Fight For It

by Jessie Harper

  Photo after photo shows them together. At first, Kelly was coy about Paul, using all sorts of pet names and just mentioning her "boyfriend." This alone would have been easy enough to ignore. Maybe that wasn't Paul she was talking about. Maybe that wasn't my husband. But as Kelly got bolder, she posted more and more damaging information, cataloging a Valentine's Day dinner and a few long weekends. Paul had gotten fairly bold himself. There is no way for my already battered heart to deny the multitude of snuggly selfies and the holiday gift exchange. She had opened an exquisitely wrapped box to reveal an expensive necklace. When I think back to my Christmas present that year I remember buying myself a blender. Paul was notorious for being terrible at gift giving. He forgot birthdays and anniversaries like it was an Olympic sport. But apparently that was just how he was with me. With Kelly, he was the kind of man who not only remembered special occasions, but went out of his way to make her feel like she was the most important woman in the world.

  "That's enough hashtag," Cassie makes air quotes with her fingers, "true love for today, Julia." She shuts the laptop with a loud click. Her sarcasm is appreciated, but not enough to make me feel any better. "What the hell is wrong with this girl? She had to realize that he wasn't her prince charming."

  "I don't know, she looks pretty happy to me. That all looks real."

  "That's her side of some delusional fantasy." Cassie looks at me in disbelief. "You aren't buying any of that crap, are you? She's some twenty-two-year-old crazy person sleeping with someone else's husband."

  "My husband. Who apparently found this twenty-two-year old crazy person enormously interesting. Fascinating even. Fabulous enough to risk everything. To ruin everything." The anger rises in me again and I can't decide who I hate more—Paul, for betraying me, his mistress for helping him, or myself for letting him.

  "I didn't invite you in here, meathead," Cassie yells. "You cannot bust in whenever you like." She turns to me, looking for me to back her up, but by now Graham has made his way around the couch and is standing over me.

  "I was down the street helping your dad with the garage door and I heard you'd been out with Cassie." He gives her a look. "Just coming by to make sure you were alive."

  Cassie rolls her eyes before returning to the kitchen. "Graham, she does not need a babysitter. She's a little out of practice with the tequila, that's all. No one threw up or got arrested, so we didn't need your big hands here to hold her hair back or anything. Quit being such a pain in the ass. If she had needed anything, I would have taken care of it."

  "Here." He hands me two paper bags. "I brought you your hangover breakfast." I open the first bag to find an Almond Joy and a cold bottle of Coca Cola. "I brought you mine too, in case you have finally wised up and realized that your hangover breakfast is disgusting." He smiles and gestures to the second bag containing a greasy egg sandwich. "If you don't eat it I will."

  I have to hand it to Graham, he's managed to not only remember how I used to handle a night of drinking, but he has made me smile for the first time since I woke up. Although neither of his offerings is appealing to my rebellious stomach. I swing my legs off the couch and onto the floor. I will need to face the music sooner rather than later.

  "I need to get moving. I have to take a shower before my parents bring the boys back home." It’s like I’ve got cotton in my throat.

  "Don't worry about that," Graham assures me. "I told Steve you might need Charlie and Noah to hang out over at their place for a bit. I reminded them about Cassie's alcoholism so he would be sure to believe me." He grins at Cassie who scowls from her seat.

  "Thanks for the mental health check, but I'm fine." I take a whiff of the sandwich and my stomach roils. No sandwich for me.

  "Are you?" Graham asks, taking in my teary eyes.

  "Yes. Here, eat this sandwich and then you can get on with your day." I give Graham a smile even though I don't feel it. There's no way I'm telling him about what I've found out about Paul, and there's no way he'll leave until he's sure everything is fine. "Cassie's got things under control here."

  "If she's got things under control then where's my coffee?" Graham yells loud enough for Cassie to hear.

  Cassie glowers from the kitchen. "I'll make you a cup. To go.”

  20

  Zach

  Standing on her front porch, I realize I should have called first. I think about turning around and getting back in the truck, but now that I've come this far my feet are stuck to the floor. When I got to the gym this morning and saw Julia's car still parked out front, I had two seconds of hope that she was there waiting for me. Then I remembered we had walked to Mamacita's and that Cassie had taken her home. Normally I'm a better planner. Not that I was planning on any of the things that happened after she showed up for her self-defense session. But once she started crying and ended up in my arms, I didn't want her to be alone. She'd wrecked me crying the way she did. Still not sure why, but that wasn't my place to ask.

  This doesn't explain the flowers I stopped to buy on the way over, the ones I’m now squeezing the life out of as I try to get myself sorted to ring the bell. The flowers cross a line. I know this but here I am anyway, psyching myself up like I would before a fight. I'm here to check on her, to make sure she's okay this morning, and to offer to drive her back to the gym to get her car. Nothing more. Except I'm considering inviting her to breakfast. Or lunch. And maybe holding her hand again like I did when I walked her out of the restaurant last night.

  I bounce on my toes a few times and shake my shoulders out. I'm nervous. Way more than I should be. I don't get like this, not anymore. Not since I resolved to focus on the gym, on myself, and on putting my life back together. Feelings like this are a distraction and I've been avoiding them at all costs. So why am I desperate to be sure Julia's okay? Why am I thinking constantly about the heat of her thigh next to mine in the booth last night or the way she wordlessly put her hand in mine? Why the hell am I buying flowers? I should go straight to the gym and work some of this out on the bag but I don't leave. I stay on the porch and make myself ring the bell. I'm way too invested and I'm sure that by now the neighbors have started to wonder about the creeper parked on Julia's porch. Now or never.

  Heavy footsteps thud toward the door as soon as the doorbell stops chiming. Two seconds later the door swings open and I find myself face-to-face with Graham. He looks almost smug as his attention shoots down to the bouquet in my hand and then back up to my startled face. His eyes narrow and he cocks his head, waiting for me to explain myself. Definitely should have called first.

  "Graham," I grind out, shifting my weight so I'm more evenly balanced. It hadn't occurred to me that he would be here. Has he been here all night? That's like a punch to the gut and I find myself narrowing my eyes. An unfamiliar feeling grips me: jealousy.

  "Zach." I notice him shifting his weight as well. We stare each other down long enough for Julia to appear behind him. She's puffy around the eyes and her hair is wet like she's just had a shower. Graham's dry but that only mollifies me for an instant. I do not need to start picturing the two of them in the shower together. She slides past Graham, and she isn't shy about touching him. She reaches out a hand and lets it rest on his chest. It only lasts a second, but it's long enough that I wince a bit. And he isn't moving. No, that asshole just stays where he is, feet planted, as Julia comes around to face me.

  "Zach?" Julia's voice is soft and questioning. "What are you doing here?"

  "I came to check on you and to see if you needed a ride to pick up your car." These things are all true but somehow, with Graham hovering over us, saying them out loud feels like a lie. I'm here for more than that, although from the looks of things I've misjudged.

  "I can take her to get her car," Graham volunteers as he folds his arms across his chest. "I'm already here."

  "But you were just leaving." Julia frowns at him as he moves back into the house. Even though I can't see him, I'm sure he hasn't gone far.

  "You didn't have t
o come all the way over here." Julia's having trouble meeting my eyes, and when she looks up I realize they're red-rimmed. She's more than hung over; she's been crying. The thought that Graham had anything to do with that rises up, making my chest tight.

  "Yes, I did." Julia lets a whisper of a smile play on the edges of her lips. "I didn't mean to interrupt. I didn't realize Graham was here." I don't know what to say about finding her home with Graham. "Are you okay here with him?'

  Julia blinks, and recognition steals across her face. "Graham? Oh, no. That's not... We’re not… Look, can we talk about this later? When my head isn't so fuzzy? I'm just, I'm overwhelmed today but I don't want you to think..."

  She shakes her head and then notices the flowers. By now I've managed to mangle the paper they were wrapped in to the point of embarrassment but I lift them up anyway. Julia's face brightens a bit. "You brought flowers?"

  "Apparently so."

  "For me?"

  "Well, they're not for Graham."

  "For me."

  Her brow furrows and her lips part. More than anything I want to lean forward and kiss her, to pull her against me and taste her. But I'm pretty certain this will justify a fist to the jaw from Graham and there's no way I'm going to end up in a fight on Julia's front porch. Instead I thrust the flowers toward her and plant a kiss on her forehead. Maybe not the smoothest move, but the best I can manage. I'm hoping it says that I'm in this—Graham or no Graham—and that she matters to me. I'm turning on my heels before she can say anything, leaving her standing in the doorway as I back out of the driveway.

  21

  Julia

  Licking my wounds when my mother is around has never been a pleasant experience. Not that my mother isn't a good parent—Francine has always tried to give me the best and she would walk through fire to protect her only child. But when it comes to falling apart, Francine believes firmly in keeping dirty laundry where it belongs, and that is locked behind closed doors. There is no need to tell everyone your business. No screaming fights on the front lawn, no crying jags in the supermarket, and most certainly no need to discuss.

  So coming to my parents' house right after discovering my husband had been unfaithful is a complicated thing. Despite her aversion to discussing feelings, my mother still has an uncanny knack for knowing when I'm upset. Walking in the front door to pick up the boys I feel her radar kick into overdrive. Since Paul died, she's eased up a little on me. Becoming a widow involves some decorum in her mind, but it also gives a bit of an excuse to have an off day or two. But what my mother considers an off day is what most would think of as top performance and her patience has its limits.

  She surveys my face and immediately sets her mouth in a frown. "Julia Louise, you look positively awful! Are you sick or something?"

  "Or something." I’m afraid for her to get too close. I've showered, but it is possible that her super sensitive nose will still be able to detect the tequila on me. In high school this was one of her superpowers. She would meet me at the door after a date or night out with friends and with one whiff could detect even a sip of something. I lived in fear of her clutching the front of her housecoat and declaring that we would talk about this in the morning. Smelling alcohol on a person after a bender will be no challenge for her. She's sure to figure out what I have isn't the flu.

  My mother comes close and puts her hand to my forehead. "No fever," she declares as she leans close to my face. One perfectly shaped eyebrow shoots up. I brace myself for the impending lecture.

  "You and Cassie tied one on last night or so I hear." Fran has turned her attention back to whatever she's got going on the stove. I silently curse Graham for making Cassie the bad guy in all this, but telling my mother about the real bad guy won't make either of us feel any better.

  "Where did you hear that?" I move closer to see what she's cooking.

  "I should tell you someone saw you out last night just to remind you that people do talk, but I'm guessing you already know it was Graham." She puts her wooden spoon in the spoon rest on the counter. I've seen her make this motion a million times and heard this lecture a million times more standing in this same spot.

  "You're home now as an adult and I understand that your life is your own, but running around and getting drunk with Cassie makes me feel as if your father and I will be wrangling your teenage self here any minute."

  "It wasn't like that," I actually feel my teenage self wiggle around in my chest. This is the price I pay for using my parents to babysit.

  "Well, what was it like then? By all means please tell me how you ended up so hung over you weren't able to come get your children in the morning like we planned." My mother stands with her hands on her hips and for a split second I get to glimpse behind the perfect mask she always wears. She's scared. Scared for me.

  "Do you believe in soul mates?"

  "Why would you ask me that?" Her hands slide a bit lower until she's standing with two small clenched fists by her sides.

  "I don't know, I just need another opinion, I guess." I stall but there's no way to back away from that question. "Do you believe in happily ever after, then? What about that?"

  My mother's face softens a bit. "You know that's only for fairy tales, Julia. What's this all about?"

  "You and Dad have been married forever. Is he your soul mate? Is he your happily ever after?" I'm crying now, big tears sliding down my cheeks and dripping off my chin.

  Francine moves from the stove and puts her arms around me. She leads me to the kitchen table and makes me sit. My tears keep coming as I sit in the chair where I ate breakfast every morning for eighteen years.

  "I'm going to make some tea and we're going to talk. You stay right here, do you understand me?" My mother moves to the stove, turns off her sauce, and puts the kettle on. In a flash she's back with tissues and two mugs of tea.

  "Is this about you losing your soul mate or something silly like that?" my mother asks as she slides my mug toward me across the surface of the table. "Because I thought I raised you to know you don't need a man to be happy. I understand missing him, but going out and drowning your sorrows isn't going to fix that problem." She reaches out with a tissue to wipe my face. "If you're worried about being alone then there are better ways of handling things."

  Leave it to my mother to both dismiss my feelings and shove them under the rug all in one sentence.

  "No, it isn't that. I'm lonely sometimes, but I'm okay. I just... never mind."

  But my mother can't leave things alone. Once she sees a chance to needle she usually takes it. This is her way of helping or at least that's what she usually tells my father. By now I know it's a way to keep me from coming to her with problems, ensuring I run to him instead. But we're here now and I realize with a start that having my mother's opinion might actually be helpful.

  She's sitting across the table from me waiting. I know she's expecting me to pull myself together and probably desperately hoping that I'll forget all about her invitation to "talk." Sorry, Fran, that's not happening today. I take a deep breath and dive in.

  "I know I don't need a man to be happy, Mom. I'm not out looking for a replacement for Paul and I wouldn't just grab the first person who came along. I... I wanted to know how you and Dad managed it. How have you stayed together? And are some people just made to be together and others made to pull apart, maybe? I'm trying to make sense of things."

  "Paul dying doesn't mean you were meant to pull apart, honey. If he had lived he would still be with you and his children. Leaving wasn't his choice."

  I can't look at her as the tears start flowing again. I'm probably dehydrated at this point from all the crying I've been doing. When she reaches for my hand, something that she would never, ever have done before, I find myself choking on the sobs that start to wrack my body.

  My mother pats my hand and gives it a squeeze, sliding me more tissues. "He didn't make a choice to hurt you, Julia. That was just the universe doing what it does. That wasn't a decision."


  When I can finally raise my face to meet her gaze, she freezes. Whatever she sees in my eyes makes her reconsider whatever she was about to say next. "But something else is going on here, isn't it?"

  I nod and she keeps patting until I can pull together the words. Saying it out loud still isn't getting any easier. "I found out some not very nice things about Paul yesterday," I manage. My mother shifts her gaze to look out the window where my father is running around the yard with my sons. I don't need to spell it out for her. She is the queen of thinly-veiled suggestions and non-answers. She knows exactly what kind of "not nice things" I'm talking about.

  "Well." She keeps looking out the window. Even if it's only the two of us, she will fight to rein in any strong emotion. When she finally turns to me her face is pleasant and composed. "Well, it's time we had a much, much longer discussion."

  Francine Myers is not a big drinker. She will have a glass of wine with dinner, possibly a cocktail if the mood is right. She will have a glass of champagne at a wedding or to toast the new year but she does not, as a general rule, drag out the "spirits," as my grandmother would call them, in the middle of the afternoon. So when my mother comes back to the kitchen table, after conferring with my father in the backyard, carrying the largest bottle of Jack Daniels I have ever seen, I am more than a little surprised. I am even more surprised when she goes to the cabinet, pulls out two glasses, and begins to mix two extremely strong drinks.

  "Bourbon and branch water," she tells me as she sits back down. "Even if this really isn't bourbon. Jack Daniels works just fine."

  I stare at her, my mouth hanging open.

  "What? It's good for the digestion. Your grandfather drank this every day for that very reason. Your father is taking the boys for ice cream, by the way, so you don't need to worry about them walking in. Go ahead, have some. I'm guessing you might need a little hair of the dog anyway."