by Roxy Reid
“Well. Uh. We’re not actually having a honeymoon,” I say.
Myrtle’s gaze sharpens. “What?”
I realize that, at some point in the conversation, other people have drifted over to listen. Mostly people from Grace’s guest list. I’m surrounded by pearls and sweater sets, all looking at me with various levels of shock and disapproval. I can feel all the goodwill I gained beginning to go up in smoke.
Grace is looking at me with a warning in her eyes.
“Grace has to go on her book tour,” I explain, “and I absolutely support her career.” I take Grace’s hand. I lace my fingers through hers, then I casually kiss the back of her hand. “What’s a honeymoon compared to supporting your partner?”
Around me, I see people nodding.
Myrtle looks unconvinced. “Are you going on the book tour with her? I always went with my husband on business trips before we had kids.”
The sweaters and pearls are nodding again, but this time, they’re on Myrtle’s side.
Oh, come on, Myrtle, I think. Don’t screw me over like this. I told you the cute story about the school talent show.
Grace cuts in. “He is coming with me. Isn’t that just the sweetest thing?”
Wait. What?
I shoot Grace a, “What the fuck?” look, and she shoots me a, “What else was I supposed to say?” look in response.
From the other side of the circle, Nora whips out her phone. “Really? What dates did you say he’d be joining you?” Her eyes zero in on me. “Sean, on a scale of one to ten, how charming would you say you are in a press setting?”
I open my mouth to put a stop to this, but Grace kicks my shin.
“He’s joining me for the whole tour, of course. But no interviews, Nora. This is about me.”
“It always is,” I mutter.
Grace glares at me, and I remember I’m supposed to be playing the doting husband. So I lean over and kiss her, quick and chaste. It’s still enough to make her breath quicken and her cheeks flush.
My ability to unbalance her with a kiss makes me mildly less irritated at her. Mildly.
“I’ll leave you with your friends,” I say. “I have to go talk with the caterers about that thing you mentioned.”
I get up to go, before my irritation at Grace for completely re-routing the next few months of my life without my consent gets the best of me. I don’t want to say something that blows our cover.
After the last guest has finally left and the caterers have loaded up their van and driven away, I stand, facing Grace with my hands on my hips. “So. I’m going on your book tour.”
She shrugs weakly. “You like to travel?”
“I like to make my own decisions!”
She crosses her arms. “Well, I had to say something, or they would have suspected something.”
“You could have said I was thinking about it. You could have said I wanted to join you, but you needed to focus on your job right now. You could have said I was joining you for one stop, not the whole fucking tour,” I say.
“Well, I’m sorry I don’t think fast enough for you,” Grace says. She turns on her heels and stomps up the glass steps. She’s stomping so hard, I’d worry about the glass shattering if I didn’t know how strong those steps are.
I follow her up the stairs. “You don’t have to think fast. Just don’t make a decision for me that will affect my life for multiple months without talking to me about it.”
She whirls at the top of the stairs to face me. “You think I want you on my tour? You think I want to spend the biggest moment of my professional life wondering if you’re going to land us in a hot mess, all because you want to be liked?”
I gape at her. I’ve never been so insulted. “What the hell are you talking about? I don’t care if people like me. That’s all you, sweetheart.”
“You couldn’t stop trying to make Myrtle like you. Myrtle! Of all people!” She turns and stomps to her room.
“First of all, Myrtle’s not so bad,” I say.
Grace slams the door in my face.
I open the door. “Second of all, I was trying to reassure your family so they wouldn’t worry about you.”
Grace snorts. “My family doesn’t worry about me. They judge me. Big difference.”
“Myrtle was worried about you. She made me promise to do my share of the dishes. Something that’s pretty ironic, considering the mess you leave in my kitchen every fucking morning.”
Grace grabs a pillow, buries her head in it, and screams. Bradley darts out from under her bed and runs to hide behind me, looking spooked. It’s a sad day when Bradley and I are on the same page about something.
I take a deep breath. “I don’t even know why you’re fighting with me. I know why I’m fighting with you, but—”
She lowers the pillow and glares at me. “You bribed the officiant. If you hadn’t done that, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“You’re the one who wanted to tour wedding chapels!” I say.
She sits down on the bed, her head in her hands. “We sound like one of the couples I counsel. I told myself I’d never get in a fight this petty, and yet …"
I lean on the doorframe, my arms crossed. “It’s not petty to me. I get that you needed to think on your feet, but you made a decision that would affect my life without talking to me first.”
She opens her mouth to argue.
“And you never apologized for it.”
She closes her mouth. We stare at each other in silence. Bradley meows.
“I don’t think he likes it when we fight,” Grace says.
“I don’t like it when we fight,” I say.
Grace sighs and pats the bed next to her. I come over and sit down. I’m waiting for her to give me some therapeutic bullshit about how she’s right and I’m wrong.
Instead, she says, “I’m sorry. You’re right, I should have asked you first. From here on out, if something like that comes up, I’ll just say that we haven’t decided yet.”
“I’m sorry I bribed the officiant,” I say. “You should have been able to have fun in Vegas like a normal person. I’m sorry my money made you less safe instead of safer.”
She bumps her shoulder with mine. “I wouldn’t say I don’t feel safe. It’s you.”
Therein lies the problem. We’ve always been the thing in each other’s lives that is easy. I thought that was a sign of how strong our friendship is, but maybe it was just a sign that we hadn’t had to face anything difficult.
I look down at her hand on the bedspread next to mine. Normally, I’d hold it, but after kissing her hand downstairs to prove we’re a couple, the gesture feels more complicated than it used to. It’s not just two friends reassuring each other anymore.
“I don’t want to lose our friendship,” I say. “I don’t want to turn into one of your fighting couples.”
She smiles weakly. “Neither do I. What does anybody even get out of fighting like that?”
“Well, make-up sex,” I say, and she hits me with a pillow.
I grab the pillow from her, but she won’t give up. She reaches for another pillow. Before she can grab it, I wrestle her down to the bed. I’m braced over her, pinning her wrists to the bed so she can’t grab any more pillows when something flickers in her eyes. Suddenly, I’m aware of the sexuality of our position. Of my strength matched against hers. Of the softness of her hair fanning out against the pillows. Of the softness of her body, just a few torturous inches away from mine. If I dropped my weight down, pressed her into the bed …
I know how she reacts when I kiss her. Hell, the only thing that saved us from fucking last time was that she wouldn’t let me take her to a bed.
Can you have make-up sex if you haven’t had regular sex yet?
I know I should get up off her, but Grace’s lips part as her eyes go dark, and I lose my mind a little. Without thinking, I start to lower my lips to hers, and she lets out a little sigh of relief.
I feel a sharp pain in my back a
nd sit up with a howl. Bradley slides off my back and scampers out of the room.
“That little fucker!” I say, twisting so I can check out my back in the mirror above Grace’s dresser. “He ripped my shirt. I’m bleeding.”
“Probably for the best,” Grace says, rising. “We almost …" she trails off and shakes her head without saying what we almost did.
Grace takes me by the shoulders and steers me out of the bedroom. “We’re agreed. Friendship is good. Fighting is bad. In the future, we won’t make decisions without consulting one another.”
She shoves me out the door. “Night, Sean. Sleep well.”
She shuts the door in my face again. Next to me, Bradley is licking his fur, looking satisfied with himself.
I know sex with Grace is a bad idea, but it’s hard not to feel like I just missed out on something amazing. I look at Bradley.
“Thanks a lot, buddy.”
Bradley meows once and trots away, his work done.
9
Sean
I have no interest in getting to know the neighbors, Mum. The woman next to me is a prim bookworm who never talks to anyone, and she’s still the least annoying neighbor I have.
—Sean Bronson, email to his mother, Deidre Bronson, two weeks after moving in
A few days later, I find myself at a small independent bookstore in the middle of nowhere. Specifically, the middle of nowhere is somewhere in Illinois.
It’s the first stop on Grace’s tour. We’ve got a book signing here, then another the next town over, where we’ll stay the night. Then we’ll drive to Chicago, where she has three more book signings. Then we’re off to the west coast.
Really, this country is impractically large. When my friend back home in Ireland had a book tour, she could have hit all the bookstores she needed to in two days. Granted, she didn’t because, in Ireland, you need to build in a good hour or two extra for tea and small talk at each signing. But the point stands.
This particular bookstore is small but bright and neatly organized. It’s clear the woman who runs the store takes pride in it, but she’s also got a sense of humor. There’s a display table called, “I don’t remember the title, but the cover was yellow,” featuring books with yellow covers. The children’s corner in the back has plush stuffed animals for the kids to read books. There’s even a resident bookstore cat. Unlike Bradley, she actually likes me. She came over and purred around my feet until I bent down to scratch her ears. Then she wandered off, her goal achieved.
Clearly a love ‘em and leave ‘em kind of gal.
There are about twenty chairs set up in front of a microphone for the reading. Grace is standing to the side of the microphone, talking to the organizer. She’s wearing a tangerine blazer, dark jeans, and pointed-toe high heels. If you don’t know her, she looks confident and professional, but I know Grace. I can tell from the way she keeps tapping her fingers against her leg that she’s nervous. I catch her eye and smile reassuringly.
She looks back at the organizer without changing her expression, but her fingers stop tapping quite so rapidly against her leg.
I check my watch. Five minutes until the reading starts.
People are wandering in. Mostly, it’s women in their thirties and forties. About half of them have her book already. There are a few men, one of whom sits in the front row, clutching his copy of Grace’s book. It’s aggressively sticky-noted, and he’s watching Grace expectantly, like she alone has the power to save his relationship.
I don’t know what book signings are supposed to feel like, but this one feels a little low energy. Maybe that’s just book signings, though? This is basically a crowd of people gathered together to celebrate how they like to silently stare at words on a page. I glance wistfully in the direction of the cafe next door, wondering if I have enough time to go get tea.
Then Grace steps up to the microphone.
“Hello, everyone. My name is Grace Blackwood. I’m honored to have you all here. I’m here to talk about my book, We Can Fix This: Why Your Relationship Can Be Saved and How to Do It.” She gives a little fist-pump as she says the title like she’s cheering us on, and the audience chuckles.
She holds up her book. “I’ve been a practicing couples’ therapist for my entire professional life. The lessons in this book are backed up by extensive, well-documented research in the field of psychology. But they’re also informed by all of the people I’ve seen over the years who trusted me with their hurt, their fears, their insecurity, and their anger. Who trusted me when I looked at them and said, ‘We can fix this, but we have to be able to communicate.’”
Would have been nice if you remembered that before you committed me to a book tour, I think, but there’s not much anger in the thought anymore. The truth is, I’m kind of curious to see Grace in action. I’m used to seeing her as the girl who flops down on my couch at the end of the day. This is different.
Around the room, people are nodding.
Grace gestures to the space around us. “I’m guessing you all are readers. I don’t know about you, but one of the things that drives me up a wall when I’m reading a book is when there are characters who could solve all their problems by talking to each other. Every time I read one of those books, I roll my eyes and think, ‘How unrealistic.’”
Her eyes flicker to mine. “And then I got married.”
The crowd laughs.
Grace gestures to me. “A warm round of applause for my brand-new husband, who’s been bearing the brunt of my failure to communicate recently, and who came out to support me anyway.”
At the ensuing polite laughter and clapping, I feel my ears turning red. I like public speaking, but I’m normally the one doing the speaking. It’s weird to be the one being thanked. As if I really am supporting her. As if it really does matter to her that I’m here.
Grace continues. “The point I’m making is that it is easy to tell other people to be vulnerable in their own relationships, let their guard down, and communicate. It’s a lot harder when it’s your own relationship, your own heart, and life, and pride on the line.”
She holds up the book again. “There’s a lot of good tips in this book. At least, I think so.”
More polite laughter.
“The soul of all of those tips is that it is scary to talk to each other when we are talking about things that matter, but the only way to save our relationships is if we can talk to each other.”
I find myself nodding along with everyone else. Which is ridiculous. It’s not like I have a relationship to save. I’m a happily single man who just happens to be married.
Grace says, “If we can talk to each other openly and honestly, any relationship can be saved.”
The crowd cheers. Grace smiles then opens her book and launches into the reading. More people drift in as she reads. The longer she reads, the more engaged they become. The longer she reads, the more I realize I really disagree with her.
Not that communication isn’t important. Obviously, it is, and her tactics sound reasonable, but her core thesis that every relationship can be saved is complete bullshit. I knew that was the title of her book, but I guess I assumed it was more of a gimmick—a hook to get people to read the rest of the book. The longer she talks, the clearer it is that Grace genuinely believes every relationship can be saved.
I cross my arms. If my mum had thought every relationship could be saved, I would have grown up with a cold, angry father. He never learned how to stop being bitter at the way the world had treated him, and it got to the point where no one else in the house was allowed to be happy or try for things. I still remember the day I said I was trying out for the school football team. I was maybe eight. He laughed and asked why I was bothering. I’d never make it.
My mum told me later that was the day she snapped. It was one thing to let him stain her life with his resentment. It was another thing to let him stain mine and my brother’s.
So, we left. I’ve seen my father around town since, but he never tr
ied to see me, and I never tried to see him. I hear Peter has built a relationship with him in recent years, but Peter’s a priest. He has to believe everyone is worth saving. Plus, he was barely old enough to remember my dad when we left. Me and my mum? We know that some things shouldn’t be saved. Sometimes, it’s best to cut ties and move on.
I’m distracted from my thoughts by the sound of clapping and cheering. The bookstore is full now, and they all love Grace. Partly because she’s telling them their relationships can and should be saved, but partly because she’s lovely and warm. She knows the data, but she also knows the power of a good anecdote. In short, she’s a fucking brilliant writer.
Grace is beaming, and when she meets my eyes, her smile widens.
I clap. Of course I clap. I disagree with the core of her book, but she worked so damn hard on it, and I want her to know how great she is.
An older woman standing next to me says, “You’re the husband, right?”
I nod. I’m not sure how I feel about having everything I am reduced down to “the husband.” Especially since I’m not really her husband. Not in any way that matters.
“Aren’t you just so proud of her?”
I nod slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I am.”
“Did you always know she had it in her?”
I’m saved from having to answer when the question and answer portion starts. It goes quickly, and then people line up to get their book signed. I hear someone on the phone telling their friend that they just heard about this book their friend has to read.
As I watch Grace’s beautiful profile, bent over signing books and smiling at her fans—Grace has fans now—I think about that woman’s question. I realize, no, I didn’t know Grace had this in her.
I assumed she was good at her job. I gave her a cold beer and a shoulder to whine on every time her editor came back wanting more revisions, but she didn’t really talk about her book, and I didn’t ask. We don’t spend that much time talking about our work. Her because of doctor-patient confidentiality, and me because the technical side of coding is too confusing if you’re not a coder.
