Sinful (Undone)

by Jennifer Dawson

  My sister orders a glass of white wine.

  I shake my head and he disappears into the lunchtime crowd, leaving us alone with our uncomfortable silence.

  I manage a smile and settle on the safest possible subject, one guaranteed to make my sister forget her worry. “How are the girls?”

  Her whole face lights up. “Their dance recital is in a couple of weeks and they love their costumes so much I can’t get them to take them off.” She picks up her phone and swipes over the screen before holding it out to me.

  I take it and the image of my two nieces, Sasha and Sonya, fill the screen. As soon as I see their precious little faces, decked out in lavender leotards with matching tutus accented by pale green bows, I realize I’m longing for information about them. They’re so adorable it brings a sting of tears to my eyes that I blink away.

  Technically, when I find myself on the verge of uncontrollably crying throughout the day, I’m supposed to call Dr. Sorenson for an emergency session, since it’s a trigger for my unhealthy behavior.

  But I already know I’m not going to do that.

  I’m ready to fall. Crave it in that way nobody could talk me out of.

  I straighten in my chair and hand the phone back to April. “Text me the picture.”

  “I will.” She drops the cell onto the table and places her hands in her lap. “They’d love it if their Aunt Layla came to their dance.”

  An image of sitting in the audience fills my head. My parents, April and Derrick, and me, sitting next to some stranger where my husband is supposed to be. It’s a selfish thought and I immediately dislike myself for it. This isn’t about me. It’s about my nieces.

  I nod. I will not disappoint April, not in this. “Of course, I’d love to come.”

  She clasps her hands together in a gesture of prayer. “Thank you so much, they’ll be so excited.”

  I’m sad she views this as a major accomplishment, and I renew my vow to spend the rest of lunch being a good sister.

  Thirty minutes later, April has filled me in on every aspect of her life—from the petty women in the PTA, to her vacation with Derrick. I’ve done a good job, made all the right noises and gestures, laughing in all the right places. She’s satisfied. Relaxed.

  The waiter walks away with our empty plates and April puts her elbows on the table and leans forward. “I want to ask you something.”

  Spine stiffening, I’m immediately on high alert.

  “I don’t want you to say no right away.” April’s gaze looks just past me and she nibbles on her bottom lip.

  All my good intentions fly out the window and I say in a hard voice, “No.”

  April sighs, folds her hands on the table, her two and a half carat ring glitters in the sunlight streaming in through the window. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

  I shake my head, one hundred percent certain I don’t want to hear it. “I don’t have to.”

  Her blue eyes fill with a shiny brightness. “Please, won’t you please hear me out?”

  Do I want to ruin her whole lunch? I grit my teeth and nod.

  She twists her ring, a sure sign she’s nervous, and my stomach sinks. “There’s a man, he works with Derrick—”

  “Absolutely not!” I’m unable to hide the shriek in my tone. How could she even suggest it?

  She holds up her hand. “Layla, wait, just listen. He’s a great guy. His name is Chad and he’s an IT Manager.”

  “Stop.” My voice shakes. “How could you?”

  She runs a hand through her golden hair, and the waves rustle before falling perfectly into place at her shoulders. “I only want what’s best for you. Tell us how to help you.”

  “And you think going on a blind date would be helpful?” The words are filled with scorn. I’m unable to hide my sense of betrayal.

  “Layla, it’s been eighteen months,” April says, her voice soft.

  I look down at the table, staring at the leftover basket of half-eaten artisan breads, as I swallow my tears. Why does everyone keep saying that? Is eighteen months really that long? Is there an expiration date on grief? On fear?

  “We all loved John, you know that,” my sister continues without mercy. “But you’re still young with your whole life in front of you. He’s gone. It’s time to move on and put your life back together. I don’t think he’d want you suffering like this.”

  I put my hands in my lap and clench them tightly, so tight my nails dig into my skin. So brittle I might break, I look at my sister. My beautiful, thirty-five-year-old sister, who’s never even had a bad hair day.

  “Someday,” I say, my voice cracking. “I’m going to ask you if you think eighteen months is a long time, and we’ll see what your answer is.”

  She pales and reaches across the table, making me jerk back. She slides away. “I don’t mean it like that.”

  “You do.” A cold, almost deadly calm fills my stomach. “You keep waiting for the girl I was before to show up, and that’s never going to happen.”

  She presses her lips together, and tears fill her eyes, turning them luminous. “I miss you.”

  “I miss me too.” And it’s the truth. All pretense of faking falls away. It’s impossible to maintain the mask, not with my emotions so close to the surface. So raw.

  April picks up her white linen napkin and blots under her lashes. “I can’t pretend to know what you are going through. And with,” she clears her throat and her chin trembles, “what happened…” She trails off and looks beyond me, over my shoulder.

  A smug, selfish satisfaction wells in my chest.

  “Look at you,” my tone filled with an ugly meanness I want to control but can’t. “It’s been eighteen months, April, and you can’t even say it.”

  Emotions flash across her face—worry, sadness, and lastly guilt. “I’m sorry.”

  Remorse weaves a fine crack through my heart, but it doesn’t break me, because I’ve spoken the truth. None of them can even bring themselves to mention that night. They avoid it. Pretend only John’s death is the issue. I can’t say I blame them. Where we live, bad things happen to other people. They’re ill prepared for tragedy.

  I abruptly stand. I need to get out of here. Escape. I glance at the large clock hanging on the wall. Ten hours. It seems like an eternity until I can go to that one place where I’m free to be as fucked up as I want and don’t have to apologize. I grab my purse, slip out two twenties, and throw them on the table. “I need to get back to work.”

  There will be no good progress reports today.

  “Wait, please.” April’s tone is pleading. “Don’t go.”

  “Text me the details about the twins recital.” My voice is as cold as I feel.

  “Layla.” A big fat tear rolls down my sister’s cheek.

  I turn to leave before I confess my biggest secret, not to cleanse my soul, but out of spite. I’ve shielded my family from the worst of that night, the true extent of what happened and how it damaged me. Not because of some misguided notion of protecting them, but because, in truth, I’m no better. I also want to pretend.

  Only, my nightmares won’t let me.

  About the Author

  Jennifer Dawson grew up in the suburbs of Chicago and graduated from DePaul University with a degree in psychology. She met her husband at the public library while they were studying. To this day she still maintains she was NOT checking him out. Now, over twenty years later they’re married living in a suburb right outside of Chicago with two awesome kids and a crazy dog.

  Despite going through a light FM, poem writing phase in high school, Jennifer never grew up wanting to be a writer (she had more practical aspirations of being an international super spy). Then one day, suffering from boredom and disgruntled with a book she’d been reading, she decided to put pen to paper. The rest, as they say, is history.

  These days Jennifer can be found sitting behind her computer writing her next novel, chasing after her kids, keeping an ever watchful eye on her ever
growing to-do list, and NOT checking out her husband.