeks ago.

  "Perhaps you should go home," she said.

  "I need half-and-half," I said. Aha! That was what I was here for! "Bye. Nice talking to you." With that, I pushed my cart down the aisle, my eggplant and cucumber trembling with the cart's faulty wheel action. Over the PA, Whitney changed keys, bringing it home. "And I-aye-aye...will always...love you-ooh-ooh-ooh..."

  Maybe I should sing along. This one's for you, Nathan Coburn! I could grab that cucumber and pretend it was a mic and let loose.

  Puffs and squeaks of laughter leaked out--poor dead Whitney was killing me.

  Oh, what was this? Organic pumpkin pie ice cream sandwiches in April? Hooray! Someone up there must like me, and three guesses as to who it was! The hysterical laughter wriggled and leaped inside my chest, making me snort some more.

  Probably, I looked insane. No shoes, no bra, Daryl Dixon on my chest, eggplant, cucumber, pumpkin pie ice cream bars in my cart.

  The floor was really freezing. My feet would be filthy. The polish needed changing. But if I changed the polish, it would be gone forever, The Polish That Nathan Applied. Nathan would not return from the dead to give me a pedicure.

  The laughter stopped.

  I'd leave that bloodred polish on until it chipped off.

  Cause of death: cerebral hemorrhage.

  Please, Higher Power. Please that it was painless. Please that he wasn't scared.

  He hadn't looked scared. He'd only looked...dead.

  In front of the dairy case was an old, old woman, creeping, creeping, inching along. She stopped right in front of the half-and-half and opened her purse. Shuffled through it. She had several thousand coupons to consider. I considered reaching around her, then decided it would be rude. Waited. Waited some more.

  I had the sudden urge to ram her with my cart.

  Why was she still alive? She looked to be a hundred and forty-three years old, and she was still alive! Why wasn't she the one who'd died, huh? Riddle me that, Batman. Why was my thirty-eight-year-old husband dead and this crone still allowed to be here, trying to save a dime on nondairy creamer?

  "Would you help me, dear?" she asked. "I can't see if this coupon's expired." She held out a piece of paper in her age-spotted, gnarled hands.

  I took it. "It's good till next week."

  "Thank you so much, sweetheart."

  "You're very welcome. My pleasure." I waited till she got her tiny carton, then grabbed a half gallon and walked to the self-checkout as fast as I could.

  Driving home, I passed the movie theater where Nathan and I had gone last week. Last week! Last week, he'd been alive. It was the night before Eric's party, in fact, and the thrill of going to the movies with my husband had engulfed me like a hug. He'd held my hand. He'd eaten popcorn like a ravaging Hun. The movie had been terrible, but that was okay, because we were together.

  Last week.

  What had we seen? Sci-fi? No. Horror? No. Frat-boy stupidity? No.

  It was suddenly incredibly important that I remembered. I pulled over abruptly and fished my phone from my purse. Clicked the calendar and scrolled back a few days.

  April 6, Friday. Eric's party. Bring wine.

  I wondered if the wine we brought was the one Nathan had poured for my refill.

  April 6. His last day. His last night.

  I paused. Should I write that down? Nathan dies. Should I black out the date? Maybe I could take it out of the calendar altogether.

  Here it was. April 5, Thursday.

  Nothing. I had nothing in there.

  Right, because the movie had been a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing. Neither of us felt like cooking or eating out, so we decided to have popcorn for dinner because we could. But what was the movie? I didn't remember. What a shitty wife I was. Widow. I was a shitty widow. I bet Madeleine would remember, she of the collapsing and wailing.

  When I got home, I'd check. I could find it. Then I'd write it down and remember every single thing about our almost nine months together. Nine months, like a pregnancy. And if I wasn't pregnant right now, someone was going to pay, yes sir. The universe and my higher power owed me big-time.

  All of a sudden, I couldn't even remember his face.

  All I could see was the face in the casket, the strange, artificial face. Madeleine breaking down, Eloise comforting her.

  My hands started tingling.

  My breath sawed in and out of me, and I couldn't grab it, couldn't hold it. I was hyperventilating. Hehn-hehn-hehn-hehn.

  Maybe I'd faint. Maybe I was dying. In for hehn three, hold hehn for three hehn, out for hehn-hehn three, hold for hehn-hehn-hehn.

  It took fifteen minutes to get under control, and by the end, I was sweaty and limp, my arms so weak I could barely grip the steering wheel.

  This is your life now.

  The thought almost felled me.

  Chapter Nine

  Ainsley

  A couple of weeks after Nathan died, Eric called me at work and told me he was taking me out for dinner. A special dinner, he said. He'd leave work and meet me at Le Monde, Cambry-on-Hudson's newest restaurant overlooking the Hudson River.

  I sensed the proposal was nigh. He'd been edgy all week.

  I knew it sounded selfish, picturing that diamond on my finger. But there'd been so much sadness these past few weeks. My heart broke for my sister, and I found myself missing Nathan, even though I hadn't known him very well, waking up with tears in my eyes before I even knew why I was crying, Ollie licking my face, offering me his ratty blanket.

  Eric had been taking it hard, too. It would be awfully nice to have something happy to look forward to, something happy and hopeful.

  I hesitated a minute, then picked up the phone and called Kate. I wasn't sure I was being helpful, but it was better to try than not. I thought so, anyway.

  "Hello?" she said, sounding groggy.

  "Hi! Did I wake you?"

  "Um...yeah. That's okay. I have to get up anyway."

  There was a pause. In the past three weeks, my sister and I had seen each other more than we had in the past three years. We'd never been on the outs, but we'd never been exactly close, either. After all, I stole her father. It was only because my mom had died that she got him back, and while she never outwardly blamed me for that, I'd been feeling it all my life.

  "How's it going today?" I asked, my voice too bright.

  "I'm fine,
" she lied.

  "Did you call that group yet?" Unable to not do something to help her, I'd Googled some info for her. There was a bereavement group for spouses right here in Cambry-on-Hudson.

  "Which group?"

  "The, um...the grief group? It might be nice--I mean, good--to talk to other people who...you know." I always said the wrong thing where Kate was concerned.

  "Right. I'll take another look."

  A quick knock on my cubicle frame. "Ainsley, have you finished that piece on--Oh."

  Jonathan, wearing his resting bitch face. My sister, I mouthed. He hated personal calls at work, but for God's sake, he himself had tried to resuscitate Nathan. Even Captain Flatline had to let me talk to Kate.

  He sighed and went off to bother someone else.

  "You should get back to work," my sister said. "Thanks for checking in, though."

  "Can I do anything for you? Maybe stop by tomorrow?"

  "That's okay. I think I'm going over to Brooke's."

  Jealousy flashed through me, followed by its twin, shame. I wanted to help. Sean and Perfect Kiara had stayed with her for a few days after Nathan died; Kate and Sean had always been closer, since I was the half sister, and significantly younger. And now there was Brooke, who was suffering, too, of course.

  But I wanted desperately to be helpful. I wanted to cook for her, except she said she had too much food. To let her cry on my shoulder...not that I'd seen her crying. I wished I had. Instead, she looked like a little kid left on the side of the highway, terrified and alone.

  "So what's new with you?" she asked. "How's Ollie?" She had a soft spot for my dog.

  "He's good. If you want to borrow him for a night, just say the word."

  "I might just do that."

  There was another silence. "Hey, I think Eric might propose tonight," I blurted, then winced. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything."

  "No, no, that's great. That'll be really nice. I'm happy for you."

  "Thanks," I mumbled.

  "Is he taking you out somewhere?"

  "Le Monde."

  "Oh, very nice. Nathan and I..." Her voice trailed off.

  "Did you eat there?" I asked, my voice husky. It's okay, I wanted to say. You can talk about him. The words stuck in my throat.

  "We always meant to. Never got around to it. Oh, shoot, Eloise is calling. I better go. Let me know how it goes tonight, okay? Congratulations. I'm sure he'll do a lovely job."

  She clicked off.

  Kate had always been like her name: brisk, efficient, classy. It's not that she was a bad sister; she was a dutiful sister. We never shared giggles over boys, but she showed me how a tampon worked. She let me believe in Santa as long as I wanted to (an embarrassingly long time). She gamely took me to the mall with my friends, where she'd sit with her camera in the courtyard while we tweens tried every makeup sample known to womankind.

  I just never felt that she really liked me. I was the daughter of the woman who stole her father, after all. Sometimes I'd see her looking at me, judgment in her eyes, and I'd wonder what I was doing wrong. She was never mean, but she was never truly there.

  The dynamic didn't change when we became adults. Kate lived in Brooklyn. She was cool, and I was not. She was thin and elegant, and I was round and cute. She was a successful photographer (and a great one, really, her pictures were stunning); I was excellent at unjamming the printer. She'd never relied on a man for anything, and I'd been living with my boyfriend since I was twenty-one.

  Sensing that my phone call was over, Jonathan reappeared at my desk. "Are you finished with your personal calls?"

  "Yes, Jonathan, I am. Kate sends her best."

  "And are your cramps sufficiently muted?"

  Right. I'd pulled the period card when I got back late from my lunch hour. "I'm feeling much better. Thank you. That's very sweet of you to remember."

  "Believe me, I'd love to forget. Are there any other personal problems interfering with your ability to work? A lost kitten, perhaps? A sick goldfish?"

  I pretended to ponder. "I don't think so."

  "Then please finish editing your mother's column." His pale blue eyes were a little eerie. Plus, he didn't blink. I was almost positive he was an alien.

  "Stepmother. She's my stepmother. Um, I'm almost done. I'll have it to you any minute."

  "It was due at noon."

  "This is a difficult time for my family, Jonathan." I raised an eyebrow.

  "And yet your mother has her work in on time."

  Stepmother. I closed my eyes briefly. "Well. Candy loves her job." Then, realizing how that sounded, I added, "Like all the O'Leary women. I'll get right on it. Sorry for the delay."

  He gave me a pointed look and went off to stare down someone else.

  I opened Candy's emailed file and started reading.

  Dear Dr. Lovely,

  My daughter lost her husband suddenly, and I don't know what to do for her. She's in a fog. The thing is, I'm not sure she really loved him, so it's more shock than heartbreak. Some days I want to slap her, and others, I want to hug her. She--

  I picked up the phone and dialed. "Candy. You can't write about Kate."

  "What are you talking about?" she said in that faux innocent voice. For a shrink, the woman was a terrible liar.

  "You wrote the letter to Dr. Lovely!"

  "No, Ainsley, I am Dr. Lovely."

  "Oh, please. You can't fool me." There had been one about two years ago involving a laid-off daughter who was content to clean up after her live-in boyfriend and make door wreaths. "Don't make me tell Jonathan."

  "Tell Jonathan what?"

  I dropped my voice to a whisper. "That you write some of these letters."

  "Prove it."

  "Candy. Your professional reputation is at stake."

  She sighed. "The coincidence factor is high, I'll grant you that. But I picked it because it did remind me of Kate, and she needs to get out of her funk."

  "It's been three weeks, Mom." Whoops. The M-word slipped out sometimes.

  "I know how long it's been," Candy said after a pause. "And maybe it would do her good to read that other people are going through similar things."

  "I actually recommended a group for widows and widowers," I said.

  "Did you! Good. She needs help. I hope it's led by a professional grief therapist and not some quack with a piece of paper she got over the internet."

  "Me, too. So what should I do with this letter?" I asked.

  "Just cut it, I suppose," she said. "There are two more after it."

  "Got it. Have a good day, Candy."

  "You, as well." She hung up without saying goodbye.

  Just then, Rachelle came into my cubicle and leaned against the frame, dunking a tea bag into a cup. "So there I was last night at the park by the river, okay? Guess who I ran into?" She had a gift of spotting celebrities and would often post pictures of them from behind on Facebook. Robert Downey Jr.'s butt in Southampton! or You're goddamn right that's Jennifer Hudson!

  "Was it Chris Hemsworth?" I asked, brightening.

  "No."

  "Derek Jeter?"

  "No. Jonathan."

  I made a face. "I was hoping for more."

  "And his ex-wife."

  "Oh! Do tell." It must've taken a strong (or masochistic) woman to be married to our boss. I sympathized with her already.

  "She looked like she was being stabbed in the liver, you know?"

  "Don't we all when we're around him? What else? Is she pretty?"

  Jonathan's door opened. "Oh, Mr. Kent," Rachelle said. "How are you? I love your tie."

  He glanced at the two of us. "Did you need something from Ainsley?"

  "I did. And I got it. Thanks, Ainsley, hon!"

  "Are you done with your mother's column?" he asked me. "It's only six hundred words."

  "Yep! Sending it now," I said, smiling. He walked down the hall, and I scanned Dr. Lovely's work, fixed a comma and emailed it to Tanya, who did the layout.
/>   To be fair, Jonathan wasn't a horrible boss. He was just incredibly stuck-up and rigid and irritating. And private. He never mentioned his children (the one photo in his office showed two little blonde girls, and I assumed they were his). He never came to happy hour with us or lingered in the staff kitchen asking about our weekends. Then again, we were his employees, and apparently we weren't supposed to know he had a beating heart. He wasn't called Captain Flatline for nothing.

  I concentrated on work as best I could for the rest of the day, but my thoughts kept skimming to tonight. To the ring, that gorgeous, glittering diamond. Eric and I had talked in the past about what kind of wedding we'd have someday--fun and breezy with a great band, the kind of wedding where people ate and drank and danced and hated to leave.

  And then, the bliss of being married. I'd make sure we were the kind of couple who hired a nice babysitter and still did fun things together. I wanted at least two kids. Maybe we'd name a son Nathan, even. Or use it as a middle name. Kate could be godmother, if Jewish babies had godmothers. I glanced at Jonathan's door (closed) and Googled it. Yes, they could have godparents. Perfect. Kate would be little Nathan's godmother.

  My eyes filled up with tears on that one, and I grabbed a tissue and blotted them just as Jonathan opened his door, doing another office scan for slackers. He looked pained at the sight of me but didn't speak.

  At last, five o'clock came. We all left like little soldiers, except for Jonathan. He owned the joint, after all.

  "Good night, Mr. Kent," said Rachelle, shooting me a wry look.

  "Have a good weekend, Mr. Kent," said Deshawn, holding the door for us ladies.

  "Bye, Mr. Kent," said Francesca, the bookkeeper.

  "See you Monday, Mr. Kent," said Tanya.

  "Good night, Jonathan," I said.

  "Good night," he said, deigning to look up at us for the briefest instant before returning to his work.

  Whatever. I had a dog to feed and hair to curl. The black velvet fit-and-flare dress? Too wintry. The white dress with red polka dots? Too Betty Boop. The green and gold? Too Christmassy.

  I might just have to buy something new.

  *

  Le Monde was gorgeous, flickering with candlelight, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Hudson. I wore a new navy dress with a wide, pretty neckline and navy lace overlay and a pair of very high nude heels. Creamy satin clutch (also new) and a gold bracelet on my right hand. Didn't want the diamond to have to compete with anything.