When Girlfriends Let Go

by Savannah Page

  “Remind me that next time we’re in the car together I turn off my radio,” Sophie says, mock-petulant.

  “Dear god,” I groan, sliding down the opposing bookshelf and onto the floor. “You’re not still thinking of dragging Conner to that fertility clinic, are you, Claire?” I pull my knees to my chest.

  “Oh, I was only thinking out loud,” Claire replies. “My man’s fertility is not a problem. Remember all those pregnancy scares back in college?” She pauses her intrepid search to give me a direct look, then Sophie.

  “Yeah,” Sophie says, still focused on her phone. “Only because you’re not so great at remembering to take your pill, honey.”

  “Or remembering where you misplaced them,” I quip.

  “Whatevs,” Claire says, returning to her search. “Just you wait, girls. Before you know it Robin won’t be the only preggers one around here.”

  Chapter Two

  I take a long, slow drag on my cigarette as I lean against the ice-cold, steel railing of the balcony that wraps around my luxurious townhouse. The muffled post-five-o’clock traffic sounds that travel up these twelve floors have retired for the evening. At quarter past eight on a Friday most businessmen, however stressed and strapped, are home from the office.

  Those unsettling thoughts of my marriage that crept up at Randy’s are still plaguing me, nearly a week later. They were there before—long before, actually; perhaps a little more light was shed on those thoughts during the discussion of Nathan and Lara. Right now, it’s just me and these disconcerting thoughts as I stand alone in the crisp winter night. Just me, wondering how the hell I went from the altar as an excited, blushing bride, to a woman too often unhappy in her marriage—looking for a fix, maybe even a way out.

  The story of how Andrew and I met and fell in love wasn’t exactly something out of a Cary Grant film. No meet-cute, no coy romance, no charming repartee. Yes, there was me, a damsel so often in distress; yes, there was the knight, Andrew, in very shiny armor. There was attraction, there was fondness, there was love—but an affair to remember? Ha!

  No, the way I met, fell in love with and eventually married my knight was not in the style of one of my many beloved romantic, black-and-white films. It was me, Jackie Anderson, a twenty-six-year-old hostess, desperately trying to hold onto one of the only jobs I’d survived long enough to earn a full payroll, always on the prowl for a potential relationship—someone to save me from myself, or at least boredom…or poverty.

  And then there was Andrew Kittredge, a successful, attractive, and sophisticated businessman, nearly twice my age, looking for a bite to eat but ending up getting much more than he paid for. There was a bit of flirting, a wad of cash handed to my boss to get me off my hostess duties that night for a date, and sparks that danced spiritedly over drinks, dinner, and dancing. Lather, rinse, repeat—you get the picture. Hot attraction and flirty fun, but certainly not a classic Hollywood romance.

  Taking another drag, I survey the deep blue Elliott Bay, on past to Puget Sound. Two ferries are leaving the city, probably filled with happy couples who have made plans for a weekend of R&R in Bremerton or a romantic evening on Bainbridge Island. I blow out a steady stream of smoke and lightly chuckle at the imagery of a damsel in distress, high up in her tower, waiting for her knight to ride on in and scoop her into his arms. Oh, irony and it’s not-so-subtle ways.

  Some might think our love story is actually charming in its own way. Some of my best girlfriends think it a bit crazy that I was kind of “bought” for our first date. I think it set the precedent for what would eventually become our marriage. Andrew sees what he wants, he goes after it, and if that means paying whatever price, so be it. When I see a man who’s willing to offer me love (and lasso the moon), I’m no fool. When we fall in love and exchange vows, well, maybe we’re both the fools, then.

  I rub out the nub of a cigarette and immediately smack another one out of the pack.

  Whatever started back at that jazz bar two and a half years ago eventually culminated into what is, thirteen months later, my marriage to Mr. Andrew Kittredge. Often they call marriage “taking the plunge,” but I think the plunging begins a couple months into the marriage. I don’t know; every couple’s different. God knows Claire, who’s been married to her college sweetheart Conner for nearly half a year now, would say that “the plunge” only applies to people who aren’t marrying their soul mate.

  Even if some plunging does occur in my marriage, and regardless of when, I honestly do believe that Andrew’s my soul mate. I’ve dated a lot of assholes and wasted plenty of time on men who were boys. Andrew’s the real deal; the best I’ve ever had. I do believe he loves me, he does try to treat me like a princess, and I know he’d never allow for another man to come between us…or for someone to hurt me. And I love my husband. I married him for his charm, his care, his passion, and his expressed and deep love for me. And, yes, I won’t lie—his copious amounts of wealth made signing that marriage certificate a little easier.

  I come from a broken and poor home. Getting showered with expensive gifts and whisked off on exotic trips is the royal perk of being the apple of a rich man’s eye. But it certainly isn’t what made me decide to marry Andrew, no matter what those judgmental onlookers might think when they see a mature man with a twenty-something on his arm. If I was looking for marriage for money, I could’ve run off to Vegas with Phil the thick-walleted car salesman from West Seattle or decided to “take the plunge” with the U Dub golfer and Tau Sigma honors student senior year, trust fund, adenoids, and all.

  No, I love Andrew. He’s the one I was meant to marry. Can I stay married to him, though? That’s the question that’s gnawing so deeply at me.

  Is being soul mates enough in a marriage? Does it mean you stay together when the relationship that made you believe you were soul mates to begin with has changed beyond recognition? When people change, when situations change, when life changes… Can you love someone with all your heart but let go and love from afar? What do you do when your marriage becomes a stranger, when you begin to think you just might be better off alone?

  Leaning farther against the cold balcony railing, both forearms pressing hard down onto the top bar, I take another pan of my picturesque surroundings. Seattle is stunning any time of the day or night. Of course, it could be more beautiful if a certain someone were home on a Friday night. If a certain someone could share this view with me, wrap his arms around me, be here to tell me he loves me…

  I flick some ashes over the ledge and watch as the amber flecks flitter about, falling down, down, down.

  On the one hand, being married to a rich and handsome and powerful man and having that stability I never had growing up is really nice. I don’t have to work—and thank god, because I’m the world’s worst employee. I live in a palatial home. I want for nothing materially. I’m a very lucky girl, I know that, and my husband makes all that possible.

  On the other hand, sometimes I simply hate my situation. I hate that what makes for this stability is a career that requires the vast majority of Andrew’s time and attention. His obsession with his professional life, his lack of time for me, the missed calls and my unanswered messages left with his half-wit secretary, and of course the entering of a PIN in exchange for a shiny something as his answer to quarrels and unhappiness all make me feel like I’m drowning. Like I’m plunging. Like life is a pool party, my marriage the pool. I’m drowning with a whole poolside party going on above. I’m screaming and gurgling from time to time, I’m flailing helplessly, and they’re all carrying on with their silly shindig as if nothing’s happening. Like I’m the crazy one for drowning during a fun pool party.

  It’s not all the time that I feel this way, all helpless in my marriage. Some days we’re really great together, like when Andrew and I were first going out. Then others I’m up here, probably catching cold twelve stories up, contemplating the meaning of love and marriage. And it’s those ups and downs, those incessant hots and colds, that bring m
e right back to that question of when enough becomes enough. When has a relationship run its course? When is enough neglect and enough loneliness and enough unhappiness license to move on? Because you know that just around the corner another high point will come, and you’ll be head-over-heels for your husband once again, scolding yourself for ever having had such nasty thoughts of desertion.

  Oh, but when will all of the neglect become too much? When will all of that waiting for the next high point to happen become too painful? When will the suffering become unbearable? And is love really enough?

  What happens when that consistent passion, those sweet gestures or deep talks, the willingness to do something for your significant other that you may not want to do but do anyway because it means the world to them fade away? What happens when you’re more often unhappy than content? When you spend more time complaining than being grateful? When the days you wish you were anywhere but here happen more and more frequently? When all the chips are down, do you walk away? Or do you find a way to keep on playing, keep on hoping for that next happy moment?

  Andrew and I had quite a rough patch not too long ago, and I actually thought our marriage was doomed. I thought I’d seen my final drowning.

  Andrew’s in investments. He’s a broker, and while I don’t really know what that means, I do know that it’s a really demanding career and requires just about all of his time. His neglect and inattentiveness thanks to his heinous hours was finally enough to make me research divorce law. My friends said I was much too rash, and maybe I was, but at some point a woman can only handle so many out-of-town business trips, so many nights of bringing work home, so many canceled dates, so many missed or unanswered calls because of some meeting, deadline, or something more important.

  Andrew and I are one of those couples that manages to bicker far too often—a real hot and cold, high and low couple. But when it comes down to a discussion about us spending time together and my husband understanding that I’m not just some trophy wife we can get into some pretty heated fights.

  Somehow, though, we talked—though only briefly, and I did not mention my research project. We talked about how I needed him to give me more attention. I needed to feel not like the kept wife who sits around the house all day with nothing to do.

  All right, I’ve got five of the best friends a woman could ask for, and we do get to hang out frequently. But they all have lives of their own—pool parties where they’re not drowning. They all have jobs, and husbands or relationships…busy lives.

  When I’m not spending hours getting facials and pedicures or stuffing my walk-in closet with gems from Balenciaga, Prada, and Chloé, or sitting around here by my lonesome, I do get to hang out with my girls, and then I get to wonder when the hell my husband will be home—and, when he is home, if he’ll have time for me. He’s always got his fingers on the computer or in a pile of paperwork.

  But, once we talked, Andrew had made steps to improve. There were more home-before-dinner evenings, weekend getaways, and he’d even include me on out-of-town business trips now and then. It was, well…like the beginning of our love story.

  Then, somehow, we wound up back here, yet again. Back to the unanswered phone calls, back to the endless meetings, back to setting the polished trophy back up on the mantel and, what? Planning on making another polishing appointment six months later? A year?

  Though I thought I’d sunk my lowest researching divorce law last year, and though I thought things were really starting to turn around again, I now find myself wondering if Lara’s the only one who has a relationship conundrum to face, if she’s the only one with a tough decision to make when it comes to love.

  I bring the cigarette up to my glittering, pink lips and am about to inhale when I hear the front door close and my pet name called out. “Baby doll? Baby doll, do you have a window open?”

  I quickly extinguish my cigarette, feeling a mixture of relief that Andrew’s home at last and disappointment because it’s not like anything’s changed. His coming home was bound to happen at some point, so why bother getting excited? As I walk through the wide-open balcony door I glance at my silver, diamond-encrusted Chanel watch, one of the many “I’m sorry I have to travel for work” presents from Andrew. 8:40, the glittering gift reads.

  “It’s freezing in here,” Andrew says. He drapes his full-length wool coat over the back of the sofa, his black briefcase following suit. He briskly crosses the room to close the large glass door, and I can’t help but smile as I watch him.

  Andrew’s so attractive, with his determined and mature strut, and his slim but well-proportioned build. He towers over my five-foot self a good ten inches, has even bluer eyes than mine, skin a color between almond and caramel with hints of freckles, and the most dreamy salt-and-pepper hair, emphasis on the salt. Come this time each day his face has got an equally salt-and-pepper-ish shadow. He always smells of the muskiest of colognes and, when clean-shaven each morning, of a rich aftershave, thanks to Ralph Lauren. His wardrobe is impeccable—suave and with an air of importance, just like the man in the suit. With the exception of the rarely worn pair of linen pants or loosely-fitted shirts, it’s nothing but crisp, collared button-downs from only the best designers, with smart sport coats and evenly-pressed dress slacks, Cartier cufflinks, exorbitant ties, and Italian-made loafers to match.

  “Hey,” I say in a soft voice, holding my arms out for him to give me a hug.

  “Hey, baby,” he coos, wrapping me in a strong and warm embrace. He leans down for a kiss, my lips instantly tingling. We definitely aren’t lacking in the attraction department.

  “I was waiting forever for you to come home,” I say in between kisses. My lips may be tingling, but my stomach feels a little unsettled, no thanks to the distressing thoughts running through my mind lately. I force a bleach-white smile and run my fingers through his hair.

  “But I’m home now,” he says. Then his brow slightly rises. “Jackie, were you out there in this weather?” He points to the balcony. “This cold wearing that?” He motions at my rather scantily clad self.

  Andrew’s got his prim and pressed designer wares, and I’ve got my Samantha Jones meets Beyoncé designer wardrobe. Glamorous, maybe inappropriate to some, but always fun.

  I look down at the shimmery gold and cream spaghetti-strap Marc Jacobs dress that perfectly conforms to my slim lines and flat chest.

  “Looks better on me than the hanger,” I say coyly.

  “That,” he says with a kiss, “I can’t argue. You look ravishing.”

  “And…” I sing, taking his hand in mine as he walks back to the sofa. He retrieves his briefcase. “…maybe, since I look so ravishing, we could go out?”

  He charges towards the office, flipping lights on in a flash. “Sorry, darling.” He lets go of my hand and sets his briefcase down on his massive, glass-topped desk. With a click-click of the case and a flurry of papers and files, he says, “I’ve got to work this whole weekend. If I don’t give this client my full and complete and immediate attention, I’m going to be in hot water.”

  “Great,” I mumble. I begin to rub absentmindedly at the office’s doorframe. “I thought we could go somewhere, do something. Anything!”

  “Baby doll.” His tone is impassive. “I have work to do. I’m sorry.”

  “You always have work, Andrew. We never do anything fun.” I move from rubbing the doorframe and on to the figure-eight-shaped oriental vase on the pedestal nearby. I finger the reflective material. “I’m bored.”

  “And I’m busy.” His eyes are focused on the piles of paperwork. “And what about the other weekend, huh? What about that trip to Jamaica? We have fun.”

  “Andrew.” I glare at him. “That was Thanksgiving. Two months ago!”

  “Baby,” he says in a low, drawn-out way, “I love you, but I’m doing this for us. Okay? I have no choice. I’ve got to get this work done.”

  “Fine,” I say. I flick the top of the vase with an acrylic nail, and a high-pitched ping s
ounds. “Whatever.”

  With a sharp turn on my bare heel I make my way back to the living room, diving headfirst onto the cozy sofa. I take a sip of the neglected martini I whipped up in disappointment once it was already past seven and Andrew still wasn’t home. With a small smack of my lips I flip on the television, then say under my breath, “Maybe I have no choice.”

  Chapter Three

  “Have you talked to Lara lately?” Emily asks over the phone.

  “Left a couple texts to see if she wanted to hang out. I’ve been so bored lately,” I say. “Says she’s busy at work.”

  I was going to call Lara last night, in fact, to ask if she’d thought any more about what she was going to do about Nathan. I’m afraid to hear her answer, though, so I’ve done the most unlike-Jackie thing of all and haven’t rung her up or texted a zillion times. Discussing Lara’s situation with her only reminds me how perhaps her problems aren’t so different from my own, and that reality hurts. Besides, does Lara really want my prying or shoddy attempts at advice? I can’t with a clear conscience tell her what I think is best for her when I don’t even know what’s best for myself.

  I mean, you never really know if you’re making the right choice about a relationship. If you stick it out, maybe it’ll work, maybe it won’t. If you bail, then you’ll never know if it possibly had the legs to stand. But did you just save yourself more potential heartache, more disappointment, by calling it quits? Or did you just screw yourself out of something that could be amazing?

  “This still about Andrew?” Emily says.

  I’m an open book to this girl. Well, it probably helps that I run to and confide in her like bees flock to honey.

  “Jackie,” Emily says before I can say anything. “You need to have an open and honest discussion with Andrew about your feelings. It won’t get any better until you do. Plus, it isn’t fair to him—to either of you—to keep this bottled up.”