I take a tentative sip of my drink and sputter when the whiskey burns down my throat. I can hear my mother tsk tsk me as she takes a large swig from her own glass.
"I would have thought that someone who could handle tequila wouldn't be derailed by a little whiskey." She leans forward to whack me on the back. "Maybe don't be so timid with it."
I take a larger sip and find that my mother is right. It doesn't burn as much and I can already feel the warmth of the alcohol flooding my belly.
"Better?" she asks, taking another sip. "Alright then, Julia Louise Myers Andrews, it is time to take stock of your life."
I stutter again. "Take stock of my life? What does that mean?"
"I think you know very well. I understand I haven't always been the warmest of mothers. I won't deny it. My own mother wasn't the warmest either and, for what it's worth, I was fine with you being a daddy's girl. There is something to be said for a daughter having a strong relationship with her father. And I suppose I thought spending time with him would mean I wouldn't have to have this conversation with you. I can see now that I've done you a disservice by biting my tongue when I should have spoken up."
"Mom," I strangle out, "you have never been one to bite your tongue. If anything you've always given me more than an earful when you think I'm wrong." I instantly regret my words when my mother's sharp eyes focus on me again.
"I will try not to take offense to that, Julia, because I'm sure that wasn't meant to be hurtful. But if I've been giving you such an 'earful' as you say, then I've obviously not been saying the things I should have." She reaches for her glass and takes another gulp. "Because despite being so clear-headed about so many things you have never managed to realize your self-worth."
I'm stunned. "My self-worth? I've just told you something damning about Paul and that has you talking about my self-worth?"
I should have known my mother would turn Paul's affair into a black mark against me, somehow blaming me for not keeping the home fires burning or for not being good enough to manage my marriage. I can feel the rage bubbling up in my throat and my chest constricting. This is not my fault and I refuse to let my mother make me accept responsibility for it. I'm just about to open my mouth in protest when she raises a hand to stop me.
"I can see you're taking this the wrong way. I most certainly do not blame you for Paul's indiscretions. I would never, ever do that. Those sins are on him and he's lucky he's dead so that your daddy doesn't have to kill him." She smiles a bit and I try to smile back.
"That seems to be the general consensus," I tell her. "I think there would be a line."
"I'm sure there would be, sweetheart, because so many people love you, but you don't always love yourself."
Again I go to protest, but find that I can't open my mouth. I love myself, right? Why would she think otherwise?
"I've never disparaged Paul. It was your decision to marry him and he was the father of your children. He helped make me a grandmother and I have to give him credit for that. He seemed to be a good father, but, Julia, he wasn't a great husband. He wasn't even the best boyfriend from what I remember. From the beginning of that relationship your father and I watched you lose little pieces of yourself. You had dreams and plans that just got swallowed up by his. It was Paul's show and you were just along for the ride. Think about this: were the two of you really partners? Were you a team?"
I'm not sure if this is a rhetorical question, but my mother seems content to sit back and work on her drink while I think about it. Paul and I were a solid team, at least, I thought so. But knowing now that he had what amounts to a giant pile of secrets, I'm not so sure. I sip my drink and consider. I know what it feels like to have someone want what's best for me, but right now I can't think of too many times Paul encouraged one of my ideas. Hell, he didn't even like to let me plan our vacations.
My mother clears her throat and continues. "Julia, you asked me if I believed in soul mates and if your father was my happily ever after, and I didn't do a good job of explaining myself before. Maybe I should have started explaining this better when you were a little girl. I love your father and we have made this marriage work, but it is work, make no mistake. We both have to be committed to the relationship and to each other. Paul wasn't committed to your marriage and he wasn't committed to the work. He loved you, but in relation to himself—what you could give him, what he could take. He gave you two beautiful children, but he didn't let you grow as a person. He didn't let you discover who you wanted to be without him."
"No..." I start but can't finish.
"You don't need to defend anything, honey. It is what it is. But let's compare him with Graham."
Now it is my turn to raise a hand in protest. "No, Mom, you can't keep throwing me back to Graham. It isn't fair to him or to me."
"I know, I know! That ship has sailed. I've given up on having Graham as a son-in-law." She waves her hand dismissively. "And when you two were dating I wouldn't have picked him as a great candidate, either. But think about how he encouraged you. Even as a teenager he thought about what would make you happy and when he thought he would hurt you he tried to prevent it. And look at the man he's grown up to be. He's going to be a great husband and father once he finds someone to love him the way he deserves to be loved. And you deserve to find that too, but you can't be looking for happily ever after. When you find someone who wants to let you shine, someone who loves your sons as much as you, someone who wants to really work at being together, then you decide if you want to let them be a part of things. Not the other way around. You are your own happily ever after, Julia. You and your boys and the life you decide to live." She leans back in her chair and makes quick work of what's left of her cocktail. "Now, finish your drink. I think we both need to blow off a little steam."
I try to follow her example and down the rest of my whiskey in one go, but I end up sputtering and coughing again.
"God, Mom, when did you become such a champion?" I ask, referring to not only the whiskey drinking, but the shockingly maternal conversation as well.
"I told you, that is medicinal. Don't go acting like I need to join AA. Now, come on out to the back yard and I'll show you the best part of making mosaics. You and I might need to smash a few plates."
22
Zach
I don't see Julia again until the next Friday. Well, I see her before that, but only while she's sitting with the other moms during the boys' weekly class. I'm distracted the entire hour, thinking about her mouth and the softness of her hands. She doesn't seem to be too chummy with the other ladies, but she makes conversation. Once or twice I see her laughing, tipping her head back a little to reveal the sweep of her neck. That does me in, just that little tease of skin there down to the hollow of her throat. I imagine running my tongue down the length of it and have to shake myself back into the present, back to the kids and their drills.
When the kids are finished and packing up, I head straight for her. I'm not sure what I'm thinking. In the back of my mind there's this crazy idea that I could ask her out. For dinner? Too serious, maybe. For coffee? Not serious enough. As I'm debating the merits of lunch someone steps right in my path. I'm so focused on Julia that I run right into the woman and when she angles herself so that her breasts manage to touch my chest in the ensuing crash, we end up awkwardly pressed against each other.
"Oh, oops!" She smiles up at me and I realize I can see directly down the front of her sweater. It has one of those deep necklines that, with the help of what appears to be a push up bra, forces her breasts up and almost over the top. Or maybe it isn't a push up bra, maybe that's all her in there. I could probably know for sure if I tried to keep my chest against hers for a little longer. Either way, as distracting as it is, I move to get around her. Her display of skin's not giving me half the reaction the sight of Julia's smile does.
"Zach." The cleavage isn't budging and slides over to keep itself in my way. "Do you have a minute to talk about Brandon's progress? He really enjoy
s the class and I would love to have your opinion on what we could do at home to help keep him motivated."
"What? I'm sorry, um," I totally space on her name. "If you could give me just a minute. I need to talk to another parent real quick. Can you wait right here, um..."
"Melinda," she supplies with a frown, making me feel like an ass now for not only ogling her boobs, but for failing to remember the name of the mother of one of my longest running students.
"Melinda, right," I stammer, looking over her shoulder to try and catch Julia's eye. "If you can just give me a second, I'd be more than happy to talk about Brandon."
Julia already has Charlie and Noah packed up and ready to go. I stride over fully prepared to put it all on the line. Until I see both boys looking up at me, that is. I become aware of the other kids in the room and conscious of the eyes all on me now. This isn't the place or the time to try to make myself more than friends with Julia. The teacher in me snaps to attention, shoving my internal horny teenage boy back down to the mat.
"Hi," I choke out and Julia looks at me with amusement. "You guys did great today." I look at Charlie and Noah and ruffle their sweaty hair. "You worked hard too, am I right?"
They nod in that vigorous way that shakes the baby fat in their cheeks. I have to go slow here, I remember, I have to be gentle with more than just Julia's feelings. I take a deep breath and shelve my plans. Like prepping for a big fight, I have to think about strategy. I can't force things. This is a lesson I've learned over and over. Even if you manage to make a little headway in the short term, pushing through without considering your next move can cost you the match. And I'm interested in the long game here, not instant gratification.
"I wanted to make sure we’re still on for Friday." I try hard not to look too eager.
"Of course," she answers with what I hope is a little bit of eagerness as well. "But no repeat performance of last Friday, deal?"
"I don't think my liver could handle that on a regular basis. We can just stick to self-defense." I smile and she smiles back and I can feel it in the tips of my fingers. Breathe. I have to tell myself. Breathe. Don't rush it.
And then she's moving toward the door, herding the boys and their backpacks. But she looks back over her shoulder and gives me another smile and I know I'm making progress here.
"You're here on Fridays now?" Melinda's question pulls me back into my body.
"No," I answer, not even thinking. "Friday's my Saturday."
"Oh." She feigns confusion and takes the opportunity to twirl a strand of hair around one finger. Her nails are long and painted a bright red. "I thought you said you had a self-defense lesson with Julia on Friday. Just now. That's what you said."
"Yeah, but that's not regular schedule." I'm only half paying attention, still watching Julia get smaller and smaller through the glass of the front door. I only do what I want on Friday. That's what I tell everyone. "Julia's an old friend so she's not…" I think about how I should phrase this. She's not what? A regular client? "She's Julia."
Melinda's face wrinkles a bit and she purses her lips. I shrug. Time to change the subject.
By now Brandon has her hand and is pulling her out the door. That's the way it is when the kids get ready to leave. They're constantly saving me from awkward conversations. Not that there won't be a few more tonight as the rest of the kids and their parents file through the door. I give him a thumbs up and return Melinda's wave with much less enthusiasm than she's giving me. Other parents push past to get their kids home for dinner, baths, and bedtime stories. I imagine Julia doing these things for her boys: tucking them in, turning off the lights. What does she do after, when it's just her in the dark quiet of her house? I think about this later as I sit alone in my own dark house, sipping a beer, no one to tuck in except myself.
23
Julia
By the time Friday rolls around, I've spent more time than I'd like to admit cyberstalking Paul's mistress. I've wasted hours looking for clues to why my husband would betray me. But those hours really were wasted, because if there was some magical way to see inside Paul's brain, looking at Kelly's social media is certainly not it. You can see that Paul’s left a hole in her life as well. In my more charitable moments, I found myself feeling a little bit sorry for her. Just a little bit though, because I'm only human and still mad as hell. But she's really just a kid. She was fresh out of college and looking for someone to love and take care of her. Instead she found Paul, a man who may actually have loved her, but was lying to us both. In the end his death probably hurt her too.
I slightly regret not giving the computer to Cassie when she offered to take it. But I know myself, even without the incriminating emails to read, full of their undying devotion and, unfortunately, graphic descriptions of everything my husband hoped to do to Kelly, I still would have been trolling the Internet for answers. And I have to hand it to Kelly on that one, because those emails showed a side of Paul that I had never seen. He was a brilliant wordsmith when it came to getting into a twenty-two-year-old's pants. Bravo.
When not consumed with all things cheating Paul, I manage to spend some time considering my other new obsession: Coach Zach. It doesn't help that both Noah and Charlie are obsessed with him as well. I tried, really, really tried, to keep those thoughts professional. He's working with my children, and throwing myself into the hornets' nest of soccer moms already competing for his affection is probably one of the worst ideas I've ever had. Still, I'd be lying if I said I hadn't spent a portion of my evening every day dissecting his appearance on my porch with a fist full of flowers. And then the awkward forehead kiss before he ran off. Surely he isn't providing this as a service for all the martial arts moms. Maybe only for the ones he has to take out for tequila therapy? Either way, after our middle school hand holding session at the bar, Zach has been a welcome distraction from my Paul drama.
Seeing Zach on Tuesday didn't clear up any of my teenage girl confusion, either. If anything, watching him work gave me more of the warm and fuzzy feelings. Feelings that could complicate what I've come to see as a good friendship. When he came over with that look of determination as I was organizing the boys, I'll be honest, I was hoping for something that would tip the scales in one direction or the other. It's all fine and good if this infatuation is all in my head, but some clarification from him would go a long way to clearing up any confusion. If that Melanie or Melinda or whatever her name is could have just given us two minutes then I wouldn't be driving to meet Zach for a self-defense lesson worrying that I should have been more conscientious about shaving my legs this morning. Which, if I'm going to meet my friend and self-defense instructor is a little pitiful, but, if I'm on my way to meet my more than a friend who just happens to be instructing me in self-defense, is a perfectly legitimate concern.
The tinkling of the bell over the door provides me the opportunity to look him over from head to toe. If he notices me staring at him, he doesn't let on. Instead his whole face lights up and he gives me a good look at those perfect teeth. His smile doesn't fade as he comes around the counter to wrap me in a hug. Not our usual way to start our session, but I don't complain. I let my body melt into his and don't pull back even when we both realize that in the world of friendship this hug has gone on a little too long. Reluctantly, Zach releases me and I immediately miss the feeling of his chest against mine. He slides his arms from my shoulders and stays close, surprising me by taking my hand in his. I'm struck by how well we fit together, none of the floundering and readjusting that were the hallmark of my disastrous after-Paul dates. None of the nervous apologizing before finally admitting defeat and moving back into our own personal space. Zach's long fingers intertwine with mine and his thumb rubs a small circle on the back of my hand. My skin feels red hot under his touch.
"I set us up in the other room so we can use the Thai bag. Is that okay?" Zach leads me around to the smaller of the two studio rooms. We've used this room before, but today the idea of being tucked out of sight in
a smaller space feels slightly illicit. Zach waits for me to object and I know that if I want to, I can put things firmly back in the friend zone here. I can insist on the larger room with its windows, easily visible from the parking lot and the front counter. But I don't do this, and I don't let go of his hand as he moves farther from the relative safety of the main room to the privacy of the smaller one. Things have shifted and this time I'm not doing anything to stop it.
Zach only releases my hand to pull his sweatshirt over his head. The T-shirt he wears underneath rides up just enough to let me see a quick flash of skin. Instinctively I reach out to touch it, but Zach's already straightening up and reaching for the pads he slides over his arms for my warm-up. I pull my hand back and get set, neither of us speaking. After being together these past few months we have a routine and wordlessly begin. I don't put all my force into the punches yet and we move around the room, Zach weaving a bit to throw me off guard. This usually gets my heart rate up, but today I'm already sweating. We always joke around during this part, but now neither of us even cracks a smile. I look directly into Zach's eyes, trying to steady my breathing. And he's looking back, making it impossible for me to look away.
I lean forward, but I'm distracted and off-balance. When my fist should connect with the pad, I strike into nothing but air. I've put my weight behind the punch this time and I find myself falling, watching the mat get closer and closer. I brace myself for the unavoidable impact, getting ready for the thump of my shoulder against the floor. I've fallen plenty of times in my sessions with Zach. That's part of the training, apparently. He preaches about the importance of recovering from a misstep on a regular basis and for the past few weeks he’s been letting me hit the mat hard. But today, I don't get to show how quick I can be back on my feet because instead of letting me fall, Zach's arm shoots out to catch me. I dangle for a split second before he pulls me up against his chest. He blinks down at me. One beat. Then two. And then his mouth crashes down on mine.
Fight For It Page 14
