When Girlfriends Let Go

by Savannah Page

  I take a sweeping glance around the harbor, searching for any possible peeping Toms. There doesn’t appear to be anyone around. Would it be so bad if I just slipped this thing off? It’s all in the name of tan lines, so that should be okay, right? I’ll just lie here, face down…no harm.

  Suddenly the sounds of children ring from behind. I investigate and take notice of a family of four boarding a sailboat a few slips over.

  “Screw it,” I say to myself, pulling my strap up higher and making sure it’s fastened. If I don’t get this oil properly applied I’m going to wind up like an oyster at a clam bake.

  Where is Andrew, anyway? I survey the marina off in the distance, but there’s no sign of my husband. It’s been—I glance at my cell phone—over an hour since he left to grab some snacks, or a newspaper, or whatever it was he said he was off to get.

  “That’s it,” I say, feeling my back itch with crispiness.

  I make my way up the slight hill, curving its way from the dock to the marina, wobbling a bit in the new pink and yellow wedge espadrilles I got at the most darling boutique earlier today. The shoes didn’t exactly fit when I tried them on, but they were so adorable I couldn’t pass them up. I figured they’d just fit better once I wore them out of the store, but that is so not the case.

  “Andrew?” I call, standing on wonky ankles, one hand gripping a bottle of tanning oil, the other clasping my big, floppy straw hat.

  “Sir?” I look to the man behind the counter, the same white-haired, leather-skinned man I encountered yesterday, except today his partner isn’t around.

  “Glad to see someone’s getting to use the sunshiney rays this afternoon,” he says jovially.

  I give a tight smile, then say, “Have you seen my husband? You know about way tall?” I raise a hand above my head, indicating five-foot-ten as best as possible. “Salt and pepper hair, kind of…” I wag my head. “Well, older than me.” I roll my eyes. “Did he come by for snacks or a book or something a while ago?”

  “Why, yes!” The man turns slowly. He gestures with a thumb behind and around the corner. “He’d be using the computers back there. We’ve got WiFi, if you’re interested.”

  “Computers?” I say, aghast. I pull my sunglasses down my nose and stare at the bearer of shocking news.

  “With WiFi, yes, ma’am,” he says proudly, thumbs tucked behind his well-worn suspenders. “And since you’re such a pretty lady, I’ll give you the first fifteen minutes free, if ya like.”

  “What the fuck?” I breathe, stomping off towards the computer room.

  “I ‘spose I can go for thirty free,” the man says.

  I power around the corner, feeling like steam is shooting from my ears, out my head, my eyes. I’m like one of those cartoons about to explode! And it doesn’t matter one iota that I’m fuming and looking like a crazy person, dressed in nothing but a tiny, somewhat see-through white bikini, oiled up like a sardine in a can, and wobbling on wedges that are slowly cutting off the blood supply to my toes.

  “Andrew!” I shout, yanking my sunglasses off the instant I lay eyes on him, seated in front of a computer. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Oh, Lara, it was horrible. Absolutely horrible,” I rasp, shaking my head harshly.

  “Worst-vacation-ever horrible? Or just Jackie-wants-to-bitch horrible?” Lara says, impassive.

  “Please,” I hold up a hand. “Be real here.”

  Lara slips her maroon-lipsticked lips around a neon straw, taking a short sip of her Long Island Iced Tea. “You honestly had a horrible time?” she gets out quickly before I can stand back atop my soapbox. “Or are you only focusing on the horrible parts?”

  “It was a vacation, Lara.” I stir the naked toothpick around my martini briskly. “No parts of vacations should be horrible, kay?” I stick the toothpick in my mouth.

  “Point taken.” Lara takes another sip, this one slower, longer.

  “Anyway,” I say, sitting taller on the barstool. I return to my stirring. “There were some great parts—most of the time was really great, actually.”

  “See?”

  “But!” I hold up the toothpick. “The horrible part was what made the whole thing snowball into what I think turned out to be a shitty vacation. Totally unfair.”

  I explain to Lara over a desperately needed Monday evening happy hour at House 206, a swanky bar downtown, all about what turned out to be my sour weekend on Bainbridge. I tell her how I caught Andrew sneaking email correspondences during our entire trip, even taking phone calls. So his cell phone rang once at lunch, and once more later that afternoon (which is probably why he sprinted off to the marina’s WiFi hotspot—damn modern day technology).

  It was his computer usage that really burned my short fuse to the nubbin, though. The fact that Andrew took over an hour of our vacation time in that marina, clicking about doing work-related crap, answering emails, even coordinating meetings for this week! And you know what? Turns out it wasn’t the first time. The day we arrived, when I went to walk Bella, apparently that was the moment he discovered the stupid WiFi and, well… Is there no end to this madness called a career?

  “So you see why I insisted on happy hour?” I say to Lara with wide eyes.

  “Hey,” she says, peppy. “This is like a thing now, huh? Happy hour to bitch about men. Our thing, I guess.” She smiles and bends the tip of her straw in half. “Granted these sugar-filled calories,” she gestures to our colorful drinks, “probably aren’t going to help my ass get any smaller.” She simpers.

  “You’re such a goober, Lara.” I look at her ass. “Looks good to me. I’d tap that.”

  “Well, even though some of the vaca was a bust, at least you got some one-on-one time with Andrew, you know?” She gives an optimistic smile. “Got to reignite the sparks, rekindle the love, all that schmoozy stuff?”

  “Oh, girl.” I push aside my drained martini and lean in to her. “I read about these special tricks in Cosmo—last month’s issue, if you’re interested.”

  “Oh, right, because I have soooo much sex with my invisible boyfriend.” She takes a pull on her cocktail.

  “Anyway,” I rush out, “it was an article with all these tips collected from hookers all over the world—such an enlightening read, let me tell you!” I lean a bit back and press my lips together.

  “Can I get you ladies anything else?” the bartender, an attractive man with dark, wavy hair, hazel eyes, and strong hands, asks in a deep, guttural voice. He thumps the bar with his heavily ringed fingers. “Happy hour deals end in ten.”

  Lara looks down at her half-drunk tea, then gives me a questionable face.

  I look down at my own drink, the glass empty, and consider calling it quits just to prove that I can stop if I want to. Last thing I want is to go home to Andrew, have him wince at smelling my breath, and accuse me of being some alcoholic. We’re already not on the best of terms since we got home yesterday after a rather silent and awkward boat ride home. Giving him ammunition for a whole new battle is just not what I want to deal with tonight.

  “Couldn’t help but overhear your awful weekend,” the bartender continues, his hazel eyes sparkling in the lilac and deep blue lighting of the modernly decorated bar. “Sounds like you girls could use another drink.” One side of his mouth turns up into a sly grin. “Or maybe a good weekend.”

  I push my martini glass towards the edge of the bar and look at Lara. “I think I’ll pass on the drink, really,” I say smartly with a wink. “Though god knows I could so use a good sloshing right now. My husband’s so dull sometimes.”

  “I’m good, thanks,” Lara says in a dismissive way. She averts her eyes from the bartender to me, her lips pressed firmly together.

  The bartender takes my glass, gives Lara a little nod, then gives me an indecipherable look as he moves along. I can’t tell if he’s giving me eyes that say he’ll surprise us with a drink anyway? If he wants Lara’s number maybe? Perhaps mine? Or if he’s
just practicing his smooth-talking moves before the evening crowd hits, when the bar will fill with the usual twenty-something, up-and-coming gentrified crowd.

  “Anyway,” I say to Lara. “Whatever. I’ll go home tonight and Andrew’ll probably already be in bed, asleep with his damn sleeping pills. God, isn’t life thrilling? Aren’t you envious of what I have?” I cackle in spite.

  “Envious that you have a man who loves you?” She sniffs. “Yeah, that’d be a nice thing to have.”

  “Please. If he really loved me he wouldn’t be racing to the office like he does. Second-best Jackie.”

  Lara’s silent for a moment, looking at me with soft eyes. Finally she says, “So did you guys make up already or what?” She takes a short drink before pushing her glass away.

  “Not really,” I say with a sigh. “He was such a bore last night. He just took his Ambien and said he had a busy week ahead of him, then went to bed. I mean, granted I was totally POed over his whole ‘I can’t leave work for a single second’ thing shtick. I might have been kind of unapproachable. But he promised he could take a break from the office. One simple weekend! It’s like he can’t help himself, Lara.”

  “For what it’s worth,” she says in a cautious yet direct tone, “take it from a woman who lives to work. When you get into that mode and it’s churning project out here and meeting deadline there, BlackBerry glued to your hand and your next day’s—next week’s!—schedule zipping through your mind twenty-four-seven, you can really get your head lost. Work-life balance is tough when you’ve got a high-powered career.”

  “Then Andrew never should have gotten married if he wasn’t willing to compromise,” I say astutely.

  “And,” Lara says, holding up one manicured finger, “maybe you shouldn’t have gotten married if you weren’t willing to compromise.”

  I furrow my brow, taken aback by her words.

  “Look,” she says in a flurry, “I’m just saying it goes both ways. Give and take, yin and yang, takes two to tango.” She waves a loose hand. “You know how it goes? I know Andrew’s not being the husband he needs to be, but, in all honesty, Jackie, are you being the wife you need to be?”

  “I’m going to a therapist,” I say through a whine.

  “And that’s great.”

  “I know I’ve got a difficult past and demons to deal with. I know I’m not an easy person to get along with.”

  “Yet we all love our crazy Jackie. Although, seriously, a little crazy goes a long way.” She gives me a playful shove.

  “I try to keep busy,” I say, “and I try not to dwell on Andrew being gone so much, busy so often…”

  “Maybe…” Lara looks away from me and straight at her cocktail. “Maybe…you might want to consider getting a job? Or volunteering?”

  “Lara, please.” I wag my head indignantly. “I’m not the volunteering type and there’s no point in me working. I’m too…emotionally worked up to even consider applying for something like that.”

  “Just a thought.” She whips out her BlackBerry and clicks about for a few seconds. “You don’t have to work just because you need the money. Look at Em. At Chad.”

  I sigh, plunking an elbow too harshly on the bar. I rub at the tingling spot, and the bartender reappears.

  “We’ll get the check, please,” Lara says to him.

  She turns to me and says, waving about her phone, “Not to add fuel to the down-on-careers fire, but I’ve got some take-home work to do.” She sticks out her tongue and crinkles her nose. “It bites, but I’ve got to get going.” She drops her phone back into her bag. “Maybe when you feel like you’re back on top of the emotional wagon you can consider doing something to help keep your mind off your troubles.”

  I point at her half-drunk cocktail. “That could do it,” I tease.

  “Ha-ha.” She pulls her discreet black wallet from her bag and is about to produce a credit card when I tell her I’ve got this one.

  “You’ve always got this one, Jack.”

  “Hey, if I can’t be happy that the husband’s big-bucks-career keeps him tied up and away from me, the least I can do is enjoy the perks of being able to cover a BFF’s tab.”

  “Cheers to that.” She jingles the melting ice in her glass, imitating a toast. “Look, just try to see his side of things, hon.” She puts her wallet away. “There’s a reason you can cover these tabs, like you said. There’s a reason you can live such a glamorous life.”

  “Trophy-wife-life,” I say glumly. “Not as shiny as they make it out to be.”

  “Would you rather him make less money and work less? Maybe you both work? Claire and Conner…Robin and Bobby…”

  “While they’re happy in their relationships, that’s not exactly what I had in mind.”

  “You’re a lucky woman, Jack.” Lara pats my hand, then hikes her bag onto her shoulder. “You’re just a tad too spoiled and caught up in your drama-drams to realize it.”

  “I know,” I grouse, having heard this time and again. “I’m working through shit, what can I say?”

  “Keep it up. And keep the lines of communication open. Sounds like you guys are back to ‘The Sound of Silence,’ and that’s not good.”

  The bartender sets the bill on the bar between us, and I snatch it up and say, “Silence of the Lambs is more like it.” I snicker and pull a fifty from my wallet. “There’s definitely a thick, heavy…something…between us. It’s icky again, Lara. Probably headed downhill—again!”

  Lara gives a sympathetic stroke to my cheek and tells me to keep on talking. “Don’t give up.”

  “You know what the real problem is, Lara?” I tap an acrylic nail on my front teeth, and she raises an eyebrow in response. “I think he is having an affair,” I say saliently. “Work can not be making him race to the computer like that on a measly overnight trip. No way.”

  “You’d be surprised how demanding the office can be.”

  “Come on, Lara.” I glance at the bill and set the fifty on top of it. “After all Andrew and I’ve been through? With us having that heart-to-heart about him being more attentive, and he still can’t give me the bare minimum of a weekend away?” I push the cash to the bartender and tell him I’ll take only a ten in change. “Our marriage is on the line here, and he’s playing Russian Roulette with it!”

  “I wish I could say with certainty that Andrew is just a workaholic.” Lara’s voice turns low. “But after my recent deal with Nathan…”

  “Exactly!” I slump my shoulders forward. “It’s so pathetic, isn’t it? I mean, what other explanation could there be for him being so obsessed with staying plugged in on vaca?” I sigh loudly. “He just has to be having an affair with Nikki! I’ve got to get to the bottom of this, Lara. Something’s just not right.”

  Adjusting her bag on her shoulder, Lara shrugs lifelessly. “Well, if I can help, let me know.” She abruptly holds up a finger and says, “You know. Not to encourage acting on insane emotions. I mean, you did totally key the hell out of my ex’s car, and I still can’t completely swallow that fact.”

  “BFF love,” I say with a peppy pump of my fist.

  She closes her eyes and waves the topic away with a swift wagging of her head. “But maybe…maybe if you were to just go over to Andrew’s office, see for yourself what it’s like when he’s ‘too busy to take your calls,’ then maybe you’ll feel better. I don’t know. See that he really is busy, that there is no affair and…” She bites her bottom lip. “I don’t want to encourage sneaky and dishonest behavior but…I don’t know. Hell, we’re grasping at straws at this point, right?”

  “Right,” I say, lackluster.

  “I don’t know. Just a thought. And it’d be a nice way to show him that you care, that you’re thinking about him.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” I say with a forced half-grin. “Maybe if I went over there…took charge for once…saw for myself there wasn’t anything to worry about…”

  “Just keep your keys in your purse,” Lara says, only half
in jest. “Okay, I’ve got to go.” She stands up and smoothes out the light wrinkles in her power suit. “Thanks for another lovely date, Jackie. I’m sorry it was a bitch fest and couldn’t be celebratory.”

  “My pleasure.” I smooth out my own clothes, a simple black mini with a new pair of glittering gold Badgley Mischkas.

  The bartender hands me a ten-dollar bill, and I smile and thank him. I quickly dart my eyes to Lara to see if maybe there’s an opportunity for me to get her and this hunk of bartender meat out on a date, but she’s already clicking on her conservative black pumps to the exit.

  That girl, I think, hiking up my dress just a skosh, then clicking after her.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Hi,” I trill as I walk through the second set of doors of Jennings & Voigt, Andrew’s firm.

  Passing through general reception, I head straight to Andrew’s area of the office, hoping Nikki’s already out for lunch so I won’t have to see her stupid face.

  “Good afternoon,” Nikki greets, somewhat unexpectedly. Her voice is like ice, her demeanor sub-zero. She’s sitting here behind her large desk, posture perfect, her strawberry hair so finely set in large, swooping curls. Not one hair looks to be out of place. I scratch at my freshly trimmed inch-, maybe inch-and-a-half-length, bleached hair.

  “Hi,” I say, matching her saccharine greeting.

  I appraise her some more, unable to ignore how slick and shiny her pink lips are, how thick her black, inky eyeliner forms faux-almond-shaped eyes, and how long and tarantula-like her heavily mascaraed eyelashes are.

  “Yes? Can I help you?” Nikki says, those hair-leg-lashes fluttering in impatience.

  I exhale loudly and scan the reception area. “I’m here for Andrew.” I hike my Gucci handbag up higher on my shoulder. “For lunch.”

  She looks at me, perplexed. She slowly blinks, exaggeratedly and annoyingly so. If she blinks like this for much longer those spidery lashes will get tangled and she won’t be able to open her eyes again, I think. I stifle a childish giggle at the mental image as she begins to flip through a large datebook.