Always Something There to Remind Me

by Beth Harbison

I closed my eyes. There was no way to save her from herself on this one.

  “Afghan,” the cameraman repeated. “That must be rough. For him and for you.”

  “Oh, it is. He calls, like, every day, of course…”

  Of course.

  “… but he’s got to stay in Afghan for another few weeks.”

  “How long has he been gone?” the guy asked, essentially handing her her own petard.

  She hoisted. “They drove out there about three weeks ago. Maybe two. What? Why are you looking at me that way, Erin?”

  I just couldn’t stand to see her do this to herself. “You mean they drove to the airfield, right? Then flew to Afghanistan.”

  “Right. Yeah.” She looked back at the camera. “They flew to Afghan. Istan,” she added uncertainly, with a glance at me.

  I nodded.

  But, God, she did not deserve this pretend boyfriend.

  Bill was smiling. “I understand,” he said, before I said a word. “It was getting uncomfortable for me too.”

  “You’re lousy at this job, aren’t you?” I joked.

  “Terrible.”

  “Can, um, can we get some food?” Roxanne asked, tapping my shoulder.

  I turned to her. “Absolutely. Let’s go pick out the rest of your menu in the kitchen, okay?” I looked at Bill. “Okay?”

  He nodded. “I think we’ve got plenty to work with for now. Al, get the broken table. That will be a good fade-out.”

  I took Roxanne into the building. “I think you should drop the war thing,” I said. “There are too many details they can call you on.” And Justin would sooner inhale carbon monoxide from his Porsche’s tailpipe than join any military service and you know it.

  “But it makes a good story line for me,” she objected. That’s the way reality-show people talked now—about their “story lines.” I’d seen the Real Housewives of various places say it more than once.

  I opened the door and ushered her into the kitchen. “It’s not really working,” I said. “Trust me.”

  “You’re asking me to trust you on a lot.”

  “I know,” I said. “But I’m the best hope you’ve got.”

  * * *

  After the filming debacle, I went back to my office.

  The moment I sat down and had a moment of peace, Nate flew to mind as if I’d summoned him there with some Harry Potter-ish spell.

  My intuition told me that somewhere along the line he’d lost his passion for life and was just going with the flow now. He had a wife he didn’t seem to be in love with, he had a job during the week, he was helping his mother on the weekend … and so on. I didn’t even know what his so on was, but I had a very strong feeling there was one, and that’s what his life felt like to him.

  One big line of duties. And so on. He had an amazing capacity, it seemed, for compartmentalizing. For putting things in whatever place he deemed proper for them and then only looking at what was in front of him.

  Then again, maybe my intuition was completely off.

  It wouldn’t be the first time.

  What I did know was that this ceaseless speculation on Nate’s state of mind and state of being was making me crazy.

  I had to get back to my real life. My work. My family.

  The rest of my day was spent working on the last details for the Brettman wedding, which was due to take place in twenty-four hours, despite the bride’s never-ending list of last-minute changes.

  By the time the wedding party arrived in the afternoon, I had gotten so many calls and e-mails from the bride, Lisa, that I was ready to scream. Instead, I had to be cordial and welcoming. It was part of the job description, I’d been through it before and I’d go through it a million more times, but I have to confess it’s not all that easy for me to pull off that kind of acting job.

  It was a very busy afternoon of putting people into their rooms, receiving calls of complaint that the rooms weren’t big enough or had the wrong view or some other problem, switching rooms, and going through the whole exercise all over again. Like I said, this kind of goes with the territory of planning big, once-in-a-lifetime (hopefully) events for people who have pinned all their hopes and dreams on the idea that it must go “perfectly.”

  By the time I got back to my office, it was almost eight P.M. and the minute I finished with the pressing matters of the day, my mind drifted back to Nate again.

  This had to be what insanity felt like. Thinking the same thoughts over and over, expecting a different reality every time.

  The reality was that Rick had proposed to me. He wanted to forge a life with me. I was lucky.

  Really lucky.

  So what was I waiting for? I just needed to get practical about it.

  We both knew it was a good match, we were good together, and it was great for the girls. Amy’s mom had died three years ago and Amy had really taken to me quickly when Rick and I got together. I wanted to be there for her. I wanted her to be there for Cam. I wanted the whole, perfect family unit that I’d failed to give Cam the first time I’d had the chance.

  Was it selfish of me to be holding back?

  Something about my relationship with Nate, or the end of it, had made me gun-shy about relationships. Maybe it wasn’t even about Nate himself, just what that relationship and that time represented. That was what Jordan thought, and I had to admit that it was plausible that maybe the excruciating pain of that breakup had gone some distance in making me want to avoid ever feeling that kind of love (and therefore that kind of loss) again.

  This is how it is with psychological hiccups, right? A person can go fifty years avoiding, say, going outside on a rainy day and when they undergo hypnosis it turns out they slipped on a worm after a summer thunderstorm once and broke a finger.

  Maybe Nate was just a broken finger.

  Or a worm.

  Or—whatever—the catalyst for a disproportionate fear of commitment in me that, maybe, was actually a fear of rejection. It certainly could be at work with me now, with Rick. Because Rick was a great guy—inarguably attractive and desirable. And together we had a nice, calm relationship. No drama.

  A few days ago I’d had a taste of that old passion with Nate and all it had done was make me feel awful.

  It wasn’t worth it.

  So Jordan had been right all along: I had something significant to work out with Nate before I moved forward. I had to work out that he was always going to break my heart as long as I was willing to let him in.

  He wasn’t coming anywhere near me or my heart again.

  Chapter 18

  I wasn’t exactly in the mood for the Brettman wedding the next day.

  But as it turned out, it was beautiful. I was busy running around, choreographing the caterers and waitstaff, but I did catch the bride’s walk down the aisle and if I didn’t know what a pain in the ass she was, I might have been moved to tears by the way her father was trying, clearly, to keep his emotions in check.

  Afterward, when Mr. and Mrs. Adam Brettman were official, the reception was in full swing, and the new Lisa Brettman had complained that the champagne in the champagne fountain was flat—big surprise!—I found the grandmother of the bride sitting quietly by the butterfly garden in an isolated part of the garden.

  “Hi, Mrs. Winger,” I said, hoping she wasn’t lost or disoriented. “Do you need any help with anything?”

  She swiped at her eye and it was then that I realized she’d been crying. “No, dear, I’m fine.”

  I came closer and sat down on the cement bench next to her. “Are you okay?”

  She gave a small smile and nodded. “Not to worry, I’m not a lost Alzheimer’s patient.”

  It was exactly what I’d been worried about. “Of course not,” I said, “but it looks like you’re upset. Is there anything I can do?”

  She sighed and looked at the fountain in front of her. “I was married to my Ronald for fifty-five years.”

  “Wow. That’s a good long time.”

  She met
my eye. “We met when I was sixteen and he died when I was seventy-one. That was eleven years ago now.”

  “Are you kidding?” I said, without thinking. “Of course you’re not kidding, it’s just … wow, what a long time.” A really long time. It was a pretty astonishing thought. “You must miss him terribly.”

  She swallowed and raised a crepey hand to her eye for a moment, then fluttered it down in a way I took to mean, Obviously I do.

  I wondered if she was clinically depressed. Eleven years was a hell of a long time to feel empty. Then again, fifty-five years was a hell of a long time to be married. How would you get over that?

  If I wasn’t fully over a teenage love that had lasted just two years, what would I be like after more than fifty? I shuddered to think.

  There was nothing I could say that would matter. “I’m sorry.”

  Silence stretched between us.

  “I wish I’d had sex with at least one other man,” she said then.

  I was so startled I thought I must have misheard her. “I’m sorry, you wish—”

  “If I had it to do over, I’d be bonking men all over town instead of giving myself to that one son of a bitch for my whole life only to have him die and leave me on my own when I was too old to really sow my oats with handsome young men. Lots of them.”

  Okay, I was really out of my depth here. “It’s … not too late…?” It probably was, though. At least it was too late for her to go around doing the deed with a bunch of hot young guys.

  The mental picture was not pretty.

  “Today my granddaughter got married.”

  I was grateful for the change of subject, and hoped it meant the other topic had been an aberration. “Yes, she did.” Jordan’s words echoed in my mind. Don’t ever get married. “And she looked beautiful.”

  The older woman scoffed and waved an airy hand. “I hope she bonked a few other young men before this.”

  Oooh, I was sure she had. But it seemed like it would be impolite for me to say so to her grandmother, no matter how much the older woman invited that response. “She seems … very happy with her choice,” I said, hoping to sound diplomatic.

  The older woman sighed. “I’ve never heard either one of them say they loved the other.”

  That seemed consistent with the Lisa Winger Brettman I had come to know over these past few months. “Well, if they both don’t say it, then maybe they’re perfect for each other. I mean, if they’re both okay with that.”

  Mrs. Winger laughed then. “By golly, you may have a point.”

  “How many children did you and Mr. Winger have?” I asked.

  “Just the one son.” There was a pause. “We couldn’t really even afford that, but we made it work.”

  I knew how that went. “That’s wonderful. I bet you’re glad you did.”

  “Oh, yes.” She nodded to herself. “Oh, yes. There was that.”

  The birds sang around us and I felt, for a moment, like I was in a fractured fairy tale, talking to my fairy godmother in disguise.

  “Are you married?” she asked me suddenly, eyeing my bare left hand.

  I held it up. “Nope. Thinking about it, though.”

  “Oh?” She didn’t ask, but I knew she was wondering how many guys I’d screwed prior to this.

  “I sowed my oats first,” I said with a smile, and thought of Nate again, gripping my shoulders and trusting me with the life he poured into me. I could have done without any other oat-sowing, actually, but to say so would have been too personal and also I suspected it might have disappointed poor old Mrs. Winger.

  She tipped her head and regarded me. “That was very wise of you.”

  Yup, that’s why I did it. Because I was wise.

  “Are you in love?” she asked.

  “I love him.” I felt a little defensive. “I don’t know about in love. That might be better for kids than for grown people trying to make a life together.”

  “Piffle.”

  It took me so off guard I laughed. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You think being in love is just for kids? Why, I say that’s just piffle. You look like a lady who would know better than that.”

  I nodded. “Maybe you’re right,” I said, trying to mollify her. “Maybe I should take that into consideration.”

  “You should.” She stood, more briskly than I would have expected. “That’s why you try a bunch of men. To find the one you can fall in love with and stay in love with.” She sighed dramatically. “If that’s possible.”

  If.

  “How about I walk you back to the party?” I suggested. “Maybe you’d like a glass of champagne?”

  “From the fountain?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow. “Fountains ruin champagne, you know.”

  I nodded. “They do. But I think we can find some at the bar,” I said, wishing I could join her in a glass or two.

  “What’s your name, young lady?”

  “Erin,” I said. “Erin Edwards.”

  “Erin Edwards.” She nodded, like she approved of the name. “I like you.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Winger. I like you too.”

  We walked back to the bar together and made idle chitchat until she was finally swept away for pictures.

  But before she went, she looked at me and said quietly, “Good luck to you.”

  * * *

  Those words were still ringing in my ears when I got to my office and saw that Rick had called three times. I called him back, fearing an emergency, as usual.

  It was bad news, all right. But not in the way I’d anticipated.

  “We have a dinner party on Monday night,” he said.

  “Okay.” Another of his work things, no doubt. Ugh. “Where?”

  “It’s a funny thing, you’re gonna love this. One of your old friends from high school called right after you left.”

  Oh, no.

  “Theresa,” he went on. “Wait, I wrote it down. Theresa Lawson.”

  My throat squeezed shut. Of all the things I’d already thought about, all the ways I’d already, in this short period of time, tortured myself with thoughts of them together, somehow one of the most painful things was putting his name on hers.

  I knew it was crazy, but the feeling of betrayal was overwhelming. I sat down. “Really.”

  “Yeah. She sounded really nice and we didn’t have plans for Monday night.”

  “But Cam—” I began.

  “Is fine with it.” He was clearly pleased with himself for having handled all of this. “When I couldn’t get ahold of you, I called to ask her if she had anything going on that we needed to know about before making plans. She said it’s all clear.”

  I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. Obviously I didn’t want to do this. And I could get out of it, no matter how awkward it became to do so. If worse came to worst I could just say I was uncomfortable hanging out with my ex.

  But part of me wanted to go. Some childish little bitch inside of me wanted to go with good-looking Rick and pretend I was happy and in love and that Nate didn’t matter.

  Pretend I hadn’t just sobbed until I was dry and limp in his car.

  “Amy’s going to come hang out with Cam here, in fact,” Rick went on.

  All settled.

  Great.

  “Did you get directions?” I asked, wishing the not knowing where the house was would be enough to decline.

  “Sure did!”

  I felt ill. “Okay, then. Look, I’ve got to go wrap up all this stuff we’re doing for the show on Saturday. I should be home at a decent hour, though.”

  We hung up and I sat back in my chair and closed my eyes.

  Nate and I had had a relationship that was so sweet, so close. Yes, we fought sometimes—mostly that was me. And there had been some drama—again, mostly me. But when I looked back on it, what I remembered and felt was just intense love.

  Truly, just adoration.

  Somehow, there had been no self-consciousness, no posing, no trying to be coo
l. He’d sat with me for five hours by a drain in Theresa’s basement while I threw up four thousand beers and my immortal soul. I’d sat by his bedside day after day reading him a suspense novel when he was recovering from an operation.

  Yes, there had been sex, and a lot of it. And it was really good. But when I thought back on him, it wasn’t my spine that tingled, it was my heart.

  Would I go back in time if I could? No way. I wouldn’t be a teenager again for anything in the world. The feeling that lingered for him in my heart wasn’t a melancholy longing for a simpler time, it was a love that was independent of time and place.

  Which could have been a really nice thing if it weren’t for the fact that now it was muddied by time and place because he was with Theresa, and now I had to wonder if there had always been some spark of attraction between them that I had arrogantly missed because I was so comfortable—cocky?—that he loved me.

  Had looks exchanged between them that I’d never seen?

  Had touches lingered when I wasn’t paying attention?

  What had I missed when I’d introduced them for the first time? A buzz of attraction, quickly dampened by temporary loyalty to me?

  What was the first conversation they’d had after they’d met at the church? I always had a thing for you, but I was with Erin, so there was nothing I could do about it?

  When had they first kissed?

  When had they first made love?

  Had he kissed her the way he kissed me? Done the things with her that he’d done with me?

  You know, I don’t care if I was ancient history for both of them, the world was full of single people. Why in the world had they picked each other?

  Especially him. He obviously wasn’t in love with her or he never would have done what he did with me. He was living a life I know, from his reaction afterward, he’d never wished for himself. And he was doing it with my former friend.

  It should have made me hate him.

  I wished it did.

  * * *

  When I got home that night, Cam and Amy were lying on the floor watching Gossip Girl reruns and Rick was on the sofa reading a law journal.

  “Hi, guys!”

  Cam barely looked up. “Hey, Mom.”

  Amy waved without looking at me.