Good Luck with That

by Kristan Higgins

  I held my breath, waiting for the answer. I could just go in. That would answer the question, wouldn’t it?

  “Mom, I thought we agreed you wouldn’t ask that anymore,” Will said.

  And that was all. I stood there, still poised to knock like a dope. Then again, it wasn’t exactly a no, either, said the part of my brain that had spent five years waiting for Camden to date me.

  “Leave him alone, Leslie,” the dad said.

  “I’d just like to know if my son has a special someone,” she said.

  “I don’t.”

  The words hit me like an arrow to the chest.

  “See? If he did, he’d tell you. Take care of yourself, son. We’ll see you soon.”

  Oh, God, they were leaving. They’d see me, and that was the last thing I wanted at this moment.

  I bolted down the steps and around the corner of the house, behind the rather ugly rhododendron bush, and watched Will’s parents leave. They looked perfectly nice. They held hands. They drove a Volvo.

  And then they were gone.

  He didn’t want his parents to know about me. The feeling was horribly familiar.

  Go home to meet his parents.

  Yeah, right. Their son had just denied my existence.

  I went up his steps. Knocked.

  He answered almost right away, and frowned. “Hey,” he said. “You’re early.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  He glanced down the street. “No, of course not. Come in.”

  I did. Sat on the brown couch in the unadorned living room. “Do you have any wine?”

  “Yes. Since you seem to like it.” He smiled.

  I didn’t smile back. “Of course I like it. I’m human.”

  He got me the wine. Water for himself.

  “So what did you do today, Will?” I asked.

  “Worked. Read Game of Thrones. You were right, it’s addictive.”

  I waited. He said nothing more. I took a hearty swallow of wine, then another.

  “You okay, Marley?”

  “I’m great. How are your parents?”

  He didn’t look away, just took a slow, deep breath. “I gather you saw them leaving.”

  “Just a glimpse. You look like your father.”

  “A lot of people say that.” He looked at his hands, perhaps aware that he was in deep, deep shit.

  The clock ticked from the kitchen. I waited. Debated asking, Why did you tell them you didn’t have a special someone? Huh? Why didn’t you mention me?

  But I knew the answer. He didn’t want them to know.

  “It’s my birthday this week,” I said. “Wednesday.”

  “Happy birthday.”

  “I’d like you to come for dinner that night,” I said, my voice flat. “To Roberto’s, about twenty minutes from here. I want you to meet my family.”

  His face was like a door shutting. “I’m not sure I can do that.”

  “Then come to my folks’ house afterward for cake. It will just be us. The DeFelice family. Me, my parents, my sister, my brother, his husband.”

  “I . . . I don’t think that’s going to work.”

  “I think it will. I have a lot of faith in you. You were brave enough to save a woman’s life during a mass shooting. You can meet my family.”

  “Marley—”

  I set the wineglass down on the table so hard I was surprised it didn’t break. “I know you have problems, Will, but so do I! My birthday is also my dead twin’s birthday, in case you didn’t do the math. My parents are moving out of the house they’ve lived in my whole life, and it will be the last time we’re there. You have a hard time with crowds and leaving the house, and I know you’ve been making progress on that front. So make more progress, because I would really, really like to have you with me.”

  “I want to do it, Marley, but—”

  “Do you? Because you didn’t mention me to your parents ten minutes ago when your mother asked if you were seeing someone.”

  He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the couch. Busted. “That’s not about you. And I’d go to your birthday if I could, but—”

  “No. Don’t tell me why you can’t do it. Think about why I’m worth it. Me coming over here is not enough. I’d like to go places and do things and interact with other people, and I’d like you to do those things, too. I want more than a relationship that just has me coming here to eat, watch movies and have sex.”

  Granted, those three things were among my top five favorite things to do in life, but yeah. More than just that.

  Will rubbed his forehead. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

  The words were like a slap. “Okay, then.”

  “Marley. It’s not like I’m going clubbing or to Broadway shows or the Caribbean without you. I have some issues.”

  “I know you do,” I said more gently. “It’s time to move past them.”

  “I don’t see why this”—he waved a hand between us—“is so terrible.”

  “This”—I waved my hand back—“is not terrible. It’s just very limited.”

  He shrugged. “For now.”

  “When does now end, then? I mean, you haven’t even been to my house. We can’t even get coffee together.”

  “This is all I can do. For now.”

  “Well, I’m not going to be a secret booty call.”

  “You’re more than that.”

  “Am I? Because it doesn’t feel that way. Our entire relationship consists of me kind of being at your beck and call, always on your terms.” The image of Camden and Amber at drinks that night flashed in front of me. “I can’t do that anymore.”

  He rubbed his forehead and looked at the floor.

  One more try. “Will,” I said, my voice shaking, “there’s a shrine to my sister in my parents’ living room, and we’re taking it down. Please come. Please be there for me. I think I deserve it.”

  Nothing.

  Well, goddamn.

  “Fine.” I said. “Salt & Pepper is dropping you as a client, sorry to say. And this”—I waved my hand between us—“is done.”

  At noon on my thirty-fifth birthday, Hudson Lifestyle sent a photographer and a reporter over for my cover story. I’d cooked all morning to showcase various dishes, and the photographer, Kate, took pictures of me in the kitchen, me in the garden with a handful of the last parsley of the season. She took close-up shots of the cute, biodegradable Salt & Pepper boxes, food porn shots, and even one of me in regular clothes, eating fettuccine with pesto. The reporter asked questions, Kate put me at ease, and it was quite nice.

  Be in a photo shoot. Emerson would’ve been so proud of me. Me, on the cover of a glossy magazine, celebrating the business I had created with my own two hands.

  Afterward, I did my deliveries early, since I had dinner at Roberto’s with the family at seven. I very nearly turned onto Redwood Street, where Will lived. Paused for a minute, feeling my chest tighten, then course-corrected and went to Rachel’s.

  As usual, the three girls swarmed my legs, professing their love of me, their hatred of broccoli, their desire to have me live with them. “Play with us! We want to play restaurant, Marley! Please! Please!”

  “I’m afraid not, princesses,” I said. “I have a family dinner tonight.”

  “Go play upstairs, girls,” Rachel said, and off they went, a little flock of sisters. They were so lucky.

  “I know you don’t have time to play restaurant, but do you have time for a glass of wine?” Rachel asked, smiling.

  I glanced at my watch. “One small glass of wine, if you don’t mind me drinking and running.”

  “No, that’s great. How was your day?”

  “It was good,” I said. “I had a photo shoot for Hudson Lifestyle, and when the issue drops, I think business is going to boom.�
�

  “Oh, good for you! You deserve it. Your food is amazing.” She blushed a little. “If you ever need a part-time assistant, it’d be my dream job.”

  I paused. “You’re hired,” I said.

  “Really? Thank you, Marley!”

  “I mean, it’ll be a lot around the holidays, and it won’t be every day, but yeah! I could use the help. I imagine that with four-year-old triplets, you won’t always know your availability, but we can work around that.”

  “Oh, this will be so much fun! By the way, they’re five now,” she said. “Just had their birthdays.”

  That stopped me in my tracks.

  They weren’t four anymore. They’d made it. “Thank God,” I blurted. “Thank God.” My eyes filled with tears, and all of a sudden, I found myself telling Rachel about Frankie.

  She didn’t freak out, didn’t burst into tears. She just hugged me close and was absolutely lovely.

  A little while later, after I’d dried my tears and hugged the girls, I drove down to the cemetery to meet my family and lay the white roses on Frankie’s grave, as we did every year on this day.

  We stood in a little knot, looking at her headstone.

  Francesca Gabriella DeFelice, precious daughter and sister.

  Heaven’s sweetest angel.

  “I’ll come every week, Mom,” Dante said.

  “I’ll come at least once a month,” Eva said. “Don’t worry. Not one weed will dare show its face.”

  I didn’t say anything. Truth was, I hated the cemetery, as beautiful as it was. It would be good for Eva and Dante to step up. I didn’t always have to be the one to do everything when it came to Frankie.

  Dinner was excellent, as it always was at Roberto’s. When Mom asked if my friend was coming, I simply said we’d had a miscommunication, and he got the date wrong. Didn’t want to sully the evening by making people blue.

  All through dinner, though, I pictured him coming through the door, running a hand through his perpetually disheveled hair, looking around till he saw us. He’d smile at me, and he’d be a little sweaty, and that would be just fine with me.

  He didn’t come.

  And it was fine. We had a few laughs, Dante and Louis telling a story of a naked woman who didn’t want to leave her apartment building, despite the flames and smoke, since the neighbors would see her “wobbly bits.” Eva told us that she got to fire someone who’d been watching porn at work, and had followed him to the elevator, dinging the receptionist’s desk bell and chanting, “Shame, shame, shame.” My father toasted me and told me I was a wonderful daughter, and Mom kissed me seven times throughout dinner and hardly cried at all.

  It was when we got home that things got tough.

  The only furniture left in my parents’ house was a folding table and six plastic chairs . . . and the shrine, all four candles burning, the pictures of Frankie, Ebbers the Penguin looking back at us from his shelf.

  “Dinner was nice, wasn’t it?” Mom asked. She was nervous, of course. She was leaving her children, moving to a different state, away from everyone she knew. She was more than nervous. She was terrified.

  I was terrified, too. The idea that my parents were going to be four and a half hours away made my knees feel sick and wobbly.

  “Dinner was great,” I said, realizing I hadn’t spoken yet. “I love that place.” Not a lie.

  “Who wants wine?” Dad asked, holding up a bottle and a stack of plastic cups.

  “I do,” we all chorused.

  What would Christmas be like this year? I’d never not spent a Christmas here, or an Easter, or a Fourth of July, for that matter.

  “We want you to all come down for Thanksgiving,” Mom said. “We have plenty of room. Two guest bedrooms and a nice sofa bed for you, Marley. Okay? Okay. Good. That’s settled.”

  There was no way I could go. It was my busiest time of year.

  Except maybe, with Rachel, I could. She’d be more than just an assistant, I already knew. She was going to be one of my best friends. Georgia would love her.

  So even if Will didn’t want a real relationship, I still had people. My life was full. I had a job I loved, my family, my friends, hobbies and ambition.

  In a way, Emerson’s list taught me something I hadn’t anticipated. You didn’t get everything in life. I’d always thought if you worked hard enough and tried to be your best self, the universe would listen. But it didn’t always. As my grandfather used to say, God was not a grocer; you didn’t hand him a list and have him go through it, checking off everything you’d asked for. You could be fulfilled just the same . . . and you were also allowed to be sad once in a while.

  It wasn’t my job to be always happy, always perky, always up for anything and always there for everyone. I got to have a little heartache, too, just like everyone else.

  But if I thought too much about my parents leaving, I was going to start bawling, and I did want to save that for home. My parents didn’t need to see my tears.

  “Cake time!” Mom said, the fake cheer thick in her voice.

  Ricotta cheesecake, my favorite, was sitting on the table, waiting for us. In raspberry glaze, she’d written, Happy Birthday, Marley & Frankie.

  I wondered if ricotta cheesecake would’ve been my sister’s favorite, too.

  We held up our plastic cups. “To Frankie,” my mother said. “Happy birthday, honey.”

  “To Frankie,” we echoed. Dad’s eyes were shiny.

  “And to you, Marley,” Mom said, tears streaming down her face. “Happy birthday, sweetheart. You’re a wonderful daughter.”

  “To Marley,” my family said.

  My throat was killing me. “One more,” I said, my voice tight with tears. “To you, Mom and Dad. Thank you for making this house a wonderful home for all of us. We hope you have many happy years in your beautiful new place. I think you’re so brave for doing this, and I can’t wait to come see you.” My voice broke a little.

  “Hear, hear,” said Dante and Louis.

  “Well said.” Eva touched her cup to mine. “Good job, sis.”

  Mom went to cut the cake. She always started on the F in Frankie’s name.

  “Wait,” I said. She did, turning back to me.

  “Mom . . . Dad . . .” My voice was shaking. “Can you . . . can you tell me something about her? Something I don’t know? Because I’m afraid I’ll forget her. I—” Tears slid down my face. “All I have left is the Frankie-shaped space. The space where she used to be.”

  I was sobbing now, and my mother took me in her arms. A second later, I felt my father’s arms, too, and he rested his head against mine. “I don’t remember her,” I whispered. “I’m sorry. I want to, but there’s nothing there.”

  “Oh, my baby,” Mom said, crying, too. “My little Marley, don’t cry. Don’t cry, angel. You were the best sister in the world. You loved her so much, and she . . . she just adored you.”

  “She did,” Dad said. “She lit up every time you came in the room. You used to make her laugh so hard.”

  There was a strange sound, and I looked up. It was Eva, and she was crying, too. “Shit,” she said. “It’s true. She loved you so much, Marles.”

  Then we were all group-hugging, a big knot of family, laughing and sobbing and holding each other tight.

  “I don’t want to leave her behind,” I whispered.

  “You can’t leave her,” Dante said, wiping his eyes on Louis’s shirtsleeve. “She’s not in this house, Marles. She’s with us. Especially you.”

  That was true. Not an hour of my life passed where I didn’t think of her, yearn for her, miss her, love her. I didn’t know how not to love her.

  Dad disentangled from the pack and went over to the shrine, and we all separated, sniffing, blowing noses on birthday napkins. He came back, holding Ebbers the Penguin.

  “Here, honey,” he
said. “You keep this now. You should’ve had it all along.”

  With hands that shook, I took my sister’s beloved cuddle friend and looked at his flat black eyes. Then I hugged him and buried my face against him.

  I remembered that smell. Thirty-one years, and he still smelled like Ebbers, musty and with a hint of sweet little girl sweat.

  All of a sudden, memories slammed into me, into my heart, into my head, into my bone marrow, a stream of them, fast and clear and pure.

  Me, climbing into Frankie’s crib, the squeak of the springs, her delighted laugh.

  Frankie’s face against mine, so close I could smell her breath, her skin so pale, her hand against my cheek.

  The two of us in the tub, playing with a tiny blue sponge shaped like a dog, floating him on the soap dish, Frankie’s eyelashes starred from the water.

  Frankie’s little body pressed against my left side, warm and soft, her thumb in her mouth, her head tipped against my shoulder, the two of us like puzzle pieces, my arm around her, tingling and asleep but knowing not to move because my sister needed me.

  She was with me. She always had been. As long as I lived, so would a part of my sister.

  I sucked in a breath, then another. “I remember,” I said, laughing and crying at the same time and hugging Ebbers against my heart. “I remember you, Frankie.”

  * * *

  • • •

  It was, we agreed, the most tear-soaked birthday in the history of birthdays.

  It was good, like something had been set free in all of us. We ate some cake, and kept hugging each other at every opportunity, blotting our eyes, laughing, embarrassed, happy. So strange, and so right.

  As I was cutting Dante a third (third!) piece of cheesecake, because he was the baby and incapable of doing it himself, the doorbell rang.

  “Probably the McIntyres, coming to say good-bye,” Mom said. “For the fourth time.” She went to open the door.

  It was Will.

  I sat down abruptly on the plastic chair. My eyes flooded yet again.

  “Hello there,” my mother said. “Can we help you?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead, his eyes locked on mine, and he brushed past my mother and knelt in front of me. He had a bag in one hand, flowers in the other, and he set them on the floor, then took my hands.