The Status of All Things: A Novel

by Liz Fenton

  “Do you want me to handle things with him when we get back—tell him you need some space and aren’t ready to talk yet?” Jules said, breaking the silence. She looked down for a moment and I followed her gaze, noticing an airsickness bag that had fallen from the seat-back pocket. My stomach lurched as we hit a patch of turbulence and I contemplated picking it up. Finally she looked at me again. “I just feel so bad about this, like somehow I’m responsible.”

  “Because you introduced us?” I frowned.

  Jules nodded.

  “Just because you pushed us together on the dance floor at Deb and Eddie’s wedding after you’d had one too many sangrias does not mean this is your fault,” I’d sputtered through my tears, suddenly back to that night, seeing Jules’ eyes brighten when she spotted Max—whom she’d befriended after he’d hosted his mom’s surprise fiftieth birthday party at the restaurant where she worked as a pastry chef—and realized we were both at the wedding without a date.

  “If anyone’s to blame, it’s me—how did I not see this coming? Clearly I missed some major warning signs. Because what kind of person just up and leaves his fiancée the night before he’s supposed to marry her?”

  “A stupid one!” she said, pulling me in for another hug, and I’d squeezed her tightly, despite the armrest pressing into my side.

  “Really stupid,” I said as I buried my head deeper into her shoulder, the smell of her lavender-scented shampoo comforting me. “And when you talk to him will you please remind him the condo is mine,” I’d said calmly, but deep down, I could feel the anger bubbling inside me like a pot of boiling water about to force the lid off.

  “Do you want a glass of wine?” Jules asks me now, but her hand is already on the corkscrew. She pours a bottle of Wild Horse chardonnay into two goblets and I follow her outside into the garden just off the kitchen—the selling point for me when I bought the condominium.

  I’d been saving for my first home for years, deciding to buy a place before Max and I were engaged, wanting to be a homeowner no matter what happened between us. As I’d tailed the real estate agent through the interior, taking in the delicate crown molding, the built-in bookcases, and the newly finished dark wood floors, I had a feeling it was special. But it wasn’t until I walked outside and saw the Spanish tile on the patio and the beautiful landscaping on the small but perfectly sized yard, completely hidden from others’ view by two large orange trees, that I’d given Max the look that said, I want this. He was the in-house counsel for a small medical device company and told me he’d do the negotiating. And when he’d caught the seller’s real estate agent watching us, he’d shot me a look in return—one that said, if you want it, you need to put your poker face on—now.

  Max and I had later shared a laugh about how transparent I’d been, how I’d been unable to hide my wide eyes while a perfectly composed Max interrogated the agent about the asking price. You would never have known he liked anything about the condo, when in truth he was just as in love with it as I was. When the seller agreed to my offer, several thousand dollars less than it was listed for, Max and me high-fiving over the take it or leave it stance he’d held firm on, it had never occurred to me that his uncanny ability to hide his real feelings would ever come into play in our relationship. That it would prevent me from seeing that I was losing him.

  I remember scrawling my signature across the bottom of the deed, a confident grin spreading across my face as I imagined it would eventually become our place. The thought that one day I’d simply be thankful I still had a roof over my head after he tossed me into the trash as easily as he would a carton of spoiled milk would never have crossed my mind.

  • • •

  My phone rings and Jules wrinkles her nose at the sound. “Sorry, I know, I need to change the ringtone,” I say, and she gives me a knowing look, remembering that Max had chosen the last one—ironically it had been “Wrecking Ball.” It had become our thing, to steal the other’s cell and select a song to play when there was a new notification.

  I hesitate before checking the alert. Is it another email from a wedding guest who felt as blindsided as I had by Max’s announcement—wanting me to explain why? Or was it yet another clueless Facebook friend wondering why I hadn’t posted so much as a picture of my veil on my special day? So far, the friends and family who’d been at the rehearsal dinner had been rather tight-lipped about what happened, but I knew it was only a matter of time before word got out. Even the mailman, Henry, was wondering why I was back early. I’d overheard a hushed conversation between him and Jules as she was coming inside earlier—something about how he’d thought I’d deferred delivery of my packages for another week. I imagined his sun-weathered face contort in disbelief as she quickly explained what had happened.

  Pity from the postman—that’s all I needed.

  It was hard enough seeing the sympathetic faces of my family and close friends in Maui as they heard the news. But now that I was home, I realized I was going to have to go through it all over again. And not just with the people in my everyday life, but also with the friends I interacted with every day online. I was quick to like their pictures and check-ins, and even though I hadn’t had a live conversation with most of them in years, I still felt strangely invested in their lives—and was terrified to let them see that I wasn’t the carefree girl who loved to shop at Target and play Candy Crush.

  As long as Jules was here I could put off dealing with reality and continue to ignore the questions from curious people wondering why I hadn’t gotten married. But eventually she’d have to go back to her life—to cheering on the sidelines of Evan’s soccer games and posting pictures of her latest professional chocolate masterpieces on foodgawker. And then where would that leave me?

  The alert turns out to be a text from my mom checking in to see if I made it home safely and asking if I want to join her for a power walk to clear my mind.

  I look up from my phone. “It’s my mom.”

  “Let me guess—she thinks a hefty workout will cheer you up?”

  “Yep,” I answer, pausing to write her and say thanks for the offer, but I’m too tired to go hiking with ankle weights and I’ll call her tomorrow instead. “Her answer to everything—burning calories!” I take a long sip of my wine, deciding that for the rest of the night, I’m going to try my best not to think about why I’m sitting on an Adirondack chair in my backyard instead of lounging on a beach chair in the tropical sun.

  • • •

  There’s that split second first thing in the morning when your eyes slowly open and your mind is still empty and your heart is still light. It’s that moment when you are blissfully unaware of the pain that is inside of you—the dreams that danced in your head the night before still seeming possible. And then you see your best friend passed out on the floor, her mouth hanging open slightly, and it unleashes the memory. And instantly, like a wave of nausea, reality hits.

  I force my legs out from under me and pull a sweatshirt and baseball cap from the hall closet, too emotionally drained to care about what I look like—to worry if my bad breath and raccoon eyes will scare off anyone I might run into while out in public. I grab a book from my packed floor-to-ceiling bookshelf and leave Jules a note that I’m going to Starbucks, and after I close the door behind me, I rest my back against it and squeeze the tears away.

  Last night, I’d told Jules I wasn’t ready to walk into the master bedroom, let alone sleep in the bed, so she’d swiftly grabbed a fitted sheet and tucked it around the cushions of the couch and covered me with a blanket as my eyelids became heavy from the wine. “You’re a good mom,” I’d said just before I drifted off to sleep.

  Walking the two blocks to the coffee shop, I resist the memories flying to the surface of Max and me, walking hand in hand down the same street just last weekend. I’d been venting about the florist informing me that due to an inexplicable ordering snafu, it wouldn’t be possible to
get the exact color and type of exotic orchid I’d wanted to surprise my mother, my stepmom, and Max’s mom with on the morning of the ceremony. As I’d clamored on about finding another person to handle the flowers, Max hadn’t said a word, which, at the time, hadn’t seemed that unusual since he’d been leaving most of the wedding decisions up to me. But now I wonder if his silence meant he hadn’t been listening, or hadn’t cared, because he knew he wouldn’t be there anyway. I shake my head slightly—neither of those scenarios fit the man I’d loved for the past three years.

  After I order my coffee, I sink into an oversized chair in the corner and open the novel I brought with me, the words blurring on the page. I shut it quickly and pull my phone out of my pocket delicately, like it’s a loaded gun. I rub the sleep still wedged in the corners of my eyes and stare at the screen, instinctively looking around as if Jules might walk in at any second and scold me. And she’d be right. I shouldn’t go on Facebook. Or Instagram. Or even Google Plus. Because there’s no chance I’m ready to make an appearance on social media—to officially change my status back to single, and then explain why.

  But like a bad habit, I still crave my news feed, and soon find my eyes locked on a picture of Max and me posing with beers in the pool at the Four Seasons the day before our guests were scheduled to begin arriving. Ignoring the flood of messages filling up my timeline and in-box, I click to update my status and stare at the empty space, wishing I could find the words to make my life seem right again. But for the first time since I joined Facebook years ago, I’m speechless. “I wish there was a status update that could fix this mess,” I mumble before slipping my phone back into my pocket.

  I head back up to the counter to order a mocha for Jules before going home. I pay quickly and lean against the counter as the barista, a striking woman with caramel-colored hair and chocolate eyes, wields the espresso machine expertly. I let out a loud sigh as I wait, and she looks up and smiles.

  “In a hurry?” she asks.

  “Not really,” I admit, embarrassed she caught my annoyance.

  She eyes me sympathetically. “Don’t worry, your life will get better.”

  I tilt my head and take a closer look at her face. Had I met her before? I didn’t think so, but something about the way she said that my life would get better—it was almost as if she knew me and knew what happened. But how?

  She slides the mocha across the counter and I meet her eyes again, now certain I have never seen her before. God, I have already lost my fiancé, am I losing my mind too?

  “You’re going to be okay,” she says as I grab the hot cup and slide a sleeve over it.

  “Thanks, but I’m fine,” I finally say more sharply than I intend, wanting to believe my own words, to escape this woman who seems to be able to see right through me. I swivel and walk away quickly, not looking back, even when I swear I hear her laugh and say, “Whatever you say, Kate.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Feeling blindsided and stupid. How could I have missed the warning signs?

  I mentally compose the status update I wish I could post as I climb the stairs to my front door, painted fire-engine red based on the recommendation of the feng shui consultant I hired after Max moved in with me. She had floated through the house like a fall breeze, shaking her head slightly every few minutes and making notes in her gold notebook. Several hundred dollars and paint colors later, she had finally given her chi blessing and convinced me that my happily-ever-after with Max was just around the corner despite the fact he’d been tight-lipped about his plan to propose.

  As I hear the flutelike sound of the wind brushing against the chime I’d hung outside, my mind wanders to the delicate pink crystal hearts I’d hid in the love corner, which happened to be our laundry room—the ones I’d dangled from a nail in the back of the linen closet behind my bulk purchases of tissue boxes and Dove soap. The same gems I’d smashed to pieces last night, feeling like the universe had let me down. I had unflinchingly given all my faith, painstakingly put together a vision board, and religiously chanted my daily affirmations, yet here I was—alone. As I’d ripped up every last inspirational photo and motivational quote that I had so carefully pinned to the manifestation corkboard that I had hung over my mahogany desk, I decided it was a sad moment when you realized there really was no magic in this world.

  I find Jules and Liam huddled on my couch. “Hey,” they say in unison with feigned smiles painted across their faces.

  “I’m glad you got out of the house,” Jules says as she materializes at my side and gently takes the cup from my hand. “Thanks for this.”

  “Where’s mine?” Liam fake whines, and I shrug.

  “Sorry, I didn’t know you’d be here,” I say as he protrudes his lower lip excessively before smiling. “But I’m really glad you are,” I add, hugging him tightly, breathing in the smell of Irish Spring soap.

  “It’s probably for the best anyway . . . I brought my own comfort drink.” He holds up the same flask he had in the bridal suite. For a moment, the night comes crashing back like a wave slamming hard against a rocky coast, but I shake my head slightly to dispel the thoughts and instead conjure a memory of the two of us sitting in the back of a movie theater sipping peppermint schnapps as we laughed hysterically at whatever silly rom-com I’d convinced him to see, always with the agreement that we’d both pretend he didn’t love it as much as I did. He reaches down and pulls out a pint of Ben & Jerry’s from a plastic Ralph’s bag at his feet. “Forget your no-foam soy whatevers. Why don’t you join me in this kind of comfort?” He holds up the flask in one hand and the carton of ice cream in the other. “C’mon, pick your poison!”

  Deciding I’ll opt for high-fructose sugar over whatever mystery alcohol he’s holding, still nursing a headache from last night’s wine bender, I grab the carton of my favorite flavor, Chunky Monkey, from his hand and a spoon from the kitchen.

  We sit in silence in a row on the couch— with matched solemn expressions, like three kids waiting for the principal—me stuffing my face with walnut, banana, and chocolate chunks, Jules drinking her mocha, and Liam sipping his liquor. “So I’ve been thinking,” Liam finally says. “What if we make Max pay for what he’s done to you the good old-fashioned way—you know, by giving him a nice ass-kicking?”

  “Are you volunteering?” I ask as Jules and I dissolve in laughter, the tightness in my chest temporarily surrendering. “Because you don’t even like to watch boxing on TV!”

  “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean I couldn’t take him.” Liam balls his hands into fists and jabs his toned arms in the air. “He hurt my girl—that’ll help any guy find his inner Tyson!”

  We spend the next hour dissecting my relationship with Max, finally concluding there was no way even Jules’ spiritual adviser, Jordan, could have seen this one coming.

  “I have to admit, Max is the last person I thought would do this.” Liam kicks his feet up on the coffee table, revealing a sock with a hole in its toe. “You guys seemed way too predictable for something crazy like this to happen.”

  I wave a spoonful of ice cream at him. “Is that your way of saying we’re boring?”

  “Not boring.” He backtracks, keeping an eye on the clump of chocolate that threatens to fall from my spoon onto his jeans. “But you never seemed to have any problems.”

  “And that’s a bad thing why?” I ask, but don’t wait for his answer and look over at Jules, who hides her eyes behind her cup. “I know you find your own dating situations humdrum if a day goes by without drama, but newsflash, Liam: in most relationships, it’s a good thing for the two people involved to get along.”

  “No—I didn’t mean that. . . . Jules, help me out here. . . .”

  She throws her arms in the air. “You’re on your own with this one, buddy.”

  “What I’m trying to say is you guys seemed like you had already been married thirty years.” He laughs awkwardly, and J
ules shakes her head at him. “Okay, I’m going to stop talking now,” he declares before taking a long swig from his flask.

  The truth was, Max and I were a predictable couple. We had always gotten along well for the most part—our biggest fight had happened after I backed his new car into a pole and tried to get it fixed without telling him.

  My past relationships would usually start out full throttle and fizzle out slowly, like a soda that had been accidentally left out on the counter. My boyfriend before Max had been so moody he once picked a fight over my restaurant choice (he’d wanted dim sum, not Japanese) and stormed out, leaving me with the check and a pit the size of a crater in my stomach. I’d told myself I was done bickering over petty things—I wanted someone who wasn’t constantly looking for an argument. And then Max had shown up, just when I’d mentally thrown in the towel, Jules squealing about some therapist on Oprah who said that’s always when you find the one, when you’re not looking. Our relationship built slowly and grew stronger with such ease I had initially questioned it, wondering if it was too good to be true, but Jules assured me I had paid my dues with the other assholes I had dated, that Max was my reward for being patient. And I had believed her, convincing myself that I had finally earned that happy ending that had eluded me thus far.

  For months during that period when people’s guards are supposed to drop and their “bad” sides start to come out, everything with Max was still so easy—looking back, maybe too easy—that I’d been constantly waiting for the big reveal that Max was just another jerk masquerading as a nice guy. Not that I wanted a cantankerous man like the last one, but I had expected there to be some terse tones or maybe even an eye roll.

  When I’d finally asked Max point-blank why he was so mellow, he’d assured me that was who he really was, that he wasn’t a closet misogynist like I’d jokingly speculated. He’d said that because he spent his days as an attorney, arguing over tiny details buried in lengthy contracts, if I wanted antibiotic-free milk or to watch a reality show instead of Monday Night Football, then so be it. That he didn’t want to waste time worrying about the little things. And the system had always worked for us. Or so I’d thought. Now I wonder, did the little things he was trying to ignore pile up so high that they ultimately toppled our relationship, causing it to crash like the falling pieces of a Jenga game?