by Lisa Barr
“Love your hair,” she says, winding a strand around her fingers. “Missed you too.”
From the corner of my eye, I see Gabe watching us, left out—no usual three-way hug. See, Gabe, this is the one three-way you lost out on.
I point to Ava’s chair at the kitchen table. “Go sit down.” I snap into Mom mode, pouring her coffee and cutting her a piece of the banana chocolate loaf that Gabe must have just picked up yesterday from Whole Foods. I gently press my thumb into it. Still fresh. I open the refrigerator, which is surprisingly well stocked, and pull out a new container of strawberries while taking inventory: lots of fruits and veggies—all my favorites. He loaded up for our family reunion.
“So . . . ,” Gabe says, as we all sit and face each other.
I ignore him and turn to Ava. “So, I slept pretty well on the plane, but not last night at the hotel. I’m sure the jet lag will kick my butt later. But let’s hit Bed Bath & Beyond, Target, and the Container Store today—the usual suspects—while I’m still functioning,” I say.
“Sounds great.” Ava turns to her dad, then looks back at me. “We thought we’d all go to dinner tonight if you’re up to it. That new sushi place. Mom, you will love it.”
“Together?” I ask, knowing the answer.
She exchanges glances with her father again. “Yes, together. Is that okay?”
“Whatever your mom wants to do,” Guilty Gabe pipes in.
Screw you. Don’t go all Good Guy here. The anger from our unfinished conversation is still ballooning. “Sushi it is.” I stand, knowing it’s best to remove myself before my bubbling anger makes landfall. “I’m going to take a quick shower now, and we’ll begin our day whenever you’re ready, honey.”
They both watch me with micromanaging eyes, as though I am Ava’s photosynthesis experiment, her big fifth-grade science project. I remember how we all stood around the kitchen island watching that large jar filled with leaves in water for hours to see how oxygen is created. I know exactly what they are both thinking: Is she going to go upstairs to the master bedroom or to the guest room? It matters. Whichever choice I make tells the rest of the story. I see the dual anticipation in their faces. Ava’s eyes are wide, Gabe’s are wider.
My heart aches because there is no way in hell I’m going up to the master bedroom. Choosing the unpopular Option B, I wheel my suitcase over to the guest room on the far side of the first floor. I hear their disappointed sighs in stereo behind me, and I feel even sadder. They clearly had a plan, an obvious collusion, and I’ve gone off script. The truth is, entering the guest room, which I have never slept in before, is one of the hardest things I have ever done. Choosing me first over their needs, disappointing my daughter and yes, even Gabe, takes us all by surprise.
Chapter Thirty
DINNER FEELS EERILY LIKE OLD TIMES, AND DESPITE EVERYTHING, I ALLOW myself to enjoy it. The three of us together, eating sushi, ordering our favorite rolls and pieces, sharing and double-dipping, and for a moment I forget everything. I glance around the packed hip restaurant. “Love this place.”
Ava is pleased. “I knew you would.”
The restaurant, called Su-Chic, is very high-end for the burbs. It belongs in the city. It is decorated in art deco grays and brushed silver; vintage chandeliers shaped like lanterns hover over each table; abstract art lines the walls; and large three-foot-high glass vases filled with exotic Japanese plants are on each table. And the menus are one-page thin limestone blocks—no sushi pictures on sticky laminated plastic anywhere. Gabe and Ava are laughing, and if I don’t let myself think and just feel this, feel us, there is something to it that seems so right. Ava in her entertainer role senses my participation. She is center stage, eagerly sharing her travel tales with Jake—no mention of Olivier, the cheating, me staying in the South of France, or our family brokenness. The dinner is the Old Us—Ava, first and last, Gabe and me her adoring audience. And then without warning, the curtain comes crashing down.
Over Gabe’s shoulder, I see Samantha and Lauren walk into the restaurant. And then I realize that this family dinner was all a setup. The spell is broken. I glare at my deceptive child and husband.
“Really?”
Before they can respond, my ex-best friends make a beeline to our table. I look away, trying to pull myself together and pretend like I’m searching for something in my purse.
“Hi, Soph,” Samantha says loudly, as Lauren eyes me closely but doesn’t even look at Gabe. Everybody is beyond uncomfortable and I do nothing to help the situation. I can tell Samantha is dying to hug me and Lauren wants to make a comment about my hair but knows better.
I stand with crossed arms. “No way. Uh-uh. Not happening.”
Ava pulls me back down by my shirtsleeve. “Please, Mom, just hear them out. They are your best friends. They want to talk to you. Just be you again for five minutes.”
Me again? I stare at my daughter—Eve in real life. “You have no idea.”
She glances at Gabe, but he is looking at me. I give him a cold glare. Did you tell Ava you slept with Lauren? I want to shout at him, and almost do. Me again. Please.
“Let’s go, Dad. I will drive back with you.”
Yes, we drove in separate cars to the restaurant. It was Ava’s idea, and I thought she was being considerate of my feelings. Now I know why: they needed an escape vehicle for this so-called intervention. Gabe pays the bill, leaves exact cash, and follows Ava out the door. Bravo, I think. Well played.
I look at my former friends with unfiltered side eye. I will give you both ten minutes and then I’m out of here.
I tell the passing waitress to bring me another glass of pinot grigio. If I’m going to do this, it’s going to be my way, and saturated. As Samantha and Lauren sit down, they are both visibly ill at ease, waiting for me to say something—anything—but I remain purposely silent. Samantha clears her throat. The opening monologue is about to begin. I can hardly wait.
Not so fast, I think, changing my mind. Samantha is not going to control this as usual, so I cut in, establish the format. “I’m really not interested in what either of you has to say. But for the sake of my daughter—say it quickly and then I’m leaving. Ten minutes.” Samantha looks tired. There are dark circles under her eyes that were never there before. Lauren, on the other hand, looks great. She had a blow-out for the occasion—her red mane is voluminous around her shoulders. I can barely look at her.
“Okay, we get it. We fucked up,” Samantha begins. “These past weeks have been hell without you. You know that. It’s always been the three of us against the world.”
Was the three of us, was.
“We want to do anything we can to fix this, Soph.” She glances at Lauren, who is chewing at her lip, knowing her betrayal is far worse than Samantha’s.
“I appreciate that you are here,” I tell them, trying to be somewhat diplomatic. “But I can never go back to what was. This is not fixable. This changed me. I would never have come back to North Grove if it weren’t for Ava—you both know that, right?”
They don’t respond. Lauren’s eyes are wide and unblinking and Samantha nods but barely. The ball still in my court, I continue, “The night of my birthday, Gabe’s betrayal. So many women. But nothing—I repeat, nothing—hurt me more than you.” I shoot Lauren a dirty look and refrain from pointing my finger in her face. “So many years you’ve had feelings for Gabe, from the beginning. I saw it at prom, damn it. I saw it when we were in Italy. And I can’t stop thinking and rethinking that it was all happening in front of my face. You probably played footsie with him under my new kitchen table—while all of our kids were there. How could you? And you slept with him in Nashville when I was sick as a dog—how the hell could you do that to me?” My voice rises, people are looking, but I couldn’t care less. My eyes are sizzling. I turn to Samantha accusingly. “And you knew. You were an accomplice to this. Shame on you both.”
“It was once,” Lauren whispers. Her voice sounds mousy and guilt-ridden. “Once. I was dru
nk and it happened. And I cannot forgive myself so I don’t expect you to forgive me.”
“If it were just once,” I counter, “it would be one time too many. But it wasn’t once—it was all the way through. At least admit it, Lauren. Admit it now.”
A deafening silence looms for maybe five seconds, but feels like an eternity.
“Yes,” she says and instant tears erupt, casting a shimmery mist over her green eyes, a color I realize that is very close to Luc’s. Samantha’s mouth drops open.
“Really? So surprised? Innocent? Give me a break.” This time I do point at Samantha. “We’ve both known that Lauren has always been jealous of us, even laughed about it.” I sound mean, but I can’t help it. The hurt inside is an open, festering wound. “How could you not tell me?”
Samantha doesn’t answer that directly. Instead, she begins her prepared monologue. “Yes, everything you are saying is true. And if it were reverse, you would have told me, you would have told Lauren. We know that.” She looks to Lauren for back-up support. “We messed up, Soph. I have nothing to say for myself—no defense, okay. All I know is that not having you in my life is far worse than even my mother’s death.”
Time stops. I knock the chopsticks off the table. This. This gets to me and she knows it. Lynda is the lone card Samantha possesses and she plays it. We all loved Lynda. I’m not inhuman. Breathe, I tell myself, just breathe.
Lauren’s turn now. She knows she is going to have to work a whole lot harder. “You’re right, Sophie. I am jealous. I am insecure. I’ve always felt that you and Samantha were closer than I am with either of you. And I’m not going to blame my fucked-up childhood, but there’s that.” Her voice shakes. “And yes, I had a crush on Gabe all through high school, from the moment I saw him in the lunchroom freshman year. And when you started dating him, it killed me. He chose you. The night . . .” She glances at Samantha, who gives her a keep going look. “That night Gabe and I were together was not at all how you imagined it to be. I couldn’t go through with it, couldn’t continue. I realized . . . actually I had an epiphany, Sophie, in that awful moment of betraying you, that it wasn’t Gabe I wanted—it was you.”
Oh my god. I nearly knock over my wine.
But her watery, red-rimmed lying eyes are telling the truth. I know those eyes. I glance at Samantha for verification. She nods. “It’s true,” Lauren continues. “I’m planning on leaving Matt, only he doesn’t know it yet. Just you two know, of course. After everything that happened with you, I realized it was high time for me to finally be true to who I am, whatever that means. I know it’s not going to be easy on my kids. It’s not what I choose to be, but I have to be comfortable at some point with who I really am. This was not the plan, right?” She looks at both of us and knows that this was not anything remotely near the plan. I’m speechless, realizing my mouth has dropped open and I’m not blinking. “I’m not done here.” Her voice seems to strengthen. “Forgive me for hurting you so deeply. But you need to know that it was you I was in love with, you who I was looking at during prom—you.” She sighs deeply, and then smiles slightly. “And Jenna from yoga is a close second.”
We all laugh. Impossible not to. The marvels of our yogi Jenna’s bendable body are beyond comprehension and the main subject of our numerous lunches after class.
But Lauren is still not done. “I take full responsibility for all the pain I caused you, Soph. Maybe somewhere inside of you, at some point in the future, you can understand and hopefully forgive me.” The pent-up tears stream freely down her face now. “And your hair does look great, by the way.”
We can’t help it. We all laugh through the tears, because it is all so sad-funny, all too true-funny, all too Jo-Malone-for-three funny. My best friend was in love with me. Of course, I didn’t see it. And how hard it must have been for her all these years to hide it. I cannot help but think of Lea—her radiant skin, that lithe body. But Lauren, as beautiful as she is, is my sister. This secret truth of hers I can work with. I can forgive this somehow. She was in love with me—not Gabe. She was looking at me at prom from across the gym—not Gabe. She wanted to play footsie with me under the table—not Gabe. She wanted to take from me what she could never have—me. None of it is right, none of it is okay, but in its twisted truth there is honesty and pain—more for her than for me.
There are no words for this. Samantha gently covers her hand over mine, Lauren over Samantha’s. It’s not simple. Our eyes lock. But it is forgivable.
“Okay,” I say softly, and slowly cup my hand over theirs.
Chapter Thirty-One
AVA AND GABE ARE WATCHING DEFINITELY, MAYBE WHEN I WALK IN—ONE OF our family favorites. Gabe presses pause and looks up at me.
“Thank you,” I tell them both. I long to sit with them, share the popcorn, watch Ryan Reynolds, and play house.
“Come sit with us,” says Ava, the mediator. Pablo chimes in with a wag of his tail.
“Can we talk first?” I sit on the long arm of the couch with just enough distance. Gabe turns off the TV. I have been driving around North Grove for the past half hour, rehearsing what I want to say to both of them.
They look at me as though I’m an impersonator. Neither is used to this new version of me and I get it. “I really appreciate that you did that for me,” I tell them. “This has all been so damn hard. I want to be with you both, I really do. But I can’t pretend what happened didn’t happen.” I’m quiet for a few moments, and Pablo nestles up to me. “Ava, you are the love of our lives.” I glance at Gabe, who nods. “The best part of us. I didn’t ask for what happened between your dad and me, but it happened. And I can’t go back.”
“But maybe we can move forward,” she says with a glint of hope in her eyes, and it kills me that I’m the one to add to her despair. “You guys have always been the best couple. Maybe you can work through the crap like Jake and I did.”
If only there was a road map for working through the crap. I look at Gabe. “Please tell her the truth. Help me out here.”
Gabe looks like he wants to throw up, but he muscles up, turns to Ava. “I didn’t just cheat on your mom. And it wasn’t once or even twice like I told you in Paris, which would have been bad enough. I had numerous affairs throughout our entire marriage. I betrayed this family repeatedly and I’m not proud of it.”
Thank you, Gabe, for owning this, my eyes tell him. Ava tears up. This is all too much for anyone’s child to handle. “I know, Dad. I heard all about stupid Ashley Madison from Caitlin. She told me that you were the number one cheater in North Grove. I know, maybe not everything, but I know.” She chokes back the tears. “What am I supposed to do with all this?”
The level of humiliation and shame she must feel—and hearing the truth from Samantha’s eldest, who is two years younger than Ava and who has always looked up to her. And yet Ava is still sitting here with Gabe anyway, watching Definitely, Maybe, still longing for us to reconcile somehow.
Ava clutches a throw pillow to her chest and turns to me. “It must have hurt you so much, Mom. I’ve done nothing but think about this and talk to Jake about it. In Dad’s defense, when I was with Olivier, I never once thought of his wife. I mean never. It’s easy to do, you know—to separate things, to compartmentalize—to just pretend other things around you don’t exist. And it’s wrong.” She looks at her father. “Did you think of us when you were having all those affairs?”
My eyes pop. This could be a reality show, a Jerry Springer special, where Ava’s fed her lines—and yet they are all hers. Our daughter is asking the Golden Question: When you betrayed us, did you think of us, or did you pretend we didn’t exist?
Facing the two most important women in his life, Gabe is in the hot seat. He knows his fatherhood and husbandhood are riding on this. There is no more room for lies.
“Yes, I pretended.” Perspiration lines his forehead. “While it was happening it was easy, but not the afterward. When I’d drive away from wherever I was, I never pretended. I felt it all—th
e guilt, the disgust, the shame, the disappointment.”
“But it didn’t stop you,” Ava says, barely audible.
“No.” He looks at me. His downturned mouth is childlike, remorseful. Part of me breaks for him, wanting to protect him from himself.
“So, what now?” Ava asks.
They both look to me, the only real adult in the room. I think of Lea and Jean-Paul—that first night we spent together when I was a novice sexual participant, and the one that followed, when I was calling the shots. I think of Luc’s loyalty to his dying wife, despite Nathalie’s betrayal. We are all just human, some of us a little more, some of us less. I love these two people with all their faults. I only wish I could deal with the crap and just move on. I wish I could curl up in that crook of Gabe’s arm again the way we used to at the end of a long day and binge on Netflix. But I’m a rubber band pulled too far. Somewhere along the way I snapped. I can’t go back, there are no steps to retrace. No pretend. Even for Ava.
I pull out the only response I can find from The Good Mom Playbook, the chapter called “It’s Not Your Fault.” “No matter what happens between us, Ava, I will always love your dad. He was my first love, my first everything.” I glance quickly at Gabe, thinking, But now not my only. “I won’t lie to you, what happened—the numerous betrayals—have been beyond painful and I’ve been lost.” I move from the arm of the couch and now sit next to them, closer to them. “The silver lining, if there is one, is that it forced me to really look at myself and ask what did I really want. The truth is, I wasn’t very happy either. You know how you feel when you are not painting, Ava? You get edgy, irritable, parts of you feel like they’re dying. Well, I stopped sculpting. First it was medical, and then it was fear.” I look at Gabe. “I buried my passion years ago and I know that affected us. Now that I’m working again, everything seems to have changed. Who knows, maybe it took what happened between us to kick my ass in gear and find me again.”
