by Minka Kent
I never saw it before, but I suppose we’re always seeing what we want to see.
“Sorry.” Elisabeth chuckles. “I feel like I’m throwing all this stuff at you at once. I don’t want you to feel obligated. Just thought it would be fun. Besides, I’ve never seen you in any color but bright yellow … Plus I think we introverts need to get out more, you know? I think it can make a person crazy being cooped up all the time.”
Glancing at my uniform, I shrug. “You have a point.”
“I’m really going to miss you when you’re gone, Meadow,” she says. “We should’ve done this a long time ago. Hung out.”
“We should have,” I agree.
“Saturday, ten AM, Bellisima Pastry and Tart on Hayworth,” she says. “They have the best raspberry scones. I could eat a hundred of them. Then you could just ride with me to the baby shower after?”
“It’s a date.” I could nurture this friendship so easily. Elisabeth is normal, refreshing. I do wish we’d have forged our friendship a little sooner, but better late than never.
Besides, she’s going to need some help when the baby comes.
She can’t do this on her own. Alone all the time. Her husband off philandering.
She needs me.
Twenty-Six
“Meadow.” Someone calls my name halfway between the Garrison and Montclair buildings. I’m almost late for class and I almost ignore them, but the tap on my shoulder and the tromp of footsteps on the pavement behind me tell me it isn’t an option.
Turning, I find Thayer, slightly winded and adjusting his messenger bag.
“Hey,” I say, walking toward Montclair Hall. “What’s up?”
“You have a minute?”
Not really. “Sure.”
He exhales, rubbing his palm along his jaw. “I think Lauren’s cheating on me.”
Ya think?
“Really?” I can play dumb with the best of them. “Why do you think that?”
“Something I saw. On her phone.” His jaw tenses. “And the way she’s been lately. It’s all just adding up. And I keep thinking about what you said. About trust. Do you know anything, Meadow? Has she said anything to you?”
This is a fork in the road I never saw coming. And now I’m stuck, with only seconds to decide which direction I’m going to take and no time to analyze the immediate outcome.
“I love her so much,” he says, eyes glassy. And I believe him. He wouldn’t put up with all this bullshit if he didn’t think he loved her. “I have to know who it is. I have to.”
“Thayer …” I feign hesitation, but my mind is made up. I’m singing like a goddamned canary.
“Meadow.” His hand rests on my shoulder. We’re standing outside the main entrance of Montclair now.
“I’m late for class.” I take a step.
He takes a step. “Please. You know something. I can tell. You know who it is.”
“Even if I did …” I shrug, “ … it’s not my place.”
“Please. Tell me,” he says, voice almost breaking. I justify what I’m about to do a dozen different ways, assuring myself it’s the right thing. She doesn’t deserve him. He deserves to be happy. But more than that, he deserves the truth.
Biting my lip, I glance away for a second. “Don’t tell her I told you.”
“Of course.”
“It’s Professor Bristowe.” My heart kicks up a notch and I’m lightheaded. Is this a euphoric high or the flood of anxiety-rooted adrenaline coursing my body? Either way, it’s done. There’s no going back now.
“Bristowe?” His eyes flash dark. His teeth and his fists and his entire body clenches. When he drags his hand through his hair and tilts his head back, I feel compelled to stay and be there for him—but I have a presentation in two minutes.
“You going to be okay, Thayer?”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he turns and leaves, disappearing into a pack of baby-faced freshman guys headed toward the IT study lounge.
I bite my bottom lip to keep from smiling.
Twenty-Seven
Lauren didn’t come home for two days.
At first, I thought something happened to her—that Thayer lost his temper and she was lying lifeless in a ravine somewhere. But she was reading my text messages, which meant she was alive.
He probably told her everything. They probably fucking made up.
And now she’s avoiding me.
The front door opens Friday, sending a shudder through the old house. I stay in bed, listening to the sounds outside my bedroom.
Lauren walking up and down the hall.
The spray of her shower.
The drip of her faucet as she brushes her teeth.
The drone of some annoying NPR podcast which quickly shifts to some dance-happy I Heart Radio station.
The wail of the tea kettle in the kitchen.
The pop of the toaster as she heats her English muffin.
The clink of the silverware drawer as she retrieves a butter knife to spread her strawberry preserves.
It isn’t until the front door opens and slams and her engine purrs to life that I feel it’s safe to come out.
Funny how last month I felt so free here. Now it’s become a makeshift prison. Our happy little home has become a landmine-filled desert and we’re just tiptoeing around one another.
It didn’t have to be this way.
It isn’t my fault Lauren chose to be a home-wrecking whore.
I’m not sure when I’ll see her again. Or the kind of words that will be exchanged. All I know is the nuke has been dropped and shit’s about to get real.
Twenty-Eight
Bellisima Pastry and Tart on Hayworth is exactly the quaint and cozy place I’d expect Elisabeth Bristowe to pick, and when I arrive, she’s already nabbed us a corner table by the front window.
“Meadow!” She rises and waves for me to join her, and when I get closer, I see she’s already ordered my tea as well as two raspberry scones.
“You didn’t have to do this …” I hang my jacket on the back of my chair.
“My treat.” Elisabeth sits, wearing a pleasant smile and tired, baggy eyes. She didn’t sleep last night. “It’s so nice to get out of the house.” Yawning, she reaches for her coffee. “Can’t seem to get comfortable anymore. Swear I’m getting bigger by the second.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You look amazing,” I say. And it’s true. She has one of those perfect bodies … not too big, not too small. Not too short, not too tall. Pregnancy looks incredible on her.
I wonder if Reed ever takes a moment to tell her that? Probably not.
“You’re sweet to say that.” She takes another sip before checking her watch. “Am I a terrible person if I say I wish Reed’s aunt wasn’t throwing me this shower?” Placing her mug down, she adds, “I just feel like everyone’s so phony at them, you know? Do people really want to take time out of a perfectly good Saturday and buy me stuff and sit around eating finger foods acting like they’re having a good time?”
“Some people might?”
She laughs. “Yeah. Maybe. But I bet most people don’t. It’s just an obligation. I hate obligations. They suck all the fun out of everything.”
“We’re going to have a good time,” I assure her as I break off a piece of my raspberry scone. It’s hard. And I’ve never liked scones. Not a fan of raspberries either. But I eat it anyway.
“Oh, Reed is coming,” she says. “Guess he was able to carve time out of his busy schedule to make an appearance. I told him he had no choice though. It’s his family. He should stop by and say hello. Take some of the heat off me. They all adore him anyway. They only like me because they have to.”
“I doubt that.”
She shrugs. “It’s true. His family has never been crazy about me and I’ve never been able to figure out why. I’ve been nothing but nice to them since the day he brought me home.”
“Some families are just like that. Cold and exclusive.”
“It’s a sham
e,” she says. “My family was never that way. We made sure everyone felt welcome, and if we didn’t like them, we’d wait until they left before we said anything.”
Elisabeth laughs, sipping her coffee. And then her smile fades.
“Wish my mom could be here today,” she says, glancing down at her untouched scone. “She loved baby showers.”
I cup my hand over hers from across the table. “I’m sure she’s here in spirit.”
My attempt to comfort her is cliché and unoriginal, but I’m not sure what else can be said to a motherless woman who’s about to become a mother herself. There are not enough words in the English language to make lemonade out of a rotten lemon.
“Anyway.” Her hand retracts and she dabs a rogue tear from her left eye. “This should be a happy day.”
“Exactly.”
We finish our scones, chat about nursery colors—she’s leaning toward peach—and the time flies as I suppose it does when two friends are truly enjoying one another’s company. Within an hour, we arrive at the community center. Elisabeth offered to drive us both and bring me back to my car, but I insisted I follow.
She’s already been too kind.
Pink and white streamers drape from the ceiling, twisted and taped so they hang just so, and a table in the back of the room is covered in rose-gold tissue paper anchored by a three-tier cake—white frosting and real flowers. Silver plates of cucumber sandwiches and pacifier-shaped sugar mints flank the sides as well as a bowl of ginger ale punch, which everyone is drinking out of champagne flutes.
It’s sweet that Reed’s aunt would do all of this for her … especially considering the fact that his family supposedly doesn’t like her. But maybe with the recent death of her mother they felt obligated? And maybe that’s what Elisabeth was really trying to say back at Bellisima? I’m sure the more we get to know one another, the more insight I’ll glean. For the time being, I pop a mint into my mouth and ladle some punch into two champagne flutes.
A group of women, mostly older, circle Elisabeth, smiling and chatting, their hands on her belly. I can’t see her face, but I imagine she’s playing right along, pretending she’s thrilled to be here, even if she isn’t.
I love that she trusted me enough to be honest, to confess her little secret.
That is the true marker of a friendship.
Honesty. Zero secrets.
“Look who it is!” someone squeals from the crowd of ladies dressed in pastel dresses.
Everyone turns to the doorway where Reed stands, shit-eating grin and palms open as they flock to him to shower him in hugs and kisses and sweet sentiments about how much they’ve missed him.
Elvis has entered the building.
Elisabeth stands back. Forgotten. Abandoned.
I go to her, handing her a flute of punch and remaining at her side. “Wow. They really love him, don’t they?”
She smirks, huffing through her nose. “This is how it is … every … single … time. They just love him. Don’t we all though?”
Reed’s dimples and dark hair and pressed button down and slim-cut khakis command the room, and each aunt or cousin he talks to has his full, undivided attention. And he’s engaged. Like everything they’re saying is fascinating.
Reed Bristowe has charisma down to a science.
And he has everyone fooled.
Eventually he makes his way to his wife, slipping his hand around the small of her back and leaning down to kiss her forehead. Her demeanor relaxes, softening like a kitten napping in the sun.
“Meadow.” He finally notices me. “Hi. Wasn’t expecting to see you here. Glad you could make it.”
“I invited her,” Elisabeth says. “We had tea this morning.”
Reed nods, a pleased glint in his eye. I wonder how many times he’s told her to get out of the house, to find friends.
Maybe I was low-hanging fruit, but I’m still glad she picked me.
A woman and her teenage daughter rush up to the two of them, stealing their attention, and I get edged out of the conversation. Taking a seat at a nearby table, I watch the Bristowes, wondering if Elisabeth has the slightest inkling that there’s trouble in paradise or if Reed has the slightest intention of ending things with Lauren before the baby’s born.
Together the two of them look like one of those perfect couples you see in the photo inserts of a brand-new picture frame. They smile big. They laugh with each other. Their body language is in sync. They look like they belong together, like they couldn’t possibly belong to anybody else.
I think about what Lauren said to me once, about looking closely at perfect people and finding their cracks. And I imagine Reed’s body covered in fault lines that offshoot into other fault lines, all of it hidden under his J. Crew uniforms.
Glancing up, I find Elisabeth lowering herself into the chair beside me.
“These things are awful, aren’t they?” she asks, sliding me a small plate full of pacifier-shaped mints. “You seem bored. These are good, by the way. I can’t stop eating them.”
I take a pale green one and let it melt on my tongue. “I’m not bored.”
“Don’t lie.” She laughs. “It’s okay. I’m bored. But don’t tell anyone.” Elisabeth points toward the mountain of gifts piling up on a table in the corner. “How many breast pumps do you think I’m going to open today?”
I chuckle. “Two. Maybe three.”
“My money’s on four. Gut feeling.” She pops another mint, moaning. “Why do these have to be so damn addictive?”
“Where’s Reed?” I ask when I realize I don’t see him anywhere. The legion of women worshipping the ground he walks on seem to have dissipated, separating themselves amongst the circular tables with floral centerpieces.
“Had to go grade papers or something.” She lifts a brow, her tone flat. “I think he just didn’t want to be the only guy here.”
Right.
“Okay, everyone, we’re going to start the games! Make sure you each have a pen. Let me know if you don’t.” Reed’s Aunt Char commands the room in her pink Chanel jacket with her diamond Chanel brooch and black Chanel flats
And it makes sense now, what Elisabeth was saying earlier, about how they only pretend to like her for Thayer’s sake. Exhibit A? Char is loaded, and she threw Elisabeth a baby shower in a rundown, rent-by-the-hour community center.
At least the cake is fancy. She didn’t cheap out there.
Aunt Char paces the front of the room, rising on her toes to see if anyone needs a pen. Her sleek silver hair is cut into a bob and she wears thick, black-rimmed glasses. A style all her own, just like Reed. Then again, she is the woman who raised him.
Someone passes us some sheets with a crossword puzzle of some kind, all the answers geared toward baby things. I don’t know the first thing about babies, but I try my best and get half of the answers before the timer goes off.
Elisabeth was the first one done, but she didn’t raise her hand. She wanted to give someone else the chance to win. She’s always looking out for other people like that, always putting them first.
Someone should return the favor.
And that someone should be me.
Twenty-Nine
A girl cannot live off raspberry scones and cucumber sandwiches alone. I need real sustenance. And that’s exactly why I placed a to-go order at a real restaurant (that serves cheese curds and ranch dressing and burgers so juicy they drip down your chin when you take a bite) the second I left the baby shower.
Backroads Beerhouse is a hole-in-the-wall bar and grill on the far side of town, sandwiched between a strip club and a two-pump gas station with bars on the windows and signs all over stating they don’t accept bills larger than a twenty.
It’s why I felt so comfortable dressed in sweats, my hair piled on top of my head and my makeup washed off my face. Nobody really makes eye contact here. Everyone just faces the bar or stares into their beer or glues their beady eyes to whatever game is playing on one of the twelve TVs hanging arou
nd the restaurant.
I check in with the bartender, giving him my name, and he runs back to the kitchen, returning with Styrofoam containers in a plastic sack with a ticket stapled to the top.
“Thirteen dollars and twenty cents,” he says.
I couldn’t even buy a Taki martini for that. I huff, handing over my debit card. My mouth waters when the charbroiled scent of my angus bacon cheeseburger fills my nostrils.
I tip him twenty percent because my bank account is still rather robust, grab my order, and dash out to my car so I can make it home while the food is still warm.
Only when I’m pulling out of the parking lot, I spot a familiar Lexus pulling in, two shiny Xenon headlights, a cute little blonde behind the wheel. Beside her is a man in a t-shirt and baseball cap.
And it isn’t Thayer.
Oh no. It’s Reed Bristowe.
The man who hours ago graced us with his presence at his wife’s baby shower before dashing off to “grade papers.”
I hate him.
I hate him.
And I hate her.
This has to stop.
Tomorrow, we’re having words.
And unlike her, it’s not going to be pretty.
Thirty
I don’t remember the last time I slept this hard. I’m guessing I was in some kind of burger-and-cheese-curds food coma coupled with the fact that I chased a Benadryl with a glass of wine. After everything that transpired yesterday, I was too worked up. I wanted to sleep, to close my eyes and exist in a world where Lauren and Reed and pregnant orphaned wives didn’t exist.
Everything that happened after seven o’clock last night is a damn mystery, and I’m honestly okay with that this time.
The sound of cupboard doors opening and closing tells me Lauren’s home. I’m not sure when she got back—if it was this morning or sometime last night. But she clearly knows I’m home and she’s clearly not trying to keep the noise down.
