Changing Lanes

by Vining, Season

“That means Red Alert Hen Party 2.0,” says Kennedy.

  “I don’t want a Hen Party. I don’t want to drink or eat my feelings. I just want you guys to tell me everything will be okay and I will not die from heartbreak.”

  “You won’t die from heartbreak,” Marley says. She leaves her spot and sits on the floor facing me. “I’ve been there, love. I know it hurts. It’s okay to embrace that hurt.”

  I raise my head and look at her pretty face—her sad, beautiful face. “How does this hurt more than when my husband of 20 years betrayed me? How? When I found my ex in bed with my friend my immediate reaction was anger. But right now, all I feel is pain.”

  “You opened yourself up to him and he let you down,” Reagan says. “That’s going to hurt no matter what.”

  “I still can’t believe he writes romance novels,” Kennedy says. Marley and Reagan shoot her a look, but I wave it off.

  “While that is fucking crazy,” I say, “that is the least of my worries right now. I haven’t begun to process that information yet.”

  “This is honestly the craziest real life shit I’ve ever heard of,” Marley says. She takes both of my hands in hers and squeezes them. “But we’re here. If you want to scream and shout, if you want to cry, if you want to break things, we’re here.”

  “Let’s slash some fucking tires,” Reagan says. We all turn to her, eyes wide in surprise, before breaking into laughter.

  When that dies down, the hurt and pain seep in again and I want to disappear. “This is unreal,” I say. “It’s like my brain can’t process the lies, on top of lies, on top of lies. I am such an idiot. I should have seen it. I should have known.”

  Kennedy jumps from her chair. “You are not an idiot. With him force feeding you lies and being so charming, you couldn’t have known. Hell, we’ve lived here our whole lives and had no idea. He fooled everyone.”

  There’s a complete minute of silence between us while I tamp down the tightness in my chest and learn to breathe through the pain. “He told me he loves me,” I say. “A last minute declaration to try and keep me from running and telling his secret, I guess.”

  “No way,” Marley says, releasing my hands, and pushing her pink bangs to the side. “That man has been in love with you since the first flash of your headlights. Of course, the daft prat waits until the wrong moment to say it out loud.”

  “Of course,” Kennedy agrees.

  I shake my head. “How can I believe anything he’s ever said?”

  Reagan approaches now and sits with Marley and me on the floor. “I can’t vouch for him, Stella. I can’t tell you that everything he ever said was true. But I can tell you that I saw the way he looked at you and I would give anything for someone to look at me that way.”

  “Chance does look at you that way,” Marley says, rolling her eyes. “You two are another ridiculous case, but we’re here for Stella today.”

  “I just want to go to bed and wake up tomorrow and go to work. Rinse and repeat,” I say. “No neighbors. No cute dogs. No feelings at all.”

  “Do you want us to leave?” Marley asks. I nod. “Is that what you really want?”

  I think about being surrounded by my friends and having to talk about my feelings and what happened and I die a little more inside. “It is. Just let me be,” I plead. “I swear I’m okay. I’ll text you all tomorrow to prove it. I don’t need a Red Alert Hen Party. I need a day to myself.”

  Marley grabs my face and forces me to meet her gaze. “I am trusting you to tell me what you need right now, love. If you change your mind, we are all a few minutes away. Will you truly be okay?” she asks.

  I think about her question and know I can’t answer that honestly. I don’t know if I’ll be okay. I don’t know if I’ll ever recover from a betrayal like this—the second one in my lifetime. But I nod convincingly and they all gather their things.

  The girls leave me with loads of wine and cupcakes and absolute silence. I don’t leave my place next to the door until I have to use the bathroom. It’s then that I drag myself up the stairs and into my bedroom to face my big bed and giant stuffed corgi. I peek through my curtains facing Lane’s house to find no movement from his home.

  I close my eyes and wish for this to all be a nightmare that I can’t wake from, a plot twist in one of his novels. I wish for all this pain to go away. I wish I never met him. But I’m a fool full of wishes. So, after using the bathroom, I fall into bed and wish for the world to disappear.

  19

  AFTER A WEEK of mourning, of avoiding my friends and calls from my family, I decide that life must go on. The pain still sits heavy in my gut and the betrayal still eats away at my insides like a festering disease that means to kill me, but I push that down and call my sister.

  “It’s about darn time,” she says. “I was about to send out a search party for you. Why are you stressing me out? I’m pregnant. I do not deserve this.” When I open my mouth to tell her what’s happened, a sob escapes. “Oh, shit. What happened? It was the pretty boy, wasn’t it?”

  I get my crying under control and sniffle. “Yes.”

  “I’m so sorry, Stella.” She sighs. “Want me to come up there and cut him? I’ve got a raging case of heartburn that is making me violent.”

  I shake my head, knowing she can’t see it. “No. I’m just trying to stay above water, you know? I feel like I’m drowning.”

  “Ahh,” Brea says. “You’re still in the sad phase. Haven’t reached the mad phase.”

  “I guess.” There’s a long silence between us. It doesn’t feel awkward. I know she’s thinking, processing. We’ve been through this before.

  “Well, what happened?” she finally asks.

  I lie down on my bed and curl onto my side with the phone. I tell Brea everything. Reliving the good times we had forces tears from my eyes. Remembering how happy I was in those moments makes my ignorance to the truth hurt that much worse. I tell her about our night together and what I found in the morning. I even tell her how every day, Lane comes here and pounds on my door, begging me to talk to him while I hide upstairs. Then I sit and wait for her words of support and encouragement, because I’m greedy for them.

  “I cannot believe he’s the author you love so much,” Brea says. “What are the farfignewton chances?”

  “One in a million zillion,” I answer, while tracing the pattern on my duvet with my index finger.

  “Wow. And all that lying about what he does for a living? He must be a fantastic actor. Bless his heart,” she says.

  “Bless his heart, Brea? He broke mine and that’s all you’ve got to say?”

  “Stella,” Brea says, switching to her ‘let’s keep it real’ voice. “I know what he did is awful. Keeping the truth from you and making you believe all the lies is terrible. But it’s not like he was lying only to you.”

  I sit up, my head spinning. “What?”

  “This was his secret from the world, Stella. What would you expect him to do? Confess to a new neighbor or a woman he’s just started dating? No. He would have to wait until he trusted you, until you were both invested in that relationship.”

  “He’s a liar, Brea. It’s that simple.”

  “I don’t think it’s simple at all.”

  More tears fall down my face. “Stop being rational. It’s pissing me off.”

  “Good,” she says. “Get angry. Get so mad you want to strangle him. And when that passes? Talk to him.”

  “I can’t believe this. I call you for support and all I get is…”

  “Reason.”

  “Bye, Brea,” I say, holding my phone out and staring at her smiling photo on the screen. “I’ll talk to you later.” Ending the call, I toss my phone on the bed and run my hands through my hair. I think about her words and as another wave of hurt washes over me, I decide I’m not ready to be rational yet.

  _______________

  Each day, I paste on a smile, go to work and ignore Becca’s sympathetic looks. And each night I listen to Lane come
by and knock. When that doesn’t work, he calls. And when I don’t answer, he sends me a text message. It’s the same one every time. Please talk to me, Stella. I can’t talk to him yet, because I can’t shake free of the pain he’s caused and the anger of now comparing him to my scumbag ex-husband. I try to believe that he is a better man than that, but my heart doesn’t know the difference.

  The days pass in a blur as I paste on the “I’m okay” face and keep pushing through life.

  I stay inside for Halloween, holed up with my good chocolate and eat myself into a sugar high and crash. I can hear the kids moving through the neighborhood, but I don’t feel like facing anyone.

  The girls come up with a plan to keep me busy until I’m ready to deal with Lane. The days grow colder each week and I stay occupied with work, baking with Kennedy, yoga with Reagan, and salsa lessons with Marley. I’ve even started a free video course to learn Spanish, though I’m terrible at it. My baking is improving and my last pie would have been edible if I wouldn’t have burned the bottom crust.

  I’ve come to adore yoga. After making Marley promise no more shenanigans in class, I returned and embraced the practice. Reagan has really worked with me on my breathing techniques and meditation. I love how it makes me feel strong and in control—for one hour at a time, twice a week.

  The salsa class has been a lesson in being hyper-aware of my body, my posture. Every motion is intentional and balanced by my partner’s reaction. Since we were the only two single ladies in the class, I was paired up with the instructor, Paulo. And Marley is with his assistant, Tom. “Of course you end up with the exotic, handsome fellow named Paulo while I’m stuck with Tom,” she complained after our first class. But Tom turned out to be a great partner. Dancing is such an amazing distraction that I don’t even mind when Paulo uses me as an example to teach the class something new. My chest pulls tight at the realization that that has everything to do with Lane and how he guided me to find confidence again.

  The one thing I haven’t done since the fallout is pick up a book. I pass by my shelves and stare at them, like these pages of his bound words are somehow offensive and responsible. I’ve lost all desire to pick one up. Not only did my neighbor steal my heart, he also stole my joy. Coming to that realization is when I transition from sad to mad, just like Brea said.

  _______________

  My mom decides to not visit for Thanksgiving since Brea is due soon. I’m a little relieved. While I know she’d deliver the comfort I’m looking for, I’d also have to hear hours of advice filled with so many southern colloquialisms we’d need a translator for anyone listening in. So the girls and I plan a Friendsgiving feast. I volunteer my house, because it’s the only one big enough to host everyone and get all the cooking done.

  I make my delicious turkey, stuffing, and carrot souffle. Marley brings salad, because she insists that’s the extent of her kitchen skills. Reagan supplies all the veggies and Kennedy is in charge of dessert. Being in the kitchen all day, my eyes constantly drift out the window to Lane’s house. I haven’t seen any movement and I pretend not to care.

  When the table is all set and the wine has been poured, the four of us sit down around my table. Marley shoves a piece of turkey in her mouth right before Reagan reaches over and slaps her hand.

  “I think we should all say something we’re thankful for this year,” she says, giving Marley a dirty look.

  “Fine,” says Marley. “I’m thankful for the grapes that sacrificed themselves to make this wine and I’m grateful that you Americans are so obsessed with casseroles. Because that shit is goooood.”

  “I’ll go next,” Kennedy says. “I’m thankful for another successful year for my bakery, for you girls, and for my Patagonia Micro Puff Hoodie, because you all know how I feel about the cold.”

  I smile over the rim of my glass as I take a sip of wine. I don’t remember the last time I smiled.

  “Okay,” Reagan says. She grins and folds her hands together in her lap and bows her head as if in prayer. “I’m thankful for all of the plants and herbs that grow so freely and include the natural ingredients to help keep us healthy.” Marley and Kennedy share a look. “I’m thankful for Godiva dark chocolate truffles, and for having such good friends who won’t judge me for eating all this food today.”

  Marley throws another piece of turkey in her mouth. “Totally judging,” she says to Reagan with a wink. Reagan rolls her eyes as Marley turns to me. “It’s your turn, love.”

  I take a deep breath and blow it out toward the ceiling. “I’m so thankful for the three most fierce and loyal friends a girl could have.” They all smile. “And I’m thankful for you guys too.”

  “Heeeey!” Kennedy says as the three of them laugh.

  “I’m thankful for a job I love and for the freedom to explore who I am and who I want to be.” Another deep breath as Lane enters my mind. This time tears don’t come and anger is absent. “And I’m thankful for a man who taught me to love me again.”

  “Even if he is a total tosser,” Marley adds.

  “The biggest tosser,” I repeat, trying to mimic her accent.

  “To us,” Reagan says, raising her glass. We all clink them together over the table and start in on dinner.

  After we stuff ourselves, the four of us lounge around in my living room, sipping wine and sharing our favorite songs with each other. I introduce the girls to some older stuff and they introduce me to dubstep, which was a big dub-nope for me.

  “I ran into Joshua at the market in Hamilton yesterday,” Marley says.

  I swing my feet from over the side of the sofa to the floor, sitting up now. “And?” I ask.

  “He was alone, if that’s what you’re wondering,” she continues. I shake my head. “Anyway, after I insulted his sweater vest, he asked about you.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him that I wasn’t a daft cow willing to spill secrets about her friend to the enemy. He got all offended that I called him the enemy and that little vein on his forehead started throbbing.” She grins widely, like she secretly likes the way that little vein behaves just for her. “Anyway, he confessed that Lane is a mess without you.”

  “Good,” Kennedy says. I nod, but don’t know how I feel about that.

  “If he’s such a mess, why has he given up on you? He stopped coming by, right?” Reagan asks. I nod again. “Where’s the grand gesture? Where is the effort? Where is the persistence of a man who says he’s in love?”

  We all stare at Reagan and her newfound passion. “What the hell was that?” Kennedy asks.

  Reagan looks at her feet, her hands fidgeting in her lap. “I, uh, I might have started reading Alaina Taylor novels,” she spits out so fast it takes us a few seconds to catch up.

  “You what?” we all screech in unison.

  She looks at me. “I’m sorry. After I borrowed that one book from you, I was hooked.” She motions to my shelf. “I did return it, by the way. But you always said how good they were and how the men were so dreamy and romantic. After finding out that Lane wrote them, curiosity got the best of me. I’m so, so sorry, Stella. Do you hate me?”

  A tiny smile pulls up the corner of my mouth. “I don’t hate you,” I say, slumping back against the sofa. “They really are great books.”

  I glance to my built-in shelves and the rows of books lining the wall. Thinking about my favorite ones and how many amazing stories Lane has written at such a young age makes me proud. But Reagan is right, I do long for the grand gesture—something one of his characters would do. I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive him, but I long for this man to beg for absolution and make me believe that he needs it. I want to know that he shares in this hurt, and that he can’t possibly live in a world without me.

  Out of nowhere, we hear tires screeching and someone yelling. We look to each other and scramble for the front door. I slip into my boots and run out onto the front porch to see Lane on his knees in the street. Chap lays motionless between him and a d
elivery van.

  20

  “NO!” I SHOUT, taking off for the street. Tears already fill my eyes as I drop to my knees next to Lane. “Is he…?”

  “He’s still breathing,” he says, devastation already evident on his face.

  “Then, let’s get him to the vet.” Lane doesn’t move, his body frozen, his eyes glossed over.

  I place my hand on his arm. It jolts him out of shock and into action. “Let me get my keys,” he says. Lane jumps up and takes off toward his house.

  The van driver stands over us. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “I tried to stop in time.”

  I ignore him and scoot closer to Chap’s head. Leaning down, I gently place a hand on his head and talk to him. “It’s going to be okay, Chap. We’re here. You’re going to be okay, boy.” Even as I say the words, tears fall from my eyes and land on his tan fur.

  Lane’s garage door slides open and he backs his truck out into the street. He hops out with a blanket and wraps it around Chap, lifting him and putting him in the truck. Without thinking, I hop in too.

  “I’ve already called Dr. Kent to meet us there,” he says. I nod and keep my hand on Chap, continuing to talk to him in a calm voice. Lane races through the streets of the neighborhood and we make it to the vet’s office just as Dr. Kent does.

  “Get him inside,” Dr. Kent calls over his shoulder as he unlocks the building and flips on the lights.

  Chap whimpers as Lane scoops him up and carries him inside. I grab the keys from his truck and follow them in. We’re led into a cold, sterile room and Dr. Kent motions to a metal table. Lane gently lays Chap on the table. He bends down and presses his forehead to Chap and talks to him.

  “Hang in there, buddy,” he says. “You’ll be okay.”

  I cross my arms over my chest to keep from falling apart and tuck myself into the corner of the room. I feel out of place here. I shouldn’t have come.

  Dr. Kent examines Chap, running his hands along his body. Chap blinks at me from across the room. When Dr. Kent moves to his leg, Chap lets out a cry. I’m at Lane’s side in a second, trying to be supportive the only way I know how.