I nod. “I think the answer was always there, that you weren’t going to want a baby any less, and I wasn’t going to want one any more. We just had to figure out what that meant for us.” I bite down on my lower lip. “That’s why I think I’ll be happy . . . if . . . if I . . . let you go.” Hot tears run down both my cheeks. “That’s why I think you’ll be happy if you can find someone to have a child with. Someone who wants what you want.” I grip his shoulder, forcing him to look at me. “Don’t for a second think this is at all easy. Or even what I want.” I blink away another run of tears. “I want us to go back to the way we were. Back when we agreed it was always going to be Adam and Halley, and that was all. When that was enough. But we can’t go back there. It . . . isn’t . . . enough.”
“Shit, Halley. This . . . this is . . . insane.” He shakes his head in disbelief. “So . . .”
He makes a fist with one hand and claps the other over it, an old habit that says he’s digesting something he knows he has to accept and can’t change, try as he might.
“I think it’s the solution that’s been in front of us the whole time,” I say.
He tightly presses his lips together. “So? I guess that means that we—what? Divorce?”
No other word sounds as ugly as this one. No other word tastes so rancid coming out and hurts so much once it’s been said. Nevertheless, with calm, clarity, and confidence, I say, “Yes. A divorce.”
“Shit.” He runs a hand through his hair. He stands, picks up his coffee. “Forgive me,” he says angrily, “but I thought my wife was moving back home tomorrow. Now she’s asking for a divorce.”
I blink through the tears that refuse to quit. “I’m sorry.”
“So am I.” With a powerful arm, he throws his coffee into the neighboring trash can. “So am I, Halley.”
I decide now is the time to leave, to let Adam process, to let myself grieve. To run into Marian’s arms and cry. To go home and not look back. Because at this point, in all its clichéd literary beauty, there is no looking back. We are finally, finally looking upward.
Marian’s an angel sent from heaven. When I tell her what happened—the decision I fell asleep on last night and awoke to this morning, unchanged and ever determined, despite the pain it would cause—she wraps me in her arms and tells me everything will be all right. She says she’s proud of me, of my bravery in doing what I felt was honest, no matter how difficult it was. Then she presents every bottle of wine, beer, and spirit she has on hand, before opening the freezer and revealing a stash I didn’t know existed of a wide variety of Ben and Jerry’s pints.
“Kind of suffering from my own breakup hangover,” she says with a one-armed shrug. “Want to eat away our problems?”
“Sure,” I say, listless.
And then I don’t hear anything anymore. Marian’s lips are moving, her eyebrows and shoulders are animated, presumably matching the peaks and dips of her tone. Then my ears begin to ring. The grating pealing fills the entire space of my mind. Of my body, now numb, that is standing here in this kitchen, staring at a sea of ice cream . . .
“Halley? Halley?” The repetitious tone and word—my name, I recognize—snap me to. The ringing subsides.
“Halley?” Marian says. “Are you all right?” She returns the two pints of ice cream to the freezer and quickly touches the back of her hand to my forehead. It’s slightly chilled from having rooted about in the cold. It feels refreshing.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath. “It’s over,” I whisper. “My marriage is over.”
Marian pulls her hand from my forehead, and I open my eyes.
“Adam and me. We’re . . . It’s . . .” I press my own hand to my forehead. “Shit, Marian.” I wince, looking to my best friend. “It’s . . . actually over.”
When it hits, it hurts. It hurts as nothing ever has. A burning in my chest and in my gut. A sinking feeling in my heart. A release in my back, yet a bearing down on my shoulders. This is what divorce, what heartbreak, feels like. This is what it looks like. This is . . . it.
“Come on,” Marian gently coaxes.
We move from the kitchen to the living room, Marian’s supporting arm around my waist, guiding my suddenly frail body—as if I’ve forgotten how to breathe, how to walk, how to be.
“I . . . ,” I say once I’m seated. “I . . . never thought I’d say it’s . . . over.”
Marian doesn’t say anything, and she doesn’t have to. Her being here beside me, a box of Kleenex held at the ready, and that awaiting stash of ice cream say enough. Her knowing and understanding that sometimes it’s just over, that sometimes life simply does not go according to plan, is her saying everything. It’s her saying, It’ll all be all right. And it will be. Eventually, everything will be all right.
When I can’t imagine any more tears (or Kleenexes), I take Marian up on her ice cream therapy. With a pint of Sweet Cream and Cookies in my hand and a pint of Chocolate Fudge Brownie in Marian’s, we sit on the sofa in silence. Only the occasional sniffle or licking of a spoon clean can be heard.
“Is it helping some?” Marian asks after a long while. Nearly half my pint is gone, and I have no plan of stopping anytime soon. “It’s a temporary feel-good at best,” she says. “Is it even that much?” She gives me a worried, sympathetic expression.
“It is, actually.” I lick the sweetness from my lips. “Thank you.”
“You know, if you need it, I can always get you some Percocet,” she says, only half kidding. “Vicodin. Oh! There’s a new drug out—”
“Thanks, Marian,” I cut her off, chuckling. “I think I’ll stick to this.” I hold up my ice cream.
“Well, you’re stronger than I could ever be.”
“I’m on day one. Let’s see how long I can pull it off.” I glance at the nutritional information on the carton but don’t actually read anything. “Or how long I can last with these and still fit into my clothes. It should get easier, though.” My tone invites affirmation from Marian, and she, as a best friend does, answers the call.
“It eventually gets easier, Hals. But I’m not so sure the sadness ever goes away entirely.”
“Cole.”
She shrugs. “You learn to move on. You start to think about it less. You’re not so wrapped up in it. But it still hurts some.” She sighs. “And then when you go and muck it up and make a total fool out of yourself, you just invite the damn hurt back in, and it kills.”
She takes a bite as I say, “I guess the big lesson is that life doesn’t always turn out as planned. Even when you plan.”
“Amen, sister.”
“And that a breakup or a divorce isn’t necessarily a failure.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Yes, it hurts, and of course I’d rather have made my marriage work. You’d rather things had worked out with Cole.”
“Another amen,” Marian says drily.
“It’s sad and bleak and depressing as hell and all that cry-into-your-ice-cream crap.”
“Mmmhmm.”
“But . . . I’m kind of desperate for hope right now,” I say. “Kind of counting on it, trying to keep my chin up as best I can.”
“I get that.” She pauses. “But . . . even though Adam was willing to put his wanting a child aside for you? To save your marriage?”
I stick my spoon in the slowly melting remains of my ice cream. “It hurts to come to this. It really does. But . . . it wouldn’t be fair to him, Marian. That isn’t the kind of marriage or life I want. The kind of love I want.”
After a few beats of silence, Marian says, “I get where you’re coming from, Halley. I really do. And I respect the hell out of it.”
“Thanks.”
“But damn, I’d do anything and everything for the man I love. I’d have a baby for him.”
“That’s because you want a child some day.”
“I suppose.”
“You’ve been there, Marian. Going after what you want, being true to you. Even when you weren’t sure if t
hings would go as you hoped.”
“I’m a great example of living true to yourself.” She rolls her eyes.
“You are.”
“Halley, you fail to see that my running away from Cole put me in this nasty, miserable spot.”
“But would jumping into marriage with Cole when you had all those doubts and fears really have been right? Would it have maybe damaged your relationship? Your marriage? Eventually?”
“It’s just . . . it’s a fine line, living true to yourself and making a horrible mistake that you’ll only realize is a mistake much later on. Maybe even when it’s too late.”
“Maybe. That’s life for you, I guess,” I say. “But I’ve done the separation. I’ve done the thinking, and this is the decision I’ve made, Marian. At the risk of sounding corny, I know in my heart that this is the right thing to do because my heart is terribly heavy.” I press a fist to my chest. “But I also feel like a burden’s been lifted, you know? There’s a lightness, like I’ve finally found the solution, finally come to acceptance, and now I can try to move forward. No half-lived life, right?”
“Yeah . . .” She takes a small bite of ice cream, eyes fixed on the coffee table. “I respect your decision, Halley. Really, I do. I’d just do anything to have Cole want me the way Adam wants you. It’s so unfair. I wish we could trade places.”
I let my eyes follow hers, fall into my own stare. I don’t know what to say.
“I guess that’s just my pathetic way of saying I love Cole,” Marian says.
“Yeah. And Adam saying he’ll forego having a child to be with me—that’s his way of saying he loves me. My way is letting him go.”
“Shit, Hals. This requires ice cream and booze.”
“I should unpack,” I say resignedly, standing. “I’ve got a partially filled suitcase in my room, and the sight is too depressing.”
Marian grabs my forearm and pulls me back into my seat. “Later,” she says. “You’re home now. It can wait.”
She’s right. In fact, unpacking my suitcase will probably only make me more depressed than its being there half-packed.
With my ice cream in hand, I nestle close to Marian. She reaches for the remote control and selects an episode of Friends.
“Moments like these call for some Friends and then a night out,” she says with pep. “What do you say? There’s this new bar I’ve been wanting to try. I think we deserve to treat each other to a drink.”
“Maybe.”
“And hey, since you’re going for the optimistic road and all, look at one of the grand life lessons Friends offers us.”
“What’s that?”
“Yes, divorce bites, but at least you’re not Ross,” she says with a smile.
“Right,” I say with a laugh. “Three divorces by thirty.”
Three days later, my half-packed pile of clothes is still sitting inside my opened suitcase. Three neat stacks that greet me every morning and disappear into the darkness every evening before bed, reminding me that I am not returning home. Adam is no longer my home. Part of me wants to close the piece of luggage and shove it and all its contents into my closet—out of sight, out of mind. Denial of the impending divorce. And another part of me wants to keep it in sight, in mind. Encouragement that the impending divorce is that necessary step in this love story, painful as it is.
I don’t expect to hear from Adam soon, so I’m surprised when my cell phone rings in the early afternoon and I half expect it to be him. It’s Charlotte. She and Marco had their second counseling session on Friday—probably around the same time I was meeting with Adam, I can’t help but think.
Their session went well, which excites me to no end, and they’ll be starting twice-weekly sessions after the New Year. Marco hasn’t yet forgiven Charlotte, and Charlotte is far from forgiving herself. However, they’re talking, they’re fighting for their marriage, they’re chasing their truths. When Charlotte asks about Nina and Rylan, I catch her up on the birth and Rylan’s condition, and then I realize I desperately want to visit Nina and my godson. Right now, Rylan is both my nephew and my godson, but with the divorce, our familial ties will be legally cut. Will my future with Adam change more than our relationship? Will Nina and Griffin think it best to choose another godmother for their son, given the circumstance?
Nina invites me over the following day after I call to see how she’s doing. She and Griffin have gotten into the swing of being home with their newborn, though neither has gotten more than two simultaneous hours of sleep since. Yet despite their exhausted states, they’re all smiles and positively jubilant when I drive over after work.
“You’re wearing fatherhood well,” I compliment Griffin. He’s comfortably barefoot, dressed in a pair of linen pants and a short-sleeved tee. He’s let his facial hair grow out some, but it’s maintained in a neat beard. Though he hasn’t gotten much sleep, his eyes are bright, his mood cheerful.
“Not as well as Nina wears motherhood,” Griffin replies. He looks on adoringly at his wife, who’s gingerly making her way down the winding carpeted staircase. Rylan, bundled like a baby burrito, is nestled silently in her arms.
“That’s for sure,” I say, giving Nina a kiss on the cheek. She’s still wearing her pregnancy glow, leading me to believe that she’s seamlessly transitioned from glowing expectant mother to glowing-with-pride mother-at-last. With Rylan, Nina will always have her glow.
“You ladies enjoy some girl time,” Griffin says. He and Nina make the baby handoff as if they’ve been doing it for years.
Nina and I settle into the cozy front sitting room. Their home, in spite of having welcomed a newborn, is immaculate and therapeutically silent. There’s even some jazz lightly streaming from their living room that, thanks to the unbelievable peace, can be heard all the way in here. I’m sure that if Adam were here he’d point out that having a baby clearly doesn’t have to disrupt one’s life entirely, flip it on its head. I love my sister, but I can picture Adam comparing the two drastically different examples of child-filled homes, saying that we could write our own version of parenthood. That I had nothing to worry about.
It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for her to give me a sideways smile and say, “I heard.”
“Yeah. It wasn’t easy. It isn’t easy.”
“Divorce never is.” Nina smooths her dark hair back with both hands. “Halley, I want to let you know that nothing’s changed. You will always be my sister. Sister-in-law or not, you are my sister.”
“Nina, thank you. That means a lot.”
I hesitate before saying, “I understand if you want a married couple for Rylan, but I love being his godmother. I want to be, if you’ll still have me. It’s an honor I don’t take lightly.”
“Oh, honey.” Nina waves a dismissive hand. “That is not changing. You’re tied to that sweet boy forever. Regardless of what’s happening with Adam.”
Relief washes over me. I’m sure it’ll be strange when Adam and I, divorced, will attend Rylan’s baptism together, standing side by side in front of everyone important in Rylan’s life, promising to be his guides. It’ll be weird when we cross paths, such as when I see Nina, as a friend, a forever-sister, and Adam is around. It’ll be hard to see Adam, knowing he’s no longer mine, and I’m sure it’ll be just as hard for him, but our love for Rylan is greater than any awkward moment or stiff hello.
Griffin then brings a lightly fussing Rylan into the room. “I think he’s hungry,” he says, returning Rylan to Nina’s awaiting arms.
Nina discreetly begins to breastfeed her son.
“Everything’s going well with you and Rylan?” I ask. “A-okay healthy?”
“Everything’s perfect, Halley. Absolute perfection.”
“Good. That makes me happy to hear. Oh! Before I forget,” I say, reaching for my bag. “I really enjoyed it. Thank you.” I set the paperback copy of Following Home on the ottoman.
“My pleasure. The house is enjoying the sales,” she says with a wink. “It’s a hit.”<
br />
“I can see that.”
“I wish I would have been the lucky editor to have found it. Wasn’t it just inspiring? Her travels? Adventures?” She looks down at her peaceful bundle and draws her thumb across Rylan’s forehead.
“It was. We should all go on a life-changing journey like that.”
Nina looks up at me and, with a confident and kind smile, says, “Aren’t we, Halley?”
I pause to consider the simple truth.
“Yeah,” I say with a small smile. “I suppose we are.”
Eighteen
It’s been nearly a week since I’ve heard from Adam. Since that fateful evening in the park. My luggage is still half-packed, and I’ve decided it’ll stay that way until Adam and I talk again. And I’ve decided the ball is completely in his court. Not to pass the buck but to give him the time that I was able to take to recognize the clarity. I don’t know if he’ll come to it before our divorce proceedings begin, and I don’t even know if he’ll agree to a divorce, though it need not be a mutual decision. I do hope it’ll be amicable and easy—a quick, clean, and friendly divorce. Well, as friendly as one can be.
I have the name and number of an affordable and efficient divorce attorney scrawled on a Post-it in my jacket pocket. Mika, a junior editor at Copper, went through her own divorce last year—an amicable and clean one, hence the recommendation. During my walk home, the Post-it starts to burn a hole in my pocket. I blame the Christmas tree lot on my right. The inescapable scent of pine wafts over and fills my nostrils. The cheery red sign of the chain-link-barricaded lot to the left with “Ho-Ho-Ho” written on it and the one to the right advertising, in the same cheery red, “Christmas Trees” officially do me in. It’s everything I can do to keep from falling into nostalgia’s trap and missing Adam unbearably. Will I always feel sad when I pass a Christmas tree lot, thinking back on when Adam proposed? And how we broke our vows? Will I ever be able to look at a Christmas tree lot—or a Christmas tree, for that matter—the same way again?
My fingers alight on the Post-it deep in my pocket. I make a fist around it in defiance of the pain that swells within at the mere sight of a stupid Christmas tree lot.
Everything the Heart Wants Page 26
