“Oh,” I say, nodding.
“Leslie just got a job with Pixar.”
“Wow,” I say. “That’s exciting.”
“Yeah. I guess we both have a passion for children,” she says. “Gabe tells me you’re a teacher?”
“Yes. I teach the first grade,” I say, wondering why I suddenly feel that my work is so pedestrian. I remind myself that there is nothing more important than good teachers—except maybe doctors. But even doctors needed good teachers along the way.
“That’s awesome,” she says a little too exuberantly, which only heightens my insecurity.
“Thanks,” I say. “I love my job….So where’s Pixar based?”
“Emeryville, California,” she says. “Between Oakland and Berkeley.”
“So you’re moving there soon?” I ask, wondering why I want her gone already.
“Not until next summer,” she says. “After I graduate.”
I smile and nod, quickly running out of things to ask her. “Okay. Well. I’ll leave you two to game six,” I say, pointing to the deck of cards as I stand and walk toward the door. “Good luck, Leslie. I’m rooting for you.”
—
I DON’T SEE Gabe again until two days later, when we run into each other in the driveway. I’m on my way to the gym, and he’s all gussied up, at least for him.
“Where’ve you been the last few days?”
“At Leslie’s,” he says, putting on his sunglasses.
“What’s the deal there? Are you, like, in love already?”
“Please. I’ve known her less than a week.”
“Okay. But have you not just spent three nights in a row with her?” I ask, puzzled as to why this is so annoying to me when Gabe has had plenty of girlfriends and flings over the years.
He grins and shrugs.
“God,” I say, rolling my eyes. “So you’ve already had sex with her?”
“That’s none of your business,” he says, an unprecedented reply that means not only yes but that he really likes her. Usually he tells me these things.
“How old is she?” I ask. “Or is that top secret information, too?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Twenty-six?” I say, although I’m pretty sure his last girlfriend was younger than that. “Lemme guess—she’s very mature for her age?”
“Well, she is,” he says. “She’s smart and talented and driven, too. Do you know how hard it is to land a job at Pixar?”
“How hard?” I say.
“Very,” he says.
I cross my arms and say, “Well, anyway…Do you realize you’ve ignored my last three texts?”
“Did not,” he says. “I wrote you back.”
“Hardly,” I say, thinking that writing only three words—He’s a loser—in response to my text I talked to Will on the phone was not only unsatisfying but downright neglectful.
“Don’t you want to know what Will had to say?” I ask.
“What did he have to say?” Gabe asks, now looking down at his phone and texting someone. By the expression on his face, I’m guessing it’s Leslie.
“Never mind,” I say with a loud sigh.
Gabe looks up. “Why are you being this way?”
“I just feel like you don’t care lately,” I say, my voice sounding whiny. “About what I’m going through.”
“Did I miss something?” he asks. “What, exactly, are you going through, again?”
“Oh, nothing major,” I say. “Just teaching my ex-boyfriend’s child, not speaking to my family, and gearing up to have a baby alone. No biggie.”
“Josie,” he says, sliding down his sunglasses to look me directly in the eyes. “You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?”
“Yes,” I say, staring back at him. “But I’m your pain in the ass. And don’t forget it.”
chapter sixteen
MEREDITH
It takes an emergency session with Amy, in which she tells me, more or less, that this has been a long time coming, and another few heart-to-hearts with Ellen, before I build up enough courage to even make a plan to talk to Nolan. I’m not sure exactly what I’m going to say, or where I’m going to say it, only that I have to say something. I give myself a deadline, vowing that the conversation must take place on or before our swiftly approaching seven-year wedding anniversary.
Naturally, after several years of pretty much ignoring our anniversary or, at most, only going to dinner and exchanging cards, this is the year that Nolan decides we need a romantic getaway.
“We haven’t gone away, just the two of us, in years,” he says one night as he comes in from a long run, removing his earbuds and toweling off his sweat in the kitchen. On my list of pet peeves, it is minor, but I have told him before that I wish he’d cool down outside—or at least in a room other than the kitchen.
“What about Napa?” I say, trying to resist the macaroni and cheese that Harper didn’t finish, reminding myself that her leftovers aren’t free calories.
“Yeah. That was three years ago,” he says, gripping the counter as he stretches his hamstrings. “And that doesn’t count—we were there for a wedding.”
“It still counts. Harper wasn’t with us. And we stayed a few extra days,” I say, recalling the trip and how pleasant it was to be away with him. For a few seconds, I’m filled with self-doubt. Maybe Ellen’s theory is correct—we are just going through a rough patch and need a little time and effort to work on our marriage. I ask him what he has in mind, trying to keep mine open.
“Oh, I don’t know. Something beachy…but it’s probably too late to get flights.” He frowns. “I’m sorry I didn’t think of it sooner.”
“It’s okay,” I say, quickly absolving him. I fleetingly wonder if he feels as conflicted as I do about our anniversary, but I want to let him off the hook either way. “I know you’re busy at work, too.”
Nolan nods and says he’s going to grab a quick shower—then we can talk about it.
Thinking that he has never taken a quick shower in his life, I say, “Okay. I’ll see you in an hour or so.”
—
AS PREDICTED, ABOUT an hour later, Nolan finds me in the laundry room, folding towels. “What about Blackberry Farm?” he says, referring to the astronomically expensive resort in the foothills of the Tennessee Smoky Mountains.
“Way too pricey,” I say.
“Oh, c’mon. Don’t be such a frugal Frieda,” Nolan says. “You can’t take it with you.”
“I know you can’t take it with you. But wouldn’t it be nice to leave some for Harper?” I say, remembering that our first and only trip to Blackberry, also for a friend’s wedding, happened to be the weekend Harper was conceived. I had just gone off the pill the month before, so we weren’t really trying yet—a fact that Josie sometimes brings up when she’s listing all the ways I’m “the lucky one.”
“Two nights at Blackberry isn’t going to break the bank,” Nolan says. “And we still have fourteen years to save for Harper’s college.”
Fourteen long years, I think, but only say, “Okay. Sure. Give them a call. But I bet they’re booked.”
Nolan shakes his head, and as he leaves the laundry room, I hear him say, “Frugal Frieda. Negative Nellie.”
—
AS IT TURNS out, Blackberry has just one room available and it’s “all ours for just nine hundred a night.”
“Nine hundred dollars?” I say. “Or yen?”
“Ha,” Nolan says. “The cottages are nearly double that.”
“Oh. So this is actually a bargain,” I say.
“Exactly,” he says. “So can I book it?”
“I don’t know,” I waffle, worried that he will feel even more betrayed by what I think I’m going to tell him if the conversation takes place in a nine-hundred-dollar-a-night room at Blackberry Farm. Then again, maybe it will soften the blow, remind us both that no matter what happens in our relationship, we will continue to cultivate beauty in our lives—and always share a special hist
ory.
“I need a yes or a no,” he says. “The guy is only holding the room for ten minutes.”
I sigh and say yes because, as I have learned, yes is usually the easier answer.
—
A WEEK LATER, I drop Harper off at Mom’s, with one duffel bag of necessities and two additional bags of toys that Harper insists are necessities. “You’re visiting for the weekend or the month?” Mom asks, bending down to kiss Harper.
Harper looks at me for the answer and I say, “Just two nights. We’ll be back on Sunday afternoon.”
“Well, no rush,” Mom tells me, smiling. “I’m so glad you and Nolan are doing something nice for your anniversary. It’s a special spot for you two.” She gives me a knowing wink.
“Ugh. Mom, c’mon,” I say, rolling my eyes. I can’t remember ever sharing the where and when of Harper’s conception, but obviously I did at some point.
“What?” she says, playing dumb. “I just meant…I know you like it there. I’m glad you’re getting away.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, then launch into weekend instructions, even though Harper enjoys fairly regular sleepovers with her grandmother.
“Is she still allergic to cinnamon?” Mom asks.
“It’s not really an allergy,” I say. “Just a slight intolerance.”
“I get a bad rash here,” Harper says, pointing to her upper lip.
“Nolan’s turning her into a hypochondriac,” I say under my breath.
“Okay, sweetie. We’ll just avoid cinnamon,” Mom says. “Anything else?”
“I don’t think so,” I say. “Do you have anything else?”
“Have you heard from Josie?” she asks, completely off point.
“Nope,” I say, determined not to be sucked into a conversation about my sister. “Well, I better go. Nolan wanted to get on the road before rush hour.”
“Sure. Sure. Go,” she says, straightening a stack of MLS listings on the kitchen table, a three-and-a-half-million-dollar house on top.
“Is that your listing?”
She shakes her head. “No. I’m just showing it. New client.”
“Are you sure this weekend is okay?” I say, knowing that weekends are her busiest times. “Because Ellen said she could take her….”
“It’s totally okay,” Mom says. “Now. Go have fun with your husband.”
“Okay,” I say, kissing my daughter goodbye, fighting a wave of distinct sadness and separation anxiety, and trying not to imagine a life of every-other-weekend goodbyes.
—
ONCE NOLAN AND I get out of Atlanta traffic, the drive to Tennessee becomes pleasant and easy. Few cars on the highway, bright blue skies. It doesn’t yet feel like fall, the trees still green and lush, but the high heat has finally passed and I’m wearing a light sweater for the first time this season. Nolan’s mood is always pretty good—but it’s downright chipper today, as he whistles, chats, and cranks the volume on his quirky, high-energy “road trip” playlist. As he belts out the lyrics to Katrina and the Waves’ “Walking on Sunshine” and then Wham!’s “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go,” it’s hard not to feel happy.
Our plan is to drive the whole way and arrive hungry, the Blackberry cuisine rivaling the mountain vistas, but two hours into the trip, we break down and stop at Cracker Barrel—which Nolan unabashedly loves as much for the food as for the peg game and gift shop.
I start to order a salad with grilled chicken but at the last second copy Nolan’s order of dumplings—essentially a big bowl of starch and empty calories. We play the peg game, taking turns until Nolan steals a second board from a nearby table and we begin frantic parallel play. My best is a pathetic four pegs remaining—while he reaches three, then two, looking jubilant.
“We should do this more often,” he says after our food arrives.
I butter an already buttery biscuit and murmur my agreement.
“You need to get away from that firm,” he says.
“You mean quit?” I ask, feeling a hopeful surge.
He laughs and says, “No, I meant more vacations…weekend getaways…but you could quit. If you want.”
I shake my head. “No. We need the money,” I say, taking a small bite of my biscuit.
“No, we really don’t,” Nolan says. “What part of ‘successful family business’ don’t you get?”
“The part that feels dirty,” I say with a smile although I’m only slightly kidding.
He smiles back but looks a little offended. “Dirty? What the heck does that mean? You act like it’s mafia money or something.”
“Okay. Strike ‘dirty,’ ” I say. “It’s just that sometimes…I wish we had made our own way, Nolan. Your money comes with strings.”
“Our money,” he says. He stirs sugar into his tea, as I wonder what I always do—why doesn’t he just order it sweetened? “And there really are no strings. I like working with my dad.”
I think of the occasional skirmishes he gets into with his father, and start to contradict him, but then decide, for the most part, I’m being unfair. I’ve been very lucky in the in-law department.
“I mean, look at Ellen and Andy,” Nolan says. “You think they could afford that house of theirs, plus their New York City apartment, on his salary and her part-time photography work?”
“Probably not,” I say, knowing from my mother what they paid for their house. Plus another half million, at least, for their renovation. And Nolan is right—Ellen seems to have no problem with it. Her mother-in-law sometimes annoys her, but she mostly just adores the Grahams, thrilled to be part of their clan. Maybe that’s the difference, I think, the dumplings suddenly looking like they’ve been marinated in Elmer’s glue.
“And we live in your old house that we paid for ourselves,” Nolan continues, “which is perfectly nice, but far from…lavish.”
I nod, thinking that he is the one who always insists that we can never move, never break that tie to Daniel. After several years of following my mother’s lead and treating his room like a museum, we finally packed away most of his personal stuff and got a new queen-size bed to replace Daniel’s twin. Ostensibly, it is now set up for guests, but we seldom use it that way and often still refer to it as “Daniel’s room.”
“So anyway…the point is…you don’t have to practice law.”
“I know,” I say, conceding this much.
“You just seem so miserable there….What’s the point in that?”
I nod, thinking this is the perfect opening to begin a serious discussion, but also wondering if maybe what I’m doing isn’t a bigger problem than who I’m with. After all, if you’re not happy with your own life, can you really be happy sharing it with another? It sounds like something Amy would say. In fact, I think she has said it. “You’re right,” I say. “I’m not happy.”
It feels like a huge first step, a breakthrough of sorts.
“So quit,” Nolan says. “Quit Monday, first thing. I triple-dog dare you.”
The thought is so liberating that I can’t help smiling. “Maybe I will,” I say, feeling a weight lifted from my shoulders. I tell myself that there isn’t a more supportive man in the world. Was I crazy to think that he was the problem, when it had to be that vile job and all the pressure to bill, bill, bill, bill? I think about acting and how much I miss it—and consider all the other creative possibilities, ways I could be spending my time and life.
Then, like a record screeching to a halt, the next words out of Nolan’s mouth are, “Just think. You could be a stay-at-home mother with complete freedom.”
I give him a blank stare, thinking that there is pretty much nothing liberating about staying home with Harper all day, every day. And that, as much as I hate to admit it, even to myself, I would probably rather bill hours than be trapped at home twenty-four-seven.
“And then…” he says with a slow smile. I hear a dramatic drumroll in my head before he finishes his sentence exactly as I predicted, “we can have another baby.”
My heart
sinks, confirmation that something is very wrong in our marriage, and that I must tell Nolan how I feel. I almost pull the trigger right there at Cracker Barrel, but tell myself we need to get back on the road. Then I tell myself that Nolan needs to concentrate on driving. Then we arrive at Blackberry, and we’re too busy unpacking. Then Nolan wants to go for a quick run and we both have to shower and get ready for the evening. Then we’re on the back patio, sitting on oversize wooden rocking chairs, sipping organic martinis as we watch the sun set behind inky blue mountains—too serene a moment to taint. Ditto to our exquisite five-course dinner at The Barn, the award-winning, romantic restaurant on the property. Then, once back in our room, we both crash, too full of fine foothills cuisine and wine pairings to even stay awake, let alone have a big talk.
—
BUT THE FOLLOWING morning, after I wake up in the high four-poster antique bed and take a few seconds to process where I am and what day it is, I know it’s finally time, that I am out of excuses. I roll over and look at Nolan as his eyes flutter halfway open.
“Good morning,” he says, his voice scratchy with sleep.
“Good morning. Happy anniversary,” I say, even though I have the sinking feeling that neither will be good or happy.
“Happy anniversary,” he says through a big yawn and stretch. “What time is it?”
“I don’t know,” I say, squinting at the window. Sunlight is working its way through the closed blinds, but it’s not very bright yet.
Nolan rolls over and reaches for his phone on the nightstand. “Wow. It’s almost eight-thirty,” he says. “I slept like a rock.”
“Me, too,” I say. “Did we fall asleep with the lights on?”
“Yeah. I woke up around two and turned them off.” He smiles, then says, “Wow. No alarm. No Harper. Nowhere to be.”
“Yeah,” I murmur, feeling myself tense as he shifts a few inches toward me, one leg slung over the covers, the other still tangled up in the sheets. I glance down and see his standard morning erection making an appearance in the opening of his green gingham boxers. Although it crosses my mind to just do it, so to speak, I clear my throat and issue a preemptive, foreboding statement. “We need to talk.”