by Kate Meader
“Anytime. Multiple pints on you at the Frog and Footman when you get back. And yes, I’ll handle your client calls because you can’t be arsed to. I’m much better at it anyway.”
Chapter 23
Grant
“Kind of early for this,” I mutter to Jake, low enough so my little sis doesn’t hear. “Isn’t it?”
“You’ll be gone tomorrow,” Zoe says, having heard me loud and clear. “So we have to do it now.”
We’re trimming the tree the Monday night after Thanksgiving, and frankly I’m more than holiday’ed the fuck out. I’m flying back to Boston tomorrow to pick up my car, which means I need to figure out if that will include Aubrey and Cat Damon on the return trip. I want to see her—I always want to see her—but then, I’m a masochist to the bone.
“Here, have some eggnog.” With a wink and a smile, my mom shoves a small cup in my hand, which is undoubtedly laced with rum because that’s how she rolls.
“I’ll be back for Christmas, Zoe.”
“With Aubrey?”
I squint at my sister. “No. Aubrey and I aren’t together anymore.”
“Maybe you can bring her a present. I made her an anklet!”
The doorbell chimes, and Sherry makes a move. “That’ll be Gary and John from next door. I told them to stop in for a drink.” Inviting any and all sundry to drop by is my momma’s favorite pastime.
I hear a screech, then multiple feminine laughs. Not Gary and John, then. The follow-up soundtrack is the movement of people and then the most surprising sound of all: a sorrowful, scratchy mewl I’d recognize anywhere.
The damn cat.
I head out into the hallway and lock eyes with a pair of silver-gray beauties.
“Aubrey!”
“Yes, I’m here!” There’s a hitch in her voice that I attribute to nervousness. She puts down the cat carrier while my mother rolls her luggage to a cubby under the stairs.
The next few minutes are spent taking Aubrey’s coat (the red one I love), commenting on her cast (the sling has gone), seating her on the sofa (Oh, you’re trimming the tree! It’s gorgeous!), plying her with eggnog (with lashings of rum), and generally ensuring our guest’s comfort.
“Do you mind if I let him free?” Aubrey gestures to Cat Damon, who’s scratching at his carrier. “He won’t go for the tree. He doesn’t like the smell.”
Because it’s kind of awkward when your ex-wife shows up at your childhood home unexpectedly, everyone seems glad of the distraction to deal with the feline. Zoe takes care of making sure the cat feels at home, though I monitor him closely because the surly little bastard could get even surlier.
“Aubrey, how did you get here?” I’m guessing she drove straight through, leaving not long after I did.
“I flew!”
“What?”
She giggles, and the sound pinches my heart painfully. “I took a plane. Well, I didn’t actually fly the plane myself. That’d be crazy, and it’s not as if I could learn to fly a plane in less than forty-eight hours. I’m also a bit”—she lowers her voice, or she thinks she does—“tipsy. But I’m sobering up nicely.”
“You are absolutely fine, hon!” That’s my mom. “We need to get her something to eat. Jake, put together a plate of turkey and mashed potatoes. No green beans, because Aubrey doesn’t like them.”
Aubrey’s eyes go wide in a way that tells me she’s trying to hold back tears. “You remember that?”
“Of course I do! It was like a federal case one year you visited, and then because you wouldn’t eat them, Zoe thought she didn’t have to.”
“Still hate them,” Zoe says in solidarity, though a green bean hasn’t passed her lips since she was two.
Aubrey cups Zoe’s face. “You’ve grown up so much. So pretty. And Sherry, I don’t need anything to eat right now. It’s just so wonderful to see you all.” Avoiding my stare, she takes another sip of eggnog. “Hmm, rum. I hope you don’t mind me barging in.”
“You are always welcome here, Aubrey.” Momma again.
“You shouldn’t be so nice to me, Sherry. Not after everything I did to Grant.”
“What did you do?” my sister asks, her voice alive with concern.
“She didn’t do anything,” I say in her defense because I will always protect her.
“I wasn’t very nice to him. Made his life hell, actually.” This time she finally looks at me.
“Oh, you guys had a fight,” Zoe says matter-of-factly. “Mom fights with Dad, but he always apologizes.”
“Not always,” my momma says, sounding slightly embarrassed. “I apologize sometimes, too.”
In response, Jake coughs significantly, which makes everyone laugh except Zoe, who doesn’t get the joke.
“I can’t believe I flew,” Aubrey says. “I couldn’t get a commercial flight, but one of Dad’s friends has a plane, and after a small fortune exchanged hands, they agreed to fly me up. Or is it down?” She shakes her head. “Anyway, I drank two vodkas at the airport bar and then two more on the plane. I really needed to talk to you, Georgia.”
“I was heading back tomorrow to pick up the car,” I say. “I didn’t like how I left things. It was wrong.”
“No—no, Grant, it wasn’t. You had every right to do that. Every freakin’ right to call me out on my sh—uh, shenanigans.”
“Let’s leave these two to talk,” my mom cuts in before ushering Jake and Zoe out the door so quickly my head spins. Just as I’m about to say something—not sure what just yet—Sherry barges back in and wraps Aubrey up in a hug.
“We’re so glad you’re here, Aubrey. We love you so much.”
At which point my ex-wife, the love of my life, my beautiful Bean, loses it.
Oh. Shit.
She cries on my momma’s shoulder with big, body-wracking sobs, and I’m left standing there like a lump on a log, obviously in the way.
The door to the kitchen opens about fourteen inches, and a box of Kleenex appears as if suspended midair. I grab it, muttering my thanks to Jake, and wait there like a human tissue dispenser. Finally they separate, and Sherry grabs some tissues, a couple for herself and more for Aubrey.
“Okay, now I’ll leave you two for a nice chat.”
Nice chat? How the fuck do I follow that?
Aubrey takes a seat on the sofa and blows her nose. “God, your mom is just the best.”
“She is.” I sit beside her, tissue box in my lap, waiting…just waiting.
She hauls in a breath, evidently building up to say something. It might be the vodka talking—okay, definitely the vodka talking—but I’ll take any route to honesty I can.
Aubrey faces me with her lovely tear-puffed eyes. “I’m sorry. For not telling you about the first time it happened. For not opening up when it happened again. For letting you think for even a second that this might have been your fault. For being so self-centered as to assume it was all mine. I don’t know if we can fix what’s broken, and I’m not here to ask for us to go back to what we had. I just need you to know that I’m figuring stuff out. Or trying to.”
“That’s good. Great.” Because it is.
She smiles. “You know that movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind?”
I blink, not sure where this is going. “Vaguely.”
“Jim Carrey, who has real acting chops in this one—I mean he really should do more dramas, don’t you think? Well, he’s so hurt by his relationship with Kate Winslet that he wants to have his memories wiped. He thinks it would be better for him, to help him move on. And this service is available that does that for you. In the future. Or a future that’s like our future but different. Memory removal of entire relationships to deal with grief and pain.”
I hear what she’s saying, but I don’t like the impl
ication. “That’s what you want?”
“I thought I did. I thought that the best way forward would be to pretend it didn’t happen. That we didn’t happen. Take a scalpel to the whole thing. Excise the us out of me.”
If I had a chance to do it over, knowing what I know now, would I? “It’d be better if we could just selectively remove the memories that cut us deep and keep the good stuff.”
She smiles again, a little sad. “Unfortunately with relationships, it’s all or nothing. We can’t ignore the bad just to focus on the good. It lacks symmetry.”
“Symmetry. Ruining everything.”
Silence rules for a moment while we both absorb this one key truth. She puts a palm over my balled-up fist, which I hadn’t even realized was clenched. “I think you thought that this trip, us thrown together, you being the rock you’ve always been—you thought this would be enough to fix me. That your penis could solve my problems, that your kisses could salve the wounds. Or at least, you thought that doing it my way would open me up to your way. The physical intimacy would lead to the emotional.”
“It wasn’t my worst idea,” I venture.
Her laugh is a melody. “Sex is never the worst idea, especially when it’s as good as it is with us. But you were right to accuse me of using it as a crutch. We needed to speak honestly, say what’s in our hearts, instead of letting our bodies do all the talking.”
She inhales deeply. “I didn’t make you happy for a long time. For a while there, I made you incredibly unhappy. I was so wrapped up in my own grief that I couldn’t see yours or even acknowledge that you were going through something profoundly difficult. I wish I could change that, remove those memories along with some of the other more painful ones.”
“But we can’t,” I say.
“No, we can’t.” She raises her silver gaze to me, eyelashes dotted with tears. God, I hate to see her cry, but damn, that’s what she needs. We need to blow it up and start over, but if it’s just more of the same—I don’t think I could stomach that kind of failure again.
I thought that knowing Aubrey’s failings combined with my patience was enough for us to overcome anything. But it wasn’t. It isn’t.
I need to be a little less patient, and Aubrey needs to be a little more honest.
“What do you want from me, Aubrey?” My voice sounds rusty, my hurt a palpable thing.
“In that movie, Grant, they meet again on a train and start a relationship, not realizing that they were together before. They’re so drawn to each other that not even the memory wipe can keep them apart. And when they find out…when they remember…they have to decide if it’s worth giving it another shot even with all the pain that went before.”
“And you think we’re worth another shot?”
“I do,” she says. Defiantly, almost.
“Well, counselor.” I gesture to an unspotlighted point of the floor behind my momma’s coffee table, just to the right of the half-trimmed Christmas tree.
“Make your case.”
Aubrey
Make your case.
That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it? I know he’s glad to see me, but I also know this was never going to be a slam dunk. I’ve hurt him too much to assume we can just kiss our way to our happily-ever-after.
Marriage takes work, so time to haul ass.
I stand up, ready to present my argument to the judge, jury, and executioner, all of whom are distilled into the mind and body of this man I love so damn much.
“I’m all sorts of fucked up, Grant.”
He raises an eyebrow, obviously surprised at my opening statement. It’s a touch inflammatory, and no judge should allow it.
I hurry on. “I’m a scaredy-cat who seeks perfection and expects failure. And for too long, I’ve thought my Yankee stoicism would get me over every hump. In my family, relying on others was no better than communism.
“You, on the other hand, were brought up to recognize hard work and fair play. That family is important and surrounding yourself with the people you love is the best self-care.”
“Objection,” he says, half-smiling. “Counselor is grandstanding. Besides, no one’s perfect.”
I take that small seed, cover it with soil, and let it buoy my hope that water and sunlight, the best disinfectant, can grow it into a tree. Perhaps conscious that important matters are being decided, Cat Damon makes his move and jumps into Grant’s lap, where he has a prime view of my presentation.
“We’ve always had different approaches to our relationship and our marriage, but it worked for us. Sure, I was aware that I’d completely lucked out with this kind, generous, amazing guy who was prepared to put up with my special brand of crazy, but I also knew that I made him happy. He thought I was funny and smart and beautiful. He didn’t play games. What I saw was what I got, and what I got was what I wanted. We figured out the ideal give-and-take until…until we lost the baby.” My eyes fill with tears, and Grant—lovely, caring Grant—plants his hands and feet, ready to leap from the sofa and take me in those arms made to love me.
I stay him with my hand. “No, please, let me do this. Let me say this.”
He settles again, though every bone in his body clearly strains at the notion of not being allowed to comfort me. Could I love him any more?
“Losing her—and I always thought she was a her—was the worst thing to ever happen to me. Or at least I thought that until I lost you. Knowing you were out there but not in my life properly was like a knife to my gut. I thought we could overcome anything, but we failed at the first hurdle. Most of that’s on me. Okay, all of it.”
“Bean…”
“It’s okay, Grant. I’m supposed to be coming up with reasons why I think we’re worth another shot, but all I can think of is the reasons why I’m so good at hurting you.”
“Then get to the good stuff, Gates. Take it home.”
I hold up my hand and start a count. “One, we have different strengths that mesh well. I’m kind of a nutjob, and you’re as solid as they come. I add color to your life. Maybe too much color or drama or—”
“Objection, speculation.” And in the next breath, he plays judge. “Sustained.”
I giggle through the tears. “Two, Cat Damon is so much calmer when we’re together.”
We both take a look at Cat Damon, who’s watching us quietly like it’s just another day in our marriage.
Cat. Cured.
“Three. The sex is fantastic.”
“So stipulated,” Grant murmurs, low and sexy. Oh, boy.
“Four. I can’t guarantee I can change, but I so, so want to. I want to change how I look at things, my coping strategies, my fallback positions. I’m going to start seeing a therapist when I get back to Chicago. A real one, not just one for cats. I want to be a better person, a better partner, just…better.” The words spill from me in a half-tipsy gush.
His eyes soften, filled with all the love he has for me. “I’ll come with you if that helps.”
“Maybe it will.” Does that mean he wants to do couples counseling? Does that mean we’re a couple again? Have I won my case?
I need to make a closing statement. Something that will wow the court.
There’s only one thing left to say.
“I love you, Grant Roosevelt Lincoln.”
It’s the truth, unvarnished and elemental, the simplest of arguments. For what seems like an eternity, we stare at each other, waiting for the judge to pronounce.
“Can you hold on here for a second?” he asks. “I need to get something. Exhibit A, if you will.”
“Uh, okay,” but he’s already gone. I check in with Cat. “How’d I do?”
“Arghh!”
Two excruciating minutes later, he’s back with a small, poorly wrapped box.
“For me?”
“No, actually.” He hesitates, and I see the moment on his face when he goes all in. “For Riley.”
I gasp, but it’s not pain, only surprise. “Really?”
He hands over the box. One end is lumpier than the other, and parts of the inside cardboard show through. Too much tape ensures it will be tough to open.
A two-person job.
In unspoken union, we take a seat on the sofa together. My hands are shaking as I place them over the box, but Grant is there as he always is. My rock, our strength.
“Just rip it, Bean.”
I do, feeling as though I’m ripping a bandage off an open wound, but also tearing open a heavy drape to let in sunlight. What’s left is a white lidded cube, which I open.
It’s a red Christmas ornament, the name Riley blazing across it in silver. My favorite color combined with the hue of my eyes when my emotions take over.
“Oh! From the market at Faneuil Hall.”
“Thought you could hang it on your tree when you get home. Start a new tradition.”
Or maybe continue an old tradition. I just about manage through the tears, “Could we hang it here for now? Do you think your family would be okay with that? A temporary visit?” Just like our Riley—with us for a short time before she was taken away to what I hope is a better place.
“I think they’d love that,” he says, with such emotion in his voice, I know he means he’d love that.
Encouraged, I find a spot near the middle of the tree, a stronger branch that can carry the weight of the ornament and all the hope I—no, we—placed in our baby. It’s a little heavy for it, but with the right foundation, our own tree in Chicago, it could work. Next year, perhaps.
“It’s beautiful, Grant.” I touch the bauble, nudging it so it catches the light from one of the bulbs.
Grant stands beside me, and I lean in slightly so my shoulder touches his arm. The electricity is still there, ever present, a warm, thrilling hum that connects us.
Facing me directly, he takes my hands. “I’ve always thought of myself as your key, Aubrey. You were so uptight when I met you, so closed off, and I thought I was the one to unlock you. Unwrap you like a gift. Like I deserved that reward for putting in all this effort with you.”
