Abigail thought: Don’t do it. Don’t kiss this man.
After they separated, he said, “Do you believe there are little pockets of time and space that exist outside of the rest of our lives? Like maybe this is one of them, and anything that happens right now doesn’t count? It will just be forgotten, a secret only between us.”
A phrase ran through Abigail’s head. One last fling. Rachel had said it to her earlier that evening, just after Abigail had first spotted the man in the flannel shirt across the U-shaped bar in the restaurant. Rachel had noticed her staring, and said, “One last fling?”
“Excuse me?” Abigail had said.
“It’s a thing: one last fling before the ring.”
“What do you mean, it’s a thing?”
“I don’t know, Abigail, don’t get mad at me. I was just kidding.”
Don’t do it, you’ll regret it.
And those words kept running through her head as she stepped into the stranger’s arms again and kissed him, telling herself that was all that was going to happen. That she was allowed a kiss, one drunken kiss, before getting married.
But the kiss was just too good, and she told herself that maybe this was a little pocket of time. A pocket of time without names and without consequences. The world spun, and he was a good kisser, and when his hand touched her neck, an involuntary shudder went through her body.
Later, a few hours later, another phrase ran through Abigail’s mind as she lay, awake and sober, in the king-sized bed of his room. Reader, she thought, I slept with him.
CHAPTER 6
I want to hear all about the meal,” Bruce said, after they’d hugged and kissed, and as she slid into the seat across from him at a midtown Mexican restaurant.
“God, that meal,” she said. “It was amazing.”
“Tell me about it.”
Abigail had been nervous about seeing Bruce for the first time since the trip to California, and now she was so relieved that they were actually talking, and that he hadn’t instantly been able to see the infidelity written all over her face, that the details of the meal went entirely out of her head.
“Let me think for a moment,” she said, and then was saved by the waitress appearing to take their drink orders.
When he asked her again, the memory of that meal came back to her, and she described it course by course. He seemed so pleased hearing the details that Abigail relaxed some more, even though her guilt ratcheted up a little bit. It was going to be all right, she thought. She’d gotten away with it.
A week earlier, after skulking from Scottie’s room (she still thought of him by the name she’d made up), she’d tried to fall asleep in her own hotel bed, but only managed about two hours of fitful, edgy half sleep. Every time she thought she was going to trip over the edge into unconsciousness, images of what had just occurred erupted in her mind. Before she knew it, morning had arrived, and she sent a text to all the bachelorettes that she was sleeping in and skipping the brunch buffet, then she sent a separate text to Zoe, asking her to swing by her room when she got a chance. Five minutes later, Zoe, looking as though she’d gotten ten hours of deep sleep, arrived with a plate of croissants. When the door was shut behind her, Abigail told her everything that had happened.
“Jesus,” Zoe said. “That’s not like you.”
“I know. I don’t know what happened. I was drunk, but I wasn’t that drunk. I think … maybe I’m telling myself something. Maybe I don’t want to marry Bruce.”
“This is what I think,” Zoe said. “Don’t make any rash decisions now. Wait a few days. See what it feels like to see Bruce again. See if you keep thinking about this guy—”
“It wasn’t about him. It was romantic, but he’s married, and he’s not even my type—”
“And you don’t know his name.”
“Oh God,” Abigail said, and laughed, the act of moving her facial muscles painful. “I don’t even know his name.”
“Just don’t beat yourself up. Wait a few days and see how you feel. Maybe it did mean something, and then you can talk to Bruce.”
“It would destroy him.”
“Don’t worry about that right now. If you need to break it off, he doesn’t have to know about what happened here.”
“Okay,” Abigail said, and took a deep breath. Zoe, despite the complications of her own life, always gave great advice. Abigail held a croissant in her hand but hadn’t taken a bite. She took a small one now, flakes falling down onto her lap.
“One question,” Zoe said. “Condom?”
“Yes, we used a condom.”
“Good. He had it with him?”
“Well, it wasn’t mine. So, yes. You think it’s creepy that a married guy on a trip brings a condom, right?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“God, it is creepy, isn’t it? Did I get totally played?”
“Shh, relax. Did you have fun?”
“It was actually pretty nice.”
Better than pretty nice, Abigail told herself, but didn’t say it out loud.
“Maybe that’s all this is. You had a fling before getting married, and no one ever needs to know about it besides me. These things happen. Better now than in a year.”
“Okay. Don’t tell anyone, please.”
“Fuck you. Who would I tell?”
“I know. I just had to say it out loud.”
“I’m not telling anyone. Don’t beat yourself up about it. It happened.”
Abigail took her advice and tried not to make any decisions until she saw her fiancé. And now they were eating a normal lunch, and Bruce was so pleased to see her. She was still guilty, but maybe she’d been making too much of a big deal about it. She’d be faithful in their marriage, and this was one last moment of singlehood. For all she knew, he’d done the same thing on his bachelor trip.
Maybe because she was so relieved that the lunch was going well, Abigail drank two margaritas. Then, over coffee, and while they were splitting a slice of key lime pie, she said, without thinking too much about it, “I never heard the details of your bachelor weekend. Anything I should know about?”
He smiled, his eyes half closing. “Why? Do you have a confession to make about your trip?”
“No. I’m asking about yours. Was it a strictly guy thing, or did you all go to some strip club?”
“Puget Sound strip clubs are the best. You didn’t know that?”
“Yeah, you should have seen the Piety Hills Chippendales show. Very impressive.”
His smile was gone, and he said, “Even though we’re not married yet, I consider myself betrothed to you. I have since we first kissed. I know you didn’t feel the same way about me in the beginning, but I hope that you do now.”
“God, yes. Sorry. I was just kidding you.”
“Are you sure nothing happened in California?”
She could feel her cheeks flushing, and she hoped he thought it was simply the alcohol she’d drunk. “Zoe got a little handsy when she was zipping up my dress.”
Finally, he smiled. “Sorry I got serious. I wish I was the type of guy who didn’t worry about these things, but I’m just not. I believe in loyalty.”
“I do, too.”
After lunch she walked slowly to her apartment, starting to feel better, and realizing just how much tension she’d been holding in her body the past few days. When she got home, she felt herself missing Bruce already and called him.
“Hi,” he said, concern in his voice.
“Hey.”
“You forget something at the restaurant?”
“No. I just wanted to keep talking to you. Is that okay?”
“Of course it is. Although I think you’re drunk.”
“Get used to it. Once we’re married it’s going to be two-margarita lunches every day.”
“Hmm,” he said, and she could hear someone talking to him in what sounded like a cavernous room.
“Where are you?”
“Walking into my building. David, the
doorman, wants to know how my lunch was. He was the one who recommended the place.”
“Tell him it was great.”
She heard muffled talking in the background, and when Bruce got back on the line she said, “You should go. I was just calling to hear your voice one more time.”
“I’m glad. I like it. We can keep talking. It’s a long ride in the elevator.”
“This is what I wanted to ask you, actually. Where do you see us in ten years?”
“Where do I see us?”
“Yeah. Besides being married, obviously. You’re a planner, so I’m sure you’ve thought about it. I just wanted to know how you envisioned our lives together down the line.”
“Are you asking me about starting a family?”
“No, no. God. Just, how do you see us?”
There was silence on the phone, although Abigail could hear background noise, muted voices, the sound of Bruce moving through space.
“I see us as happy,” he said at last. “Whatever I’m doing, I’ll be successful and engaged and on the cutting edge of the new technology. For you, I picture you as a successful writer. In ten years, we’ll be at your book launch together. And all our friends and family will be there. Your parents will be back together, and maybe they’ll be running the theater again, and it’ll be successful this time. Basically, that’s what I see. Success and happiness.”
“You’re an optimistic man, Bruce,” she said.
“I am. You know that about me already, or at least I hope you do. All my life I’ve pictured myself as successful, and because I can picture it, that’s how I make it happen. It’s not that hard, actually. It’s just visualization. Mental energy. And that’s what I see for us. We’re going to take over the world, babe.”
“Okay. Now you’ve gone too far.”
Bruce laughed. “Sorry for being who I am … but it’s all I’ve got. I gotta go now. Can we table this conversation and pick it up later?”
She was going to give him a hard time for the corporate lingo, but instead said, “I love you, Bruce. And I love your optimism.”
“Love you, too, Abigail.”
She drank a tall glass of water, then lay down on her couch and thought about what Bruce had said. When Abigail had been in high school, she’d imagined herself living in New York City with a good job. When she’d achieved that goal, it hadn’t made her happy, or at least it hadn’t made her happier. If Bruce’s prediction came true, about how successful they’d be in ten years, would she still feel the emptiness that constantly nestled inside her? Maybe it was just the loneliness of being an only child, something she’d never shake. Maybe it was something more—an inherited dissatisfaction—and she’d be one of those rich women who have affairs out of boredom and start drinking wine at three in the afternoon.
Or maybe, and this was her hope, Bruce’s optimism—his clear-eyed view of himself and the world—would somehow rub off on her. It was a hopeful thought, and she chose, in the dusty light of the afternoon, to believe it. She also believed, and she’d felt this for a while, that the fact that they were different was a good thing. Two bitter, creative people don’t really go together, not for a long and happy marriage anyway. Bruce would balance her out, keep her grounded.
She texted Zoe:
the wedding is on.
Before she got a text back, she decided that lying down was a bad idea. She got up and watered her plants and thought some more about Bruce and how he saw the world. It was so different from how she saw it. Even though she’d grown up in the warmth of a happy family, with a roof over her head, there had always been a dark side to her, someone who considered the world vaguely threatening. She expected the worst, knew it could all come crashing down. Had she picked that up from her parents? She supposed she had. Her father, even though he was a dreamer, was quick to fold when the going got rough. Every time the Boxgrove Theatre was putting on a new play he’d be filled with anticipation, excited by the possibility that, creatively, they were on the cusp of perfection. But he’d also been filled with anxiety, worried that what they were putting on would be a total disaster. In reality, it was never either of those extremes. But the fact that they never produced a play that was truly remarkable—at least in his own estimation—continued to vex him, and after every season he would slip into a depressive episode that lasted throughout the month of September.
Abigail’s mother was different. To her, the theater was a financial enterprise first and a creative enterprise second. If they made money, she’d be happy enough. But the theater hardly ever made money.
Thinking of them now, she suddenly wanted to hear one of their voices. Abigail called the landline, her father picking up after three rings.
“Hi, Daddy,” she said.
“Who’s this?” he responded. It was an old joke.
“Mom must be out.”
“She is. Why’d you ask, because I picked up the phone?”
“I guess so. I expected her. Are you living back in the house?”
“No, I’m still above the garage. Your mother is out, so I’m sneaking back in to look for my copy of Shakespeare’s Imagery. You know, the Spurgeon book. You don’t happen to remember where it is, do you?”
“No.”
“I know that the last time I saw it, it was next to the sofa in the study, but it’s not there now. Your mother probably moved it somewhere.”
“Dad, I was thinking of coming home for a weekend before the wedding, spend some time with the two of you.” Abigail was surprised even as she said the words.
“Everything okay?”
“Yes, of course it is. Just thought it would be nice. What’s going on this weekend?”
“I work Saturday at the movie theater,” he said, stretching the word “theater” into three highly stressed syllables, “but that will give you some time with just your mother. No, please come. We’d love to see you. What about Bruce?”
“Bruce and I will be spending the rest of our lives together. Besides, he’s cramming as much work into his weekends as possible before the wedding and the honeymoon. It’ll be great to see you both.”
“Come up. I’d love it. We’d love it.”
CHAPTER 7
She took the train to Northampton, where Zoe picked her up. It was late afternoon, the second weekend of September, but the first weekend that actually felt like September. The sun was high and bright but there was a bite to the air. Zoe convinced Abigail that they should grab one quick drink in town before heading to Boxgrove.
“How was it seeing Bruce?” she asked Abigail, after they’d both ordered Negronis at the Tunnel Bar, a cocktail place built into an old railway tunnel.
“It was fine. Great. He’s very excited about the wedding.”
“He give you details about his bachelor weekend?”
“You mean, did I give him details about my bachelorette weekend?” Abigail said.
Zoe smiled, leaning back because their drinks were being delivered. “I guess,” she said.
“Yeah, I told him all about it. He said it was no big deal.”
“Really?” Zoe leaned forward again, incredulous.
“No.”
“Oh. But it was okay?”
“It was good to see him. I’m hoping to forget certain details of that weekend. I’m hoping you do, too.”
Zoe turned her fingers in front of her lips and mimed throwing away the key.
At six-thirty Zoe dropped Abigail off at her parents’ house. Walking from the curb to the front door, Abigail could see her parents through the bay windows of the living room, her father studying the bar and her mother moving back and forth in the open-plan kitchen area. She’d wondered if they were going to put on a united front during her visit, and it seemed that she had her answer.
She opened the door to the smell of roast chicken.
After dinner, Abigail’s mother went to bed first. It had been a perfectly pleasant evening, during which the most controversial topic was where to sit creepy cousin Roger
at the wedding reception.
“Port?” her father said, now that Amelia was gone.
“Sure. Why not?”
He poured two glasses, then resettled on the plaid recliner that had always been his favorite chair.
“You and Mom are very chummy,” Abigail said.
“We get along still, so long as we don’t talk about certain topics, and so long as I remain in the guesthouse.”
“That doesn’t sound like a typical separation. I mean, you two might be able to find a way back to each other.” She tried to keep the hope out of her voice.
He frowned. “I don’t know. As far as your mother is concerned, we’re over. The reason I’m just in the guesthouse is because I don’t have the money to get my own place. We’re not mad at each other, but we just burned out, I think. It was all those years running a business together. We turned into business partners instead of husband and wife, and now that the business is poof, so is the marriage.”
He leaned back, his shoulders sloping, and Abigail caught a glimpse of what he was going to look like in his extreme old age.
Abigail almost began the conversation about Bruce resurrecting the Boxgrove Theatre with his own money, but it didn’t seem the right time. She’d decided before the weekend that that was a conversation for after the wedding. Instead, she said, “Have you thought about couples counseling?”
He shrugged. “It all costs money, and I don’t think it would make a difference. Abby, I think you should be focused on your own nuptials and not your mother and me. We’re not a project for you.”
“Ha.”
“You remember the campaign?”
“Of course I do.”
It was her father’s favorite story from her childhood. When Abigail was eleven, she’d overheard her parents talking about how ticket sales were down that summer. Without telling them, she’d created an ad campaign, handwriting flyers to advertise each of that summer’s shows, and handing them out from a table she set up on their front lawn. She’d worn a beret she’d found in the theater’s costume department because it looked “right for the occasion,” she’d said.
Every Vow You Break Page 4
