When Girlfriends Let Go

by Savannah Page

  I don’t know when or if things will get better between us, but for now I’m trying to enjoy Emily since she’s in town. I’m trying to work through my issues and focus on the positives, like Dr. Pierce says I should. I’m going to therapy regularly; I’ve been bringing Robin takeout dinners a night or two a week to help her out. Even though she insists Phillip’s not as exhausting to care for at three-and-a-half months old, she does appreciate the gesture (not to mention Bobby loves the gourmet takeout I find). I’m trying not to complain too much to Emily and the rest of the girls about the state of my marriage. I know my personality can be a bit too much to handle at times, but what are best girlfriends for if you can’t run to them when you’re having marital problems? Even so, I try not to bring it up every time we’re together.

  Of course, no matter how much I am honestly trying to stay upbeat and work on things, Dr. Pierce says I need to talk to Andrew, maybe even insist on couple’s counseling.

  I’ve given all that crap a go. All useless endeavors. Andrew simply refuses to go because I’m the one with the rough past, the one with the problems. If anyone needs therapy, it’s the little trophy wife, not the mogul husband.

  “Hey,” Gatz says, ducking his wet head out of Emily’s bedroom. “Em already head to work?”

  I lightly moisten the end of the cigarette paper with my tongue and moan out an “uh huh.”

  “Shoot.” He briskly towels dry his mane of brown curls. “Sophie wanted me to ask Em to swing by the market to get some things. And I remembered once she left.”

  “She still doesn’t have her cell, huh?”

  “They’re programming it. I’m picking it up after class.” He disappears from view.

  Emily is the least technologically inclined person I know, and I love her for it. She doesn’t give an ounce of care for Apple this or Bluetooth that. A television with cable? What for? A cell phone from this century? Who needs that? Front and back apartment doors that lock securely? “Who would ever want to steal from me?” she’ll say.

  Emily’s carried around a beat-up old phone from circa 1998. When she went to Zambia she left the thing behind and on, and the battery drained all the way down so that it’s now completely useless. I think it committed suicide, putting itself out of its outmoded misery, but the funny thing is that Emily doesn’t care all that much. It took Gatz to go down to the AT&T store to get her a new phone.

  “I’m running late for my final,” Gatz says when he reappears a moment later, dressed in a wrinkled pair of brown, linen pants and a fitted white t-shirt that has May the Forest Be with You written boldly in green. “Would you do me a huge favor and pick up some stuff, Jackie? The list is on the coffee table.”

  “Just call me delivery girl,” I say, happy that I’ve got something to fill my day before my hot stone massage and planned stroll through the air-conditioned cathedral of retail at the Westlake Center. I finish rolling the sixth and last cigarette. “I’ve got some yummy smokes for Em, anyhow.”

  Gatz washes down a hunk of muffin with a big gulp of orange juice. “Don’t encourage her. I’m trying to get her to quit.”

  “She’s a social smoker.” I slip the cigarettes into my small Chanel clutch. “These three will last her weeks. I, on the other hand…”

  Gatz slings his rugged brown messenger bag across his chest and marches for the front door. “So you don’t mind?”

  “An excuse to go to The Cup and the Cake and hang with Em…Sophie…do something with my day?” I cackle, tossing my head back in exaggerated mirth.

  “Hey, you know if you’re bored there are tons of clubs and stuff that meet regularly. Like hobby clubs and stuff…”

  “Like your and Em’s book club?” I pick up the latest book Emily’s reading, perhaps for her book club. Hidden Cities: Travels to the Secret Corners of the World's Great Metropolises is the title, a book about urban exploration.

  “Not necessarily a book club, but something…I don’t know.” Gatz pulls a hair tie from around his wrist and draws back his hair into a messy, stubby ponytail. “There are always volunteer gigs and clubs out there…part-time work, even.”

  “Heard it all before. I’m not a working girl, Gatz.” I toss Emily’s book aside. “I’ll stick with picking things up for the café right now, thanks.”

  “Just sayin’,” he says with a shrug. The door opens with a loud, grating squeak. “Tell Em I’ll relieve her at noon. See ya.”

  I saunter from the fancy pull-out bed in Emily’s living room and into the steam-filled bathroom, ready to begin my day.

  Though my little market pick-up may not be much more than a simple favor—certainly nothing that qualifies as life-saving material—it really does feel good to be do something…anything.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I slowly suck the juice from the succulent strawberry, letting the sweet and fragrant fruit settle on my tongue a while before licking my lips clean and going in for another bite. Biting at the tiny remainder of fruit, nothing but the green palm-like leaves sticking out, I flip the page of the newest issue of Seattle Socialite that I picked up near Pike Place Market during my fruit run.

  There’s a fascinating article (with even more fascinating photos) of some millionaire’s home over in the ritzy Queen Anne district, on the south slope, with sweeping views of Mt. Rainier and Elliott Bay. The breathtaking mansion has more than 16,000 square feet of living space, decked out with a wine cellar, a second kitchen, fireplaces in each of its seven bedrooms, and a lush, Tuscan-style garden, complete with a Koi pond, a lengthy veranda, and yet another fireplace.

  If the design looks impressive, take a look at the décor! Marble inlay flooring accented with thick and vibrantly colored Persian rugs, gold fluted mirrors, tufted ottomans, vintage French chairs and chaise longues, and retro-Gothic styled shelves and sconces. It’s a dream!

  “Damn,” I breathe, pulling the fraction of remaining strawberry flesh from my mouth. I run a finger over the shining chandelier that graces the ceiling of the master bath.

  Feeling for another strawberry from the bowl, I scan over the text.

  “Phew!” I exclaim when my eyes alight on the asking price of the dream house. Nearly choking on the bite of strawberry, I pop my head up and look over at Emily, who’s icing cupcakes. “Six-point-two million! Can you imagine?”

  “Fantasy mansions again?” Emily says from her workstation in the center of The Cup and the Cake’s kitchen.

  “Damn.” I pick up another ruby red strawberry from the small bowl I prepared for myself from the massive basket I just brought in to the café. “I can’t imagine spending that much on a home!”

  Emily giggles. “You do realize your home isn’t exactly a shack?” She thickly stirs a bowl of lavender-colored cupcake icing.

  “Yeah, but it ain’t six point two mill!” I exhale an astounded puff of air. “The décor, though, is what’s really impressive! How much fun would it be to decorate a mansion that’s—” I rapidly turn one page back, “sixteen thousand square feet? Now there’s a design job!”

  “So how’s Andrew doing?” Emily asks out of nowhere. “You two doing well?”

  “Uhh, he’s working… I’m here,” I stutter.

  “Have you two even…” She pauses, stopping her stirring, “Have you talked at all? I mean,” she resumes stirring, a hint of hesitancy in her voice, “you’ve stayed at my place two nights in a row, Jack, and, as to my knowledge, you two haven’t chatted on the phone, you haven’t gone back home…”

  “Oh, Em,” I say with a sigh. I close the magazine and lean an elbow on my crossed leg. “Welcome to my world. This is totally normal. Whatever. He’s busy; so am I.”

  “Normal’s one thing, but fine’s another.”

  I brusquely wag my head and shake open the magazine. “I’m trying to work through things. I’m trying to repair my marriage, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “I haven’t, really.” Her voice is small, but the hesitancy that was in it is no longer a hint but
a loud, cacophonous roar. “Doesn’t repairing your marriage mean you need to be involved with your husband?” She scoops a large dollop of icing onto a naked white cupcake. “I just really think you should be home with Andrew tonight.”

  “What? Where’s this coming from, Em? I thought you liked having me over.”

  “I do. I love having you over, don’t get me wrong. I just don’t think it’s healthy that you’re sleeping over when you’ve got a husband at home, alone, and you’ve got marriage problems. It’s one thing when he’s out of town—”

  “It’s not like he’s even conscious when I’m there, Emily,” I say dryly.

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “You and Gatz want to get it on or something?” I laugh. “Want the apartment to yourself?”

  “That’s not the point.”

  I shrug.

  “You being away all the time is not helpful for your marriage,” she says, “and that’s certainly not going to help your problems. Distance is probably only going to worsen them.”

  “Tell that to Andrew. He’s gone when his job calls; why can’t I be gone when my social life calls?”

  “Jackie, listen to yourself. First it’s distance with not talking, now physically. You complain of a failing marriage and—”

  “And what makes you an expert on marriage, Em?” I shoot out. Frustrated, I slam my magazine down on the counter.

  “I’m not claiming to be an expert on marriage.” Her voice is soft, patient, and concerned. “I do know a thing or two about relationships, and about conflict…about working at something you want, you love.”

  “Well…”

  “Look, when Andrew’s away on business, I have no problem with you wanting to crash at my place. But one minute you complain about him not being home enough, the next, when he is home, you run off. It’s like you don’t know what you want!”

  “Maybe I don’t!” I say, nearly shouting.

  “I don’t want to argue, Jackie.”

  “For someone who doesn’t want to argue you sure are making quite the accusations and doling out quite a bit of advice. Just mind your own business, Em.”

  “Jackie.” She walks over and places a hand on my forearm. “I’m looking out for you; trying to help you. The way you ragged on about Andrew last night, the way you’ve been telling bartenders how miserable you are in your marriage…” She exhales loudly. “You’re the one who’s always said that that’s a dangerous game to be playing—making yourself vulnerable like that and hurting Andrew behind his back.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I blink rapidly, trying to keep back the tears starting to sting. “I’m trying not to complain about Andrew so much, you know?”

  “I know, I know,” she soothes, rubbing my arm. “But then, on the other hand, Jack.” She nudges my chin up and locks eyes with me. “Not to upset you, but on the other hand, you talk about how much you love Andrew, about how much you miss him—”

  “Miss the way things used to be,” I quickly clarify. “Used to be, Em. When I was the center of his world.”

  “I want what’s best for you.” She smiles weakly, then returns to the cupcakes. “You know that. That’s all.”

  “I know.” My voice is weak. I thumb at the magazine’s corner. “I don’t know what I want,” I say with more urgency, “that’s my problem. I’m not happy in my marriage, and I don’t know how to fix it…” I bite my tongue as I prepare to say the next revealing and honest words. “…Maybe because a little part of me…doesn’t want to fix it.” I wag my head in exasperation and let some tears escape, however unwillingly. “I’m tired of trying, Emily.”

  “Oh, Jackie.” She rushes back over and pulls me into a hug. “Don’t say that. That’s laziness talking.”

  She pulls back and I rub my hands over my face, moving one of my faux eyelashes out of place. I press at it and fight back more tears.

  “If it makes you happy,” I say, “and for the sake of trying to rekindle the sparks or fix my marriage or whatever, I’ll go home tonight.”

  Emily’s lips curl into a small grin as she says, “Good. Talk to him. Work through things. Don’t give up, Jackie.”

  “When is enough enough, though?” I manage to ask the question that’s been gnawing at me for months. When do you reach that final peak, if ever? That final valley?

  Emily’s cheeks puff out, then she exhales a long shot of air, her eyebrows raised high. “Damn,” she mumbles. “That I don’t know.”

  I sniffle and wipe away my tears.

  “I think…” she begins cautiously, her hand loosely gripping the wooden spoon, “I think it happens when you find yourself wondering how things could be—when you find yourself picturing the two of you separated and then you’re imagining what it’d be like had you stuck it out…” She nods. “Yeah, I think that when you find yourself wondering about how things could have been if they’d worked out, then you’re really hoping that things will turn out. Sounds a little hokey, I suppose, or not really well thought-out…”

  “It’s something.”

  “That’s it.” She looks to me. “When there’s still that something you’re clinging to, hoping for, then I think, why the hell not stay and try and fight? Like with Gatz…” Immediately she begins to glow. “Zambia was rough at times. I didn’t like that our relationship basically started out long-distance. I even began wondering what it’d be like if I didn’t have him—if I’d let him go, how would life be? Basically, no matter the scenario, I always found myself unable to really let go.

  “Like, if we were to break up, I know I would always wonder if there could’ve been something, and that’s because I want there to be something. That feeling alone—that wanting him—and…” She begins to blush, grinning lips pressed tightly together. “…Since I love him, I could never fathom walking away.”

  “You love him?” It’s the first time I’ve heard Emily say this.

  “I love him. I do.” Her blushing deepens, as does her smile. “I love Gatsby Carter, and life without him…” She pauses, looking across the room. “I could live life without him. I could. I’m a free-spirited type, you know?”

  I laugh and tell her she’s right about that much.

  “But I don’t want to live life without him,” she states. Her eyes meet mine. “Given a choice, I’m always finding myself running in his direction, with him.”

  “Wow,” I breathe. “We should all be so lucky, Em.”

  “Look in the mirror, babe.” She returns to her icing duties, a peaceful and contemplative air about her, a cheerful beat to her movements. “You and Andrew have something, and it’s up to you two to figure out if it’s worth running to, or from.”

  “That’s deep, Em.”

  “What can I say? I’m in love with a poet. He’s rubbed off on me more than you’d think.”

  “Guess I should get going.” I glance at my slim Cartier watch. “I have a massage in a bit and wanted to do some shopping.” I leap from the counter and stuff the magazine in my Michael Kors snakeskin handbag, feeling slightly more upbeat.

  “You just keep on trying, Jackie,” Emily says. “Don’t give up.”

  “Thanks.” I pull my handbag onto my shoulder.

  “And remember, so long as the love is there—that heat and that passion and that powerful urge to love and protect and be with and there for your partner—then everything else will kind of slip away into the background.” She licks her finger clean of some icing. “And what doesn’t slip away will become inconsequential, manageable. With love you can pretty much work through anything.”

  “Damn, that poet in Gatz really is rubbing off on you.”

  I check my phone for any missed calls or new text messages, but there’s nothing, as I sadly expect.

  “He’ll call when he has time, I’m sure,” she says, reading my mind.

  “I called Nikki like two hours ago.” I return the cell phone to my handbag. “I know she didn’t deliver my message. Bitch.”

  “Don’t concoct tall
tales.”

  “They could be having an affair.”

  “Don’t speculate.” She sets a cupcake neatly on a tiered tray. “Operate.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m out of here,” I say with a chuckle. “Someone’s been smoking the shisha. Oh!” I quickly pull three of the self-rolled cigarettes out of my handbag. “Almost forgot. Especially made, with love.”

  She sticks one cigarette behind her heavily pierced ear and slips the other two in her back pocket. “Thanks. Have fun shopping and enjoy your massage. I’ll see you tonight…?”

  “Don’t think so,” I say in a peppy tone. “I think I’ve got a friend’s,” I lower my voice, “and a therapist’s,” returning my voice to a normal level, “advice to listen to. Andrew and I need to fix things and, well,” I shrug and head towards the exit, “I kind of need to be home to do that.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Baby doll!” Andrew exclaims a brief moment after I walk through our front door.

  I set down my overnight bag. Atop the entry table, where I notice a vase of fresh fuchsia and white peonies, I toss my keys.

  Right then, Andrew waltzes into view. He’s cleanly shaven, his hair damp with that just-got-out-of-the-shower look, and he’s wearing my favorite pair of lounge pants that he doesn’t wear nearly as often as I’d like. The cream-colored, loosely fitted linen pants sway as he makes an upbeat strut towards me. He’s clad in an equally loosely fitted baby blue button-down, the top couple buttons undone.

  He wraps his arms tightly around my small frame, lifting me an inch or two off the ground. “How’s my baby?” He gives the top of my head a hard kiss.

  He sets me down, and I’m careful not to step on his bare feet with the new pair of four-inch, silver, peep-toe Jimmy Choos I scooped up during today’s shopping spree.

  “Damn, I missed you, Jackie. I miss you when you’re gone at Lara’s.” Gripping my arms warmly, he pulls back and looks at me almost appraisingly. “I love you so much.”

  “Emily’s,” I say.

  “Hmm?”