“I’m glad,” she says. Then she takes my hand in hers. “Just promise me one thing: When it’s not great, you let someone know. Me, or Darcy, or someone.” She squeezes my hand and before she can let go, I take it from her.
I can’t help but let my eyes narrow. My head cocks in surprise. She sees the unasked question in these movements. “It always gets hard, Elise,” she says. “You think you’ll be the only one. That your husband is the exception. At some point, though, it’ll come for you, too.”
“What will?”
A woman with severely bobbed red hair is approaching us. She probably doesn’t know anyone else here and looks to have been orphaned by a previous conversation, hovering in our orbit and waiting. Sondra takes my hand, gives it one more squeeze, then releases it. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?” she says, before fixing the red-haired woman with a toothy smile and excusing herself.
• • •
A couple hours and twice that number of Jack and Cokes later, Brad drifts farther and farther away from me, and I relax in the knowledge that he’s having a good time. Then I hear a woman, one of Darcy’s former coworkers, whose name I believe is Cheri, talking to my husband.
“And after the whole kitchen is all done, after the contractors have cleaned up and left and the appliances are delivered and installed, I go to open the refrigerator and I can’t even get my hand in. That’s as far as it would open! Can you believe it? I was so angry. I mean, I had all of these groceries sitting on the counter and no way of getting them in the stupid refrigerator.” She rolls her eyes and sighs. “It was just one headache after another. Don’t ever do a remodel—buy new instead.”
I hear this conversation for what it is: cocktail-party talk—a way to fill up time in a conversation. It’s a story with themes so obvious that anyone can relate to them and conjure the appropriate incredulous response—anyone except Brad.
Cheri looks to him for his reaction, and for the briefest moment, his face is blank—perplexed, even. Then laughter erupts from somewhere deep inside him, with all the force of a volcanic eruption. He throws his head back and guffaws like he’s front row at a comedy club, like a maniac. One by one, heads turn. I feel the burn of eyes staring at him. And at me.
“You call that a problem?” Brad laughs. “Cabinets and new refrigerators? Jesus Christ, that’s a problem?” Then he leans in to Cheri and, like an older boy asking if a younger one wants to see a stash of stolen
Playboy
magazines, says, “You want to hear a real problem?”
Sensing that nothing good can come from this, I swoop in and grab Brad’s arm, making sure he can see me as I do it, so as not to take him by surprise. “Babe, we need to get going,” I say, trying to make my voice sound as light and sweet as spun sugar, though it willbe quivering all over the place if I am forced to say much more. “Sorry, Cheri,” I say, and I steer Brad toward the kitchen, where Darcy is preparing more appetizers.
“Gotta run!” I call to her. She comes out to hug me, and fortunately, only rubs Brad’s arm.
“It’s good to have you back,” Darcy says to him, and for an instant, I think she’s going to crumble. But she takes a deep breath and smiles. Brad fixes her with a blank stare. I don’t know where he’s gone, but he’s no longer here. Collin is gone, and sometimes I think Brad is, too—just a different kind of gone. This is something I don’t dare say out loud, though. Not to Darcy. Not even to myself.
“I’ll give you a call tomorrow,” I tell her.
When we get into the car, I suggest we should drive the long way home to take in the lights. This is something Brad has always loved doing, and a holiday tradition I have merely tolerated. I steer through Maple Bluff and ooh and aah at the decorations, pointing out the ones I find especially spectacular. Brad stares out the passenger side window.
I can’t help but let my eyes narrow. My head cocks in surprise. She sees the unasked question in these movements. “It always gets hard, Elise,” she says. “You think you’ll be the only one. That your husband is the exception. At some point, though, it’ll come for you, too.”
“What will?”
A woman with severely bobbed red hair is approaching us. She probably doesn’t know anyone else here and looks to have been orphaned by a previous conversation, hovering in our orbit and waiting. Sondra takes my hand, gives it one more squeeze, then releases it. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?” she says, before fixing the red-haired woman with a toothy smile and excusing herself.
• • •
A couple hours and twice that number of Jack and Cokes later, Brad drifts farther and farther away from me, and I relax in the knowledge that he’s having a good time. Then I hear a woman, one of Darcy’s former coworkers, whose name I believe is Cheri, talking to my husband.
“And after the whole kitchen is all done, after the contractors have cleaned up and left and the appliances are delivered and installed, I go to open the refrigerator and I can’t even get my hand in. That’s as far as it would open! Can you believe it? I was so angry. I mean, I had all of these groceries sitting on the counter and no way of getting them in the stupid refrigerator.” She rolls her eyes and sighs. “It was just one headache after another. Don’t ever do a remodel—buy new instead.”
I hear this conversation for what it is: cocktail-party talk—a way to fill up time in a conversation. It’s a story with themes so obvious that anyone can relate to them and conjure the appropriate incredulous response—anyone except Brad.
Cheri looks to him for his reaction, and for the briefest moment, his face is blank—perplexed, even. Then laughter erupts from somewhere deep inside him, with all the force of a volcanic eruption. He throws his head back and guffaws like he’s front row at a comedy club, like a maniac. One by one, heads turn. I feel the burn of eyes staring at him. And at me.
“You call that a problem?” Brad laughs. “Cabinets and new refrigerators? Jesus Christ, that’s a problem?” Then he leans in to Cheri and, like an older boy asking if a younger one wants to see a stash of stolen
Playboy
magazines, says, “You want to hear a real problem?”
Sensing that nothing good can come from this, I swoop in and grab Brad’s arm, making sure he can see me as I do it, so as not to take him by surprise. “Babe, we need to get going,” I say, trying to make my voice sound as light and sweet as spun sugar, though it willbe quivering all over the place if I am forced to say much more. “Sorry, Cheri,” I say, and I steer Brad toward the kitchen, where Darcy is preparing more appetizers.
“Gotta run!” I call to her. She comes out to hug me, and fortunately, only rubs Brad’s arm.
“It’s good to have you back,” Darcy says to him, and for an instant, I think she’s going to crumble. But she takes a deep breath and smiles. Brad fixes her with a blank stare. I don’t know where he’s gone, but he’s no longer here. Collin is gone, and sometimes I think Brad is, too—just a different kind of gone. This is something I don’t dare say out loud, though. Not to Darcy. Not even to myself.
“I’ll give you a call tomorrow,” I tell her.
When we get into the car, I suggest we should drive the long way home to take in the lights. This is something Brad has always loved doing, and a holiday tradition I have merely tolerated. I steer through Maple Bluff and ooh and aah at the decorations, pointing out the ones I find especially spectacular. Brad stares out the passenger side window.
Similar Books
