by Kaela Coble
My frustration turns on a dime to regret. We were having a nice day, and now there is frost in the air I’m unsure how to thaw. True, we do need to have this conversation, but it doesn’t need to be right now. We just began to enjoy each other, and now there is a physical space between us that hasn’t existed in over thirty-six hours. I have a fleeting feeling the gap will never again be closed, but I dismiss it as silly.
“No. We don’t have to talk about it now,” I say, forcing a chipper tone. “Come on, let’s go get a snack.” But the last thing I feel like doing is eating. Suddenly I feel like I have ten pounds of lead in my stomach.
“Actually, you know what?” Murphy says, standing and vigorously drying off with his towel and pulling his shirt back on. “I forgot I told Emmett I’d help him and his dad finish their deck. I should probably go. I said I would be there an hour ago.”
My mouth falls. Murphy’s lying. Even if I didn’t know already he had told the boys he would be out of town until Sunday night, I would know he’s lying to me. It’s not that he’s obvious about it; it’s just that I know him. I’m the only one who can beat him at poker, not because I’m such a skilled card player, but because I can always call his bluff. But I want to believe him now, even though I know I shouldn’t, because if I don’t, it means he’s blowing me off. It means that, just as suddenly as I’ve come to have him, I’m losing him.
“Okay,” I say, again with forced nonchalance. “Call me later?” I cringe inwardly as soon as I say it. I’m becoming everything I hate about girls with boyfriends—purposely ignorant, clingy, dependent.
“Yeah,” he says, forcing a smile. “Of course.” He stoops to give me an awkward kiss on the cheek and then hightails it through the gate.
He doesn’t call me later. He barely looks at me the next day at school, and he doesn’t return my calls the next day, or the day after that or after that. And even though something in me knew from the second he pulled away from me on my deck that it was over, that he had changed his mind, I’m still not prepared for Friday morning when I see him headed down the stairs at school. Just as I’m about to call out his name, to confront him then and there and make him tell me what the hell is going on, I notice he’s not alone.
He’s holding hands with Taylor.
• • •
Over the weekend, I hide from my friends, too shocked and hurt to trust myself around them. Murphy doesn’t call to explain what I saw, even though we made direct eye contact for long enough he almost fell down the stairs. He doesn’t even call to see how I’m doing. It’s not just the guy who said he loved me not caring; it’s the guy who’s supposed to be my best friend not caring that kills me.
It’s not until Monday, when I’m alone at our bank of lockers, that he walks up and says hello, casually as if it were any other day. I don’t respond, just hastily swap my paper bag–covered calculus book for my journalism notepad and slam my locker door. He dances around to block me from leaving. “You’re just not going to talk to me?” he demands.
He looks hurt. Legitimately hurt, as if I’m the one in the wrong. “Why should I?” I shoot back. “You didn’t talk to me before getting back together with Taylor.”
“Tuesday,” he starts.
“Don’t call me that. Don’t call me anything. I don’t want to talk to you.”
“You have to let me explain,” he says, pleading, his eyes watering.
“It would have been nice if you had ‘explained’ before I had to see the two of you together like you and I…” My voice falters, and I wave my finger back and forth between the two of us. The lump in my throat prevents me from saying “like you and I never happened.”
“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean for it to happen like that. I was trying to figure out how to tell you, and then Taylor came to talk to me before I saw you, and it…just sorta happened.”
I feel like I’m going to be sick. I’m looking at a boy I’ve shared everything with, who I love, who I thought loved me, but he’s explaining himself as if he had smoked my last cigarette instead of stomping on my heart in the middle of the hallway.
“It’s just, when I thought about you going away to school, and being without you, I’d be so miserable when you were gone. And then you would come home for a weekend or for Christmas and I’d be so happy, and then you would just leave again. I don’t think I could handle it.”
The million questions that have been simmering for days burn in my throat. Why didn’t you tell me you were feeling this way so we could work it out together? Why didn’t you think of this before you told me you loved me and ruined everything? Why does that mean you have to get back together with Taylor? Did you just tell me you loved me because you wanted to sleep with me, and you thought you were safe because it was so unlikely I would end up feeling the same way?
Before I can decide where to start, Ally and Aaron round the corner. I want to scream, to tell them and everyone else in the hallway what is really happening. Ally would be on my side, and at least then I wouldn’t be alone in this. He wouldn’t just get away with it. But I can’t. I don’t want everyone knowing that Murphy Leblanc has essentially played me. That I’m a complete idiot. That I’m heartbroken and weak.
I lean close to him and growl, “You’re a coward, and you make me sick. Don’t talk to me.” I hug my notebook to my chest and turn to go to class. Of course I don’t really mean it. I want him to know that I’m about to be out of his life forever, and I want that to be enough for him to chase after me and tell me he’s made a mistake.
He doesn’t.
16
ALLY
NOW
I never understood what is so friggin’ great about New York City, and I still don’t get it as our bus pulls into the station. I mean, sure, the buildings are cool. They’re super tall and shiny, and there are more windows in one skyscraper than in all the homes in Chatwick put together. Back home (actually in all of Vermont, I’m pretty sure), there’s a law against building over a certain number of stories. I think it’s like five or six. Not that there’s much call in Chatwick for buildings with more than three or four floors.
Don’t get me confused with a country bumpkin. I’ve taken my fair share of trips to Boston with Aaron for Red Sox games and to Montreal for barhopping and shopping. In grade school, Ruby and Emmett and I were part of the band. (Ruby played clarinet, I played trumpet, and Emmett played flute, believe it or not. He had a crush on Addie Helsley, who played the flute, and he thought it would be a good way to get close to her.) Anyway, we took band trips to Washington, DC, and yes, even to New York.
I mean, a city’s fun for a visit, but to live? No thanks. All it is, is a billion people crammed into too small of a space, living on top of one another, breathing in the revolting smell rafting up from the sewers. What is that smell anyway? It’s like sour breath and dirty socks with a hint of urine. I’m not looking forward to it with the increased sense of smell the baby has brought on.
And why are cities always so gray? It’s not just smog; it’s like the weather is always cloudy. It’s like the sun can’t shine on a place with so many miserable people living in it. Ruby talks about the museums and the theater and the restaurants, dropping their names like I’m supposed to be impressed, but if you ask me, you can get all of that in Vermont; there are just fewer choices. I don’t think that’s the worst thing in the world. Sometimes too many choices just make people pick nothing at all, and if I’m going to pick nothing and just sit at my house, I can do that in Chatwick for a third of the cost, and I’ll be able to find my way around and get a parking spot a hell of a lot easier, thank you very much.
But fine, we’re here. Steph is excited to be having her bachelorette party in the Big Apple, and it’s all about keeping the bride happy. (I don’t know that I was given the same courtesy—it seemed to be more about what everyone else wanted to do—but I didn’t know these girls then, so it�
�s not their fault.) I reach across the aisle to shake Steph awake. She is wearing a BACHELORETTE sash I got at the party store and sleeping on Krystal’s shoulder, while Krystal snores up against the window. I guess the “supersecret” Nalgene bottles filled with boxed wine Krystal packed might not have been the best idea. They got all rowdy and obnoxious after an hour and then passed out for the rest of the ride. I guess if I weren’t pregnant, I would be in the same boat. But I’m a mother now, so I have to be the responsible one.
Who am I kidding? I would have had to be the responsible one anyway. I always have been. Emmett thinks he is, because he’s all upstanding citizeny, but all he cares about is himself. I’m the one who has to think about everyone else.
The girls and I get up and stretch. We’re at the back of the bus at my request (near the bathroom, since I have to pee every ten seconds), so we have to wait until all the other passengers file out. I hear a knock on the side of the bus, and when I look, I see Ruby standing there in a blue peacoat that probably cost more than my first car. Her hair comes down in long waves from a cable-knit hat. The curls have kinks at the bottom, and I know I will have to fix them for her. The girl never did get the hang of a curling iron. It’s cute that she tried though.
She waves one mittened hand at us. The other is holding a sign in Ruby’s computer-neat handwriting that says Chatwick Bitches. I laugh when I see it, glad she is still the same old potty mouth Ruby and not some proper city snob. She laughs too, and when she does, a little puff of fog fills the air. It’s early December, and it hasn’t snowed yet back home, and it doesn’t look like New York has gotten any either. Usually we’ve gotten at least a dusting by Halloween. The smart parents order their kids’ costumes one or two sizes larger so they can fit over a parka. It’s funny to watch the neighborhood fill up with puffy little witches and Supermen. Anyway, I wish the snow would just come already. I’d rather it snow than just be cold and dead and gray. God forbid we have a white Christmas and start and end winter on time.
It’s been a looong fall. The shitstorm Danny unleashed with his little team-building exercise back in September still hasn’t settled down. That little fucker, trying to stir up trouble. The worst thing is, it’s working. My own husband is taking the word of a heroin addict over me. I’ve tried everything to get Aaron to believe me that I didn’t have an abortion. And I just want to say, for all of you who are getting ready to line up behind me with those disgusting signs with pictures of aborted fetuses on them, that I don’t have anything against women making their own choices. I just don’t think I could make that choice myself and, more importantly, I didn’t.
I’ve told Aaron that the only reason I can possibly think for Danny making that up is to cause trouble for me and Aaron, because we’re happy and he was miserable. Secretly, I know that doesn’t make sense, because if Danny really wanted Aaron and me to be miserable, he could have put my real secret down on that slip of paper.
It doesn’t matter anyway, because Aaron didn’t buy it. I even offered to get him a copy of my medical records, but he said I could have gone to Planned Parenthood under another name. He said the only reason he can think of for me to do something like that and not tell him is that I was pregnant with someone else’s baby and I didn’t want him to find out. The man I married, the man I’ve loved for half my life, thinks I am capable of that. After that conversation, I gave up on trying to get him to believe the truth and started being angry right back at him. So yeah, my second trimester has been great, thanks for asking.
Sure, it didn’t help that I made a big show at that brunch of lying and saying my secret was that I was pregnant. What can I say? I panicked. That morning I found a note in my mailbox, in an envelope sitting right there on top of the morning paper. The note said: All things done in the dark have a way of coming to light. Holy shit, right? I don’t believe in ghosts, but that shit was spooky. Like, how could anyone but Danny know that I hadn’t revealed my secret yet? It was even in Danny’s handwriting. So yeah, I decided to say something, anything to get some heat off my back. I mean, technically I had been keeping it secret, and at least that secret was true!
Notice that Murphy and Ruby haven’t said word one about what’s in their envelopes. If you buy that load of bull about Danny’s secret being theirs too, you are a fool. Well, joke’s on them, because their dirty deeds will come out just like everyone else’s. At least if whoever’s sending those notes has anything to say about it. Maybe I shouldn’t judge Ruby and Murphy for lying. I know I lied too. But it was to protect my relationship. My marriage.
The only thing Murphy is protecting is himself, like always. And Ruby? I expected more from her. I’m not sure why. I mean, she did basically chuck our friendship (and all our friendships) the minute she pulled out of her driveway for college. And perhaps I’m a little bitter because all she has to do is show up at Danny’s funeral and everyone acts like she’s some hero just for gracing us with her presence. Meanwhile, she wouldn’t have even come if it hadn’t been for me.
You should have heard how she expressed her condolences when I called to tell her the news, as if it were my loss and not hers. Like I was telling her my grandmother or my dog died. In that minute I left open for her while I was crying, she put up the wall that separated herself from me, from the crew. Sure, she’d been away for a while and God knows why. The girl already missed my wedding, and I didn’t make a peep. I just wrote her a nice thank-you card for the fancy champagne flutes she sent from London.
But there’s no registry for people who have just lost a son or a childhood friend. I wasn’t going to let her just send flowers, throw some money at the problem, and bury it like Danny was about to be buried. She needed to be there. She needed to come back to help fill at least a little bit of the space Danny left open. And even though it might not sound like it, I am glad she did.
Now the wedding is only four weeks away, and we’re having the bachelorette party now instead of a week before the wedding (like most people do) because of Christmas. It’s just too hard to get everyone together. Planning this has been like being a dentist. I feel like giving birth is going to be easier than being a bridesmaid in this wedding.
Every time there’s a decision to be made, I make sure to text Krystal and Ruby together because if I make the decision myself, Krystal throws me the “I’m the maid of honor” attitude. And I don’t want Ruby to feel left out just because she’s in New York, but she always responds with “Whatever you guys think is fine with me!” which is so helpful, especially when Krystal refuses to respond because she is offended I’ve included Ruby, who she considers to be a bridesmaid “in name only,” whatever that means.
We get off the bus, and Ruby hugs all of us. Me, because it’s me; Steph, because you have to hug the bride even if you’ve only met her a couple times before; and Krystal probably because Ruby doesn’t want to be rude. I’m confused when Krystal makes a big show of hugging back with both arms, like the two of them are the best of friends even though it seems Krystal has decided to hate her just like every girl Murphy dated in high school did.
Ruby takes my luggage, even though it’s a rolling suitcase and I’m perfectly capable of handling it. We cross the street after waiting like ten hours for the pedestrian light to give us the go-ahead. We have a couple lights like this in the busier intersections of Chatwick, but no one uses them. When there are two lanes of traffic instead of these six, it’s pretty easy to tell for yourself when you have enough time to cross.
Ruby hails a cab without breaking conversation, and I can’t help but feel a little proud of her. I remember her being kind of awkward, especially in groups of girls. She was always quiet and let others take the lead, except when she and Emmett would get into it about politics or whatever smarty-pants shit they were talking about. Here she smiles a lot, she leads us around like it’s nothing, and she chatters with us excitedly about our trip and our plans for the weekend. Her eyes shine. Her skin glows. I
don’t know if it’s just that she’s older and more confident, or if New York brings out the best in her. Maybe there’s something about the gray of everything that makes her more colorful. At any rate, I’m starting to rethink my theory that Ruby has stayed away so long just to be stubborn and prove us all wrong.
After a terrifying cab ride to a place she tells the non-English-speaking driver is called Murray Hill (I don’t know if that’s the name of her building or what. I thought we were in Manhattan?), we are finally at her apartment. She apologizes once for every flight of stairs we have to carry our luggage up, so about seven times. It’s amazing that in New York City they haven’t heard of elevators. Isn’t it a law that you have to have them in buildings with multiple stories? How do handicapped people get around in this city? It’s hard enough just being pregnant and having to hike up all these stairs. Now I see why Ruby has designated herself as my bellhop, and I’m grateful for it.
She shows us into her apartment, which is filled with streamers and balloons and a lot of penis-shaped decorations. I can tell Steph feels special Ruby went to the effort. It’s weird… Ruby’s never shown any signs of her mother’s homemaking skills before, which I’ve always thought was a good thing. If she doesn’t have Nancy’s good qualities, maybe she won’t have her bad ones either. But I remember Ruby’s birthday parties growing up. There was always a theme, and her mother would make these elaborate cakes and decorations. It was the one thing Nancy could be counted on—to make a big deal of her children on their birthdays. More birthdays than not, anyway.
Some of that must have stuck to Ruby. Not only did she go all out with the party stuff, but underneath all the fluorescent crepe paper and penises, there’s a pretty decent apartment, decorated simply and comfortably. Unlike her mother’s house, there are no pink flowers or girlie prints of any kind, but it’s clean and cozy and softly lit, and there are a couple throw pillows and blankets. There are no dishes in the sink or cockroaches on the floor or rats scurrying through, so right away it’s more than I was expecting. (Tidiness was never Ruby’s strong suit as a teen. I suspect being messy was her way of rebelling since she didn’t drink much. Well, being messy and that affair with Hardy Crane.)
