I drop my keys in surprise, and they miss the table, landing with a sharp clang against the marble floor.
“Andrew,” I whisper. I look into his eyes—his empty blue eyes—and I force out a smile. “I’m home.” I attempt the same singsong voice, but this time it comes out wavering and off-pitch.
He’s got both hands in his black suit pants pockets. He’s still wearing his dress shirt and jacket, but his tie has been loosened. He pads forward a couple steps on bare feet. “Wherever have you been?”
Seriously? Does he not know? Or is he playing games?
“Oh!” He scratches slowly and dramatically at his five-o’clock-shadowed chin. “Why, yes! A little bird told me.”
“A little bird?” I laugh in trepidation.
“Yes.” His voice is eerily calm. He takes two steps closer, then halts. “A little bird. A little bird from very far away.” His hand returns to his pocket, and he lifts his head higher. “And do you know what I thought when this little bird told me where you’ve been?”
I bite the tip of my tongue and lock my jaw. I refuse to respond, actually a tiny bit fearful of what will come next. Andrew’s so stone-cold right now, his eyes conveying absolutely nothing, his words and tone biting like a venomous snake.
“I thought,” he scratches his chin again and looks off to the side, “my wife—whom I love more than anything,” his voice deepens angrily, “has run off to Paris like a spoiled princess and didn’t even have the decency to consider asking, much less telling me of her plans.”
He locks eyes with mine, and now I can see the rage, the disappointment, the frustration brewing within.
“Jackie.” His tone makes a swift turn to cool lane, yet again. “I don’t ask much of you. I give you the world. I don’t even have a problem with the tens of thousands you’ve gone and spent.” He scratches at the back of his head and approaches me slowly, steadily.
I can’t think fast or straight enough, so all I do is stand still, eyes still on his.
“I love you, Jackie. I love you more than I think you will ever know.” He sighs, looks off to the side a minute, scratches his head once more. “But there comes a time when a man simply cannot stay standing in a burning building.”
I feel my brow wrinkle against my will. I’m trying so hard to stand stoic and silent.
He holds both hands up in impasse and looks back into my eyes. “I give up. I can’t do this anymore.”
There’s a long, stuffy silence for a while. I don’t know if I should break it or if Andrew will…or if maybe he’ll break it with something other than words.
Then, he says, “Your bags are already packed; judging by the credit card activity you have more than enough to keep yourself on your feet, at least until you find yourself a job; and—and…” He shrugs and looks down at the ground, rubbing at the nape of his neck.
“Andrew,” I whimper, hot tears suddenly streaming down my cheeks.
He doesn’t look up. All he says in response is, “I need you to go, Jackie.” His tone has raised an unsettled octave. I don’t need to see his face, his eyes, to know he’s crying. To know that I’ve pushed him over the emotional edge.
“But Andrew!” I cry. “You can’t be serious!” I swallow fast, hard. “It was only Paris! A four-day trip! It’s nothing compared to how often you leave me!”
He meets my eyes—they’re glassy and red—and he says, “That’s business! What you’ve done, Jackie.” He clenches a fist so tightly his knuckles turn white. “What you’ve done is selfish, deceitful, and hurtful. It wasn’t until I tracked down your card activity that I was able to find you. You had me worried sick.” His fist releases, and he looks back down at the ground. “I love you so much. I am just so hurt that this is how you repay me.”
“Repay you?” I blurt out loudly. “You love me so much? Some love you showed, Andrew, cutting me off from all my cards while I was over there!”
“I knew you were with a friend there. You weren’t completely without.”
“Oh, thanks!” I toss up my hands and take a sharp step forward.
“No.” Andrew’s hand reaches forward and grips me by the wrist.
“Ow! You’re hurting me.” I wince and look from my wrist to Andrew, then back and up again, insisting that he let go.
He weakens the grip, but he won’t let go. “No. I said I’ve had enough. No more.”
“What?” I shake my head briskly. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“You can’t stay here, Jackie.” He’s so cool I want to scream, shove him, throw something!
“Like hell I can’t!” I wail.
“Jackie.” His voice is so calm it’s spooky. With a ginger shove, holding onto my wrist, he moves me back a pace. “No. I just can’t be with you right now.”
“Over Paris?” I’m gobsmacked. He can’t be serious.
“It’s the trip, the secrecy, the immaturity, the lack of consideration, the tension whenever we’re together.”
“And I’m solely to blame for this?” I’m livid. This is preposterous!
“I’m at the end of my rope, babe.” He makes a stiff upper lip. “I’m at the end of my rope. You say me buying your love won’t work, yet you go out and spend a small fortune. I just don’t understand.”
“Fine!” I scream, yanking free from his grip. “You know, this is so typical! Wife goes away and does one little thing for herself—probably giving you quite the opportunity to shack up with your floozy of a secretary—and then I get the brunt of the anger, the frustration.” I point a finger at him. “The hurt pride!”
“Leave now, Jackie,” he growls. “I don’t want to fight.”
“Fight,” I spit. “Fight! You don’t want to fight? You kick me out of my home and you don’t want to fight?” I shove him hard in his chest. “Well then fuck you, Andrew!”
Just then a high-pitched bark sounds from the living room, and I peer over his shoulder.
“Bella,” I say. “She’s my dog.”
Andrew steps around the sofa, rifles about, then returns with Bella in her dog carrier and a tote full of her belongings, including her large, sleeping pillow. “Here,” he says. “She’s all ready to go.”
“I can’t believe this!”
He pulls open the front door and sets Bella and her things down beside my pile of luggage. “I’m sorry we have to do this, Jackie.”
“What? That’s it?” My mouth hangs open in sheer disbelief.
He doesn’t respond. He just slips one hand in his pocket loosely, the other resting on the doorknob, and a very small teardrop is nestled in the corner of his left eye.
“Andrew.” My lips are quivering. “Please.” The tears course down my cheeks rapidly. “Please. Can’t we talk? I’m sorry! Please.”
He shakes his head slowly, then slips a hand behind my head. His lips press hotly and deeply against my forehead, and he whispers, “I’m sorry, Jackie. I can’t.”
“Andrew!” I shriek. “Andrew!” I stomp my feet.
He opens the door wider.
“Andrew!” I give as forceful a shove as I can at his chest, and to my surprise he doesn’t fight back. He just stands there, saying, “I can’t,” over and over.
I rush over the threshold and angrily gather my bags. “Fine!” I scream in rage. “Fine! I should have known I married an asshole!” I heave Bella’s carrier high up onto my shoulder. “If you’re going to act like this, then I want a divorce!”
“You’ll hear from my attorney, then,” he says resolutely.
And with a slow close of the door, my husband puts the final nail in the coffin that is our marriage. No amount of my screaming, my angry words, the pain and suffering behind my cries force him to reopen that door, take me in his arms, and weep with me. And so I gather my last shred of strength and walk away.
Chapter Thirty-One
It’s been two days and two nights. Two long days and two harrowing nights since the Incident. The Incident that surpasses all other fights. I’ve bare
ly been able to get out of bed, my mind’s so wrought and heart so heavy as the horrible words Andrew and I said to each other repeat themselves in a roaring monotony. I have no appetite, the foul taste of our goodbye is so unrelenting. I’m afraid to face the day. Afraid of what today will bring. Afraid of what tomorrow won’t.
Heartbroken and lost, I turned to Emily. When she laid eyes on me at her doorstep—luggage, dog, and all—she not only didn’t expect me to deliver the news that I’d been kicked to the curb, but she wasn’t exactly too pleased with my random and ill-planned trip to Paris. She said she was disappointed in my choices and didn’t appreciate my lies and wished I’d been honest with her—she would have listened, encouraged, and imparted some advice, whether or not she could have understood my situation.
Then, after I begged apologies, she just smiled, gave me a hug, and said in her usual welcoming way that her home is always my home. She’d help me out as best she could.
As evening number three descends upon the cramped one-bed, one-bath Fremont apartment, Emily drags me out of her sofa bed and shoves me into the shower. I’m not kicking and screaming, but I am dragging my feet.
She insists I go out for dinner with her and Gatz tonight. “One of the last times before our big Aussie trip,” she says. “And I leave for Boston the day after tomorrow, anyhow. Time is of the essence.”
She turns on the shower. “Come on,” she urges. “We won’t go anywhere fancy, so you don’t have to feel like you need to get dolled up. Quick rinse and let’s go.” She glances around the corner. “Although with all the loot you brought back it sure seems like you can really doll yourself up.” She snickers playfully, then tugs at the hem of my oversized DeeGee Philanthropy Week t-shirt from sophomore year that I’ve been wearing for at least forty-eight hours. “My treat, let’s go!”
Reluctantly, I raise my hands and she begins to pull the shirt over my head. With a face full of t-shirt, I loosely say, “It has to be your treat. I’m dead-ass broke, yet again. Surprise, surprise.” Just when I thought marriage to a wealthy man would seal the deal on financial trouble, think again.
“Oh, hush,” Emily says, tossing the shirt into the clothes hamper. “Come on. Scoot, scoot into the shower. No one likes a stinky girl. And we’re wasting precious water.”
“But if it’s not a place to get dressed up for,” I say as I lazily yank off my panties, “then why bother getting showered?” I wrinkle my nose, chagrined.
“I’ll give you two reasons, but one’s enough.” She spins around and begins to shuffle things about her cupboards. “One, we’ve got an early day at the café tomorrow, which means it’ll be tough enough to get your ass up and out of bed, much less shower. And two—”
“Wait!” I say as I finish unclasping my bra. “I’m going to the café?” My facial expression is now more lively, surprise written all over it. “With you? You’re working and I’m going along?”
“That’s right.” She turns back around, a fresh, rolled bath towel in her hands.
“But I feel so sick, so sad.”
“All the more reason for you to get your ass up and out of bed—to shower,” she points the rolled towel in my direction, moving it up and down, “and pick yourself up.”
“Three days hardly constitutes appropriate grieving length for a marriage that’s gone down the tubes. I’m in mourning.”
“Piece by piece,” she says, ever so joyful.
“I can’t just forget about what happened. Just—just—pick up the pieces—piece by piece…” This part I say in a mocking tone, “And move on.”
“I’m not saying ‘move on.’ I’m saying take care of yourself as you work through this. Besides, I really think Andrew just needs some time to cool off. He doesn’t seem like the kind of man who just up and calls it quits.”
“It’s been rough, really rough, for a long time, Em. I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“I bet anything, before you know it, you’ll be back home and working through this for real.” She shakes out the towel and drapes it over the empty towel rack. “I really can’t believe your days as Mrs. Andrew Kittredge are completely over. I like to be a realist, but also an optimist. Don’t wave your white flag just yet.” She holds up a finger and blurts out, “Erm, white flag as in you come in peace and want to talk, yes, not conceding defeat.”
“Emily, you didn’t see Andrew that night. You didn’t see the calm rage in those eyes. You didn’t hear the finality in his words. You didn’t feel the cold in the room…”
“Come on,” she nods her head towards the running shower. “One day at a time. And tonight we’re getting you out of that bed and out of this apartment.” She roughly pulls the shower curtain open and gestures with a nod for me to get inside. “Dinner tonight, work tomorrow.”
“Are you serious?”
She fixes me with a sobering gaze, then makes a clicking sound and thumbs at the shower. “Dead serious. I’m not leaving you here alone anymore to rot away and stew in your misery. Now move it.”
“Fine.” I step into the shower and begin to adjust the dials—steaming hot, the only way to take a shower.
“Good girl.”
I briskly peek my head around the curtain and say, “And for your information, I’m perfectly capable of being here by myself, thank you very much.”
“This is no time to leave you unsupervised days on end,” she says from the doorway. “You like to get yourself into trouble. What kind of friend would I be if I let you go down a destructive path, huh?”
“Oh, Em,” I groan, pulling the curtain closed and stepping fully under the shower of hot water.
“Come on. Make it quick. Gatz and I are starving, and since you look like a Twizzler, I’m guessing you’re starving, too.”
“Wait!” I shout, spluttering out the water that’s dripped down into my mouth.
Emily peeks her head around the curtain. “Yes, my dear?”
“What’s the second reason?”
She looks confused.
“The second reason you feel the need to drag me into this shower?”
She makes an aha expression, and before dashing out of the bathroom says with a grin, “You stink.”
***
“I’m here,” I say in between slurps of the orange juice Emily poured for me. “Can you believe it? Up at the butt crack of dawn? In my condition? Drinking what so should be a mimosa.” I kick my legs like a child would as they dangle from the high barstool in the kitchen of The Cup and the Cake and take another noisy sip.
“Honestly?” Sophie says. She twists her hair into a bun. “Yes. And good for Em for doing it.”
“You’re not still mad at me, are you, Sophie?”
I only talked to Sophie once, on the phone, since she got back from Paris the day after me. We apologized to each other—again—and insisted it was water under the bridge. She reiterated that she wasn’t happy about what I’d done, nor how things turned out with Andrew, but that best friends with strong ties and long histories shouldn’t let things tear them apart. “We’ve been through a lot over the years,” she told me. “Friends don’t give up on each other when the going gets tough.”
I still feel guilty for lying about how I got to Paris; I hate that I deceived my friends. I’ve been feeling so lost lately, what with all of this Andrew stuff; I just don’t know who I am or where I’m going or even what I want.
“No, Jackie,” Sophie says with a quick flash of a grin. “Of course I’m not still mad at you. But I do think that you’re in a fragile state right now, and getting some fresh air could do you some good. Emily’s right; it’s time to get out of your box.” She pads hurriedly across the café’s kitchen floor. “And when you’re finished with your breakfast, maybe you can lend a hand?” Another quick grin, this one more insisting than courteous.
I let go of my straw and give Sophie a blank look.
“What?” she says as she pulls free some clean dishes from a cupboard. “Gatz has to leave early to close the deal on the
sale of his car. I need the extra help.”
“But—but—you mean, like…work here? I can’t do anything,” I splutter. “I’m really useless, horrible at jobs. You know that, Sophie.”
“You’re a decent dish-dryer! Look, I’ll take your uselessness and make the most of it. It’ll be good for both of us.”
“Sophieeee.”
“You can wash pans, fold napkins, sweep. Something simple.”
“Can’t you just make that new girl work more hours?”
“Evelyn?” Sophie kicks the cupboard closed with her heel.
“Or Chad. He can come over after work. Force some labor out of him.” I giggle petulantly.
“Chad?” She sets the heavy stack of plates down on the counter and presses her lips tightly together. “Chad won’t be working here anymore.”
“Whoa. Why not?” I slurp at my juice. “This isn’t exactly the time to be getting rid of staff, is it?”
“Jackie.”
“And you’re sure not considering hiring me on, because if you are—”
“Jackie.”
I stop my slurping and raise my brows. “Hmm?”
“Chad’s behavior is entirely inappropriate.”
“Well Chad was born inappropriate,” I say through a laugh. “I mean, it’s Chad.” Greasy-haired, tattooed, rebellious, wannabe artist who’s still, at twenty-seven, a frat boy at heart, enjoying the parties, girls, naughty jokes, and beer pong matches.
“That’s not what I’m talking about.” Sophie begins to pull handfuls of flatware from drawers. “He’s a nice guy, and what he’s done to help me out around here is really—is really—” She sets the forks down onto the counter with a clang. “He’s been great. Annoying at times, as always, but great.” She hurriedly tightens her bun, then scurries over to retrieve more flatware. “But I can’t have him work here anymore.”
“Hey, Sophie?” Gatz interrupts, his head popping around the corner. “Evelyn’s here now. You want her working up front or helping back here?”
Sophie’s shoulders heave upwards then down low as she exhales loudly. “Have her work up front until you’re done cleaning the espresso machine, please.”
When Girlfriends Let Go Page 25
