First Comes Love (19 page)

L
ATER THAT NIGHT,
after being held hostage in Harper's darkened room for over two hours, I fall asleep in the glider next to her bed, awakening to the sound of my phone vibrating. I find it in the cushions and see Ellen's name.

“Hi, there,” I whisper, tiptoeing out of Harper's room.

“Are you alone?” she asks.

“Yeah. I was just putting Harper to bed,” I say, walking downstairs, where I start cleaning the kitchen.

“Where's Nolan?” she asks.

“At a work dinner.”

“So I've been thinking about earlier,” she says.

“Me, too. Listen—I'm sorry—I don't know what came over me. I think I'm just hormonal…about to get my period—” I'm lying to my friend, but only because I don't want to burden her.

“No,
I'm
sorry,” Ellen interjects. “I shouldn't have tried to tell you how you should feel. And I hope I didn't imply that my marriage is perfect now. Because it's not. Far from it.”

“I know,” I say. “I didn't think you were doing that.”

“Okay, good. Because sometimes I have the feeling that everyone thinks that everyone
else
is living a fairy tale. Especially in the South. People fake things so much. Put on a happy face and show off your perfect life.”

I murmur my agreement as she continues, “And I just wanted to say…that I hope you stay with Nolan, but no matter what happens, I'll always be here for you.”

“That's really nice,” I say. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” she says, then hesitantly asks if I've considered marriage counseling. “I mean, I know you go to Amy…but what about
couples
therapy?”

“Yeah. Maybe we'll try that,” I say, although I'm pretty skeptical about it as a solution for us. It seems to me that counseling might help with a lot of relationship issues, but that it can't make you love someone you just don't. I'm also beginning to realize, sickeningly, that the only real solution is to tell Nolan the truth.

“It's going to be okay,” Ellen says. “You just need a little time.”

“Right,” I say, thinking that the notion of time healing all might be an even bigger lie than the foundation my marriage is built upon. Daniel's death taught me that much; some things will
never
be okay.

T
he week after the choking incident, I'm at school, enjoying a blissful free period while my kids are in music, when an email from “William Carlisle” appears in my inbox, the subject line ominously blank. Shamefully, my heart races as I click it open, then feel a rush of disappointment when I see only a few words appear on my screen.
Josie, Could you please give me a call at your convenience?
He then leaves his mobile number (which I still know by heart but no longer have programmed into my phone for fear of an unfortunate pocket call, or worse, a pocket FaceTime), along with a formal
Thank you
and his initials:
W.C
.

I reread it a few times, debating whether to consult Gabe or Sydney first. Instead, I simply call him, convincing myself that I'm not being too eager—that I just want to “get it over with”—and further, that he doesn't warrant a lot of time and analysis.

“This is Will,” he says, answering on the second ring.

“Hi, Will,” I say, my stomach churning. “It's Josie. I got your email.”

“Hi, Josie,” he says. His voice is distinctly uneasy, which somehow makes me a little less so. “Thanks for calling.”

“Sure. What's up?” I say, trying to sound light and casual.

I hear him take a deep breath. “First, I just wanted to…thank you again for the other night. I mean, thank your friend for…you know…intervening….”

“Sure. I'll tell him again…but it's really no big deal. I'm sure you would have been fine either way,” I say, although I can still envision another scenario, and feel a little chagrined that I used to wish disaster upon him—never death, but occasionally financial ruin, partial paralysis, or mild disfigurement.

“Yeah. Well…that was really embarrassing.”

I already knew he was embarrassed, but am surprised and disarmed that he is admitting it to me so candidly, days later. “No, it's not,” I say with an odd feeling of déjà vu that must be stemming from a similar, distant memory, a time when I felt protective of his pride or feelings. “It happens a lot. Do you remember when George Bush choked on a pretzel?”

“George W?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Remember he was watching football at the White House and choked, then passed out.”

“Yeah, vaguely,” he says, his voice lighter.

“Can you imagine? All that Secret Service surrounding and protecting him, and he nearly died alone, watching football?”

Will laughs, and I get a sharp pang of nostalgia. I always loved his laugh—a low, breathy chortle—and I especially loved when I was the source of it. He didn't laugh easily, sometimes only smiling during
really
funny movies, so it always felt like an accomplishment when I could make him laugh.

“So what else?” I ask. “Is everything okay with Edie?”

“Oh, yeah. She's doing great,” he says, sounding a little stiff again, but no longer overtly uncomfortable. “At least she is at home. How's she doing in school?”

“Great,” I say. “They're in music now. It's my free period. That's why I could call you in the middle of the day.”

“Oh, yeah,” he says. “That makes sense.”

“Uh-huh,” I say just to fill the silence, wondering if that's all he has to say. “So? Was there…something else?” I ask casually, determined not to let my voice betray the hopeful, needy way I feel—although I have no idea what I want him to say. For years, my fantasy was for him to call me, tell me that he was getting a divorce, that he'd made a big mistake, that he wanted to be with me and only me. But now I wouldn't want that to happen to Edie.

“Um, yeah. Kind of,” he says. “I just…I wanted to…I don't know…clear the air. About us…”

“Us?” I say, my pulse quickening again.

“Well, not
us
. But you know, the past—what
happened
with us. I just feel badly about how things ended….”

“Bad,”
I say, making a conscious decision to correct his grammar.

“What?”

“
Bad.
Not
badly,
” I say, smiling a little, remembering how many times I tried to explain to him that the adverb
badly,
when modifying the verb
feel,
means you have poor tactile sensation, perhaps from a severe burn on your fingertips.
Feeling badly
would make it difficult to, say, read braille.
Feeling bad,
on the other hand, means you have negative feelings on a subject. “You know, the adjective versus the adverb.”

“Oh, yeah, right, grammar girl.
Bad
. I feel
bad
about how we ended things.”

I resist the urge to point out that
we
didn't end things;
he
did that. All on his own. “It's okay,” I say instead, feeling healed by his pseudo-apology all these years later. “But, Will…I
didn't
cheat on you….” My voice trails off.

“Yeah. Well, whether you did or didn't, I was a little harsh….Everyone makes mistakes….”

“Yes, but I really and truly didn't,” I say, remembering that terrible night. Maybe the second worst of my life.

“Okay,” he says.

“Do you believe me?” I ask him.

He hesitates, then says, “Josie—you were in bed with him….I caught you in bed with him.”

“But it wasn't like that,” I say. “I swear…I've never told you the whole truth about that night. But only because I couldn't….”

“You couldn't?” he asks.

“I thought I couldn't,” I say. “It was just…so complicated and had nothing to do with us. It had to do with Daniel…but I regret it. At least I regretted it for years. I wish I'd been straight with you….I'm sorry.”

“Don't be sorry. It all worked out,” he says. “Right?”

I swallow, then bite my lip. “Right. You have a beautiful family,” I say, feeling proud for taking the high ground.

“Thank you,” he says.

“I really like Andrea,” I add.

“Yeah. She likes you, too,” he says, as it occurs to me that she may have put him up to this call. There is suddenly no doubt in my mind that, at the very least, she has made him a kinder, more compassionate version of who he once was.

“So. Yeah. Things worked out,” I say, perhaps a little too cheerfully to be convincing.

Sure enough, he hesitates, then says, with distinct concern in his voice, “So what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Are you happy now? Things are good with you, too?”

“Oh, yeah. Things are great,” I say, my cheeks beginning to warm. I then overcompensate and blurt out my birth plan. “I'm actually planning to have a baby…with a sperm donor….”

“Really?” he asks, sounding more than a little surprised.

“Yeah,” I say, feeling a rush of internal peace and confidence, confirming that I'm making the right decision. “It's something I've wanted for a long time….Motherhood, that is…I'm really excited.”

“That's great, Josie. I think you'll be a terrific mother,” he says, his tone sincere, but also filled with unmistakable guilt and pity—and maybe a trace of condescension. “I'm so glad to hear that things are working out for you…after all.”

“Thanks, Will,” I say, wondering how I can feel touched and offended at once. In an odd sense, I preferred his self-righteous silence to his sympathy, and I try to think of something else to say, something along the lines of
I know that I'm going to have the baby I'm meant to have, the child I wouldn't have had if you and I had stayed together
. But then I hear the sound of clamor in the hallway and know that I'm out of time. One beat later, the door swings open, Edie's sweet face the first to appear.

“Okay! Gotta go. My kids are back,” I say. “Well,
your
kid…
my
class…”

“Right…okay,” he says. “Thanks for the call, Josie. I appreciate it.”

“Thank
you,
Will,” I say. “And remember—there's no reason for you to feel bad…or badly, for that matter.”

A
FTER WORK,
I
come in the house and spot Gabe on the back deck with a girl. She is his usual petite-verging-on-emaciated type, but blond instead of brunette. They are playing Uno, drinking beer in frosted mugs, and laughing. I watch them for a second, trying to place her, but can't.

“Hi, there!” I call out, through the screen door.

“Oh, hey,” Gabe says, glancing at me over his shoulder, his voice unusually chipper. “Come on out and join us.”

I slide open the door and step onto the porch as he says, “Meet Leslie.”

“Hi, Leslie,” I say, smiling. Getting a closer look, I decide that she is very pretty—and very young.

“Hi. You must be Josie,” she says, pushing aviator sunglasses up on her head and giving me a broad smile. Her teeth are disproportionately large for her face, but in a striking, not horsey, way. “I've heard a lot about you.”

“You, too,” I lie as I admire her outfit—a feminine white eyelet peplum top, paired with faded boyfriend jeans.

She laughs a high Tinker Bell laugh, and Gabe gives her a smitten glance before looking back at me.

“What's so funny?” I ask.

“We just met last night,” Gabe says.

“Oh,” I say with a shrug. “Well, then. Busted.”

“Yeah,” she says, laughing again. “But you're a good roommate to cover for him like that.”

“Yeah,” I say, raising my eyebrows at Gabe, the noun
roommate
instead of
friend
not lost on me. “I try to be.”

At this point, she throws down a wild card and shouts, “Uno! Green!”

“Son of a bitch,” he says, throwing down his cards. “I give up.”

“That's five in a row,” she says, looking jubilant.

“Yeah. Well, don't play him in backgammon,” I say. “I don't think I've beaten him in nearly twenty years.”

“You've known each other twenty years?” she says.

“Longer than that,” I say. “I've known him since we were kids. But we didn't become close until college.”

“Ah, I see,” she says, nodding, then reaching out to put her hand playfully on his. I expect him to leave it there a beat, at most, before pulling away. Instead, he flips his hand over, rearranging their fingers in an intimate clasp. For Gabe, this qualifies as PDA.

“So where did you meet?” I say, trying to recall where Gabe went last night, but drawing a blank.

“The Iberian Pig,” he says. “Remember? I was there for Dale's birthday.”

“That's right.” I nod, wondering how she and Gabe got from Dale's birthday to a game of Uno on our back deck in less than twenty-four hours. As Gabe continues to hold her hand with a goofy grin, I have a pretty good guess what's happened in between.

“So, Leslie?” I say, feigning oblivion to the strong third-wheel vibe I'm getting as I walk around their chairs and plop down on the top step. “What do you do?”

“I'm in grad school,” she says. “At SCAD.”

“Fashion design?” I guess, eyeing her funky metallic espadrille wedges. They are open-toe, her nails painted a deep navy.

She shakes her head and says, “No. Sequential art. But I do love fashion.”

“Oh,” I say, nodding and smiling.

“Do you even know what that is?” Gabe says, calling me out for the second time.

I glare at him as she laughs and says, “Don't worry, he didn't, either.”

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I don't, actually. What is sequential art?”

“Broadly speaking, it's an art form that uses images for graphic storytelling.”

“Like comic books?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she says. “Although that's not really my thing. I do animation.”

“Oh,” I say, nodding.