The Epicenter of Forever

Chapter 1

I must have fallen for a billion little lies to wind up here, unexpectedly face-to-face with my ex and his pregnant girlfriend barely a week after our divorce.

As my failed marriage flashes before my eyes, I tally every deceit and decide the cruelest one was his bullshit reason for leaving.

We only hit one note, he said with a single suitcase in hand.

Of course, I didn’t know he was lying then, even though the truth should have been obvious.

Cheating, after all, is part of my origin story.

“Eden, wow,” Jeff says now in the polite tone reserved for acquaintances. “What a surprise. It’s nice to see you.”

I have no idea how I feel about seeing him because I can’t look away from the woman holding his hand.

I’m disappointed in myself that my first thought is a petty one: She’s pretty but not beautiful.

She has mousy brown hair that frizzes at her temples, flat blue eyes framed by blunt lashes, and overplucked brows.

I’m not sure I’d notice her if she weren’t flaunting the evidence of Jeff’s betrayal with a full abdomen that does the math for me.

My second thought is a devastating one—I bet this new girlfriend, round with the baby Jeff refused to give me, must play him a motherfucking symphony.

“You too.” I accept Jeff’s hug. I don’t think to hold my breath, forgetting scent memory is the most stubborn.

I’d bought him this Tom Ford cologne on the last anniversary we celebrated together.

Memories of that day invade like an occupying force: Baker Beach at dusk, take-out coffee cooling in my palms, fog so thick we couldn’t see the bridge.

“Eden, this is Nadia. Nadia, this is Eden.”

Nadia. Nadia. Nadia. The name is familiar but less potent than the cologne.

“It’s nice to meet you, Eden.” Nadia extends her hand.

It’s disorienting to live in two worlds at once.

Internally, I’m devastated by the delayed realization that my marriage ended in infidelity.

I’m furious that Jeff fed me a half-truth drenched in a sad metaphor, and I fell for it.

But externally, I’m politely shaking the hand of the woman he must have been sleeping with while I did his laundry and bought his mom’s birthday present.

Worst of all, my irrational composure validates Jeff’s frequent complaint that I’m incapable of passionate emotions.

And maybe he’s right. I should be yelling, screaming, crying.

Instead, I’m undergoing a system reboot.

Cassie emerges from the restroom and steps into the cramped café lobby. Her gaze darts from me to Jeff to Nadia, drawing immediate conclusions.

“Jeffrey, what a surprise,” she says. “Who’s this?”

Jeff’s face goes pale. Somehow, I didn’t suspect he was a cheating scumbag, but I can tell he’s scared shitless by the look on Cassie’s face.

Cassie extends her hand to Nadia, and Nadia takes it, giving a good impression of nonchalance if her left eye weren’t twitching.

“I’m Cassie, Eden’s best friend. At their wedding, I gave a speech about what a nice guy Jeff was. But I guess even smart women get duped by assholes.”

“Cassie,” Jeff warns.

Cassie cocks her head toward Nadia’s pregnant belly. “Yours?”

Jeff looks at me before pursing his lips and nodding.

“Congratulations. When are you due?” Cassie asks Nadia, the hard edge of her voice smoothed to velvet.

Nadia hesitates, looks at Jeff, whose gaze is ensnared with mine, and stutters, “Friday.”

Cassie spits out a laugh. “Nice, Jeff. So this is why you bowed out of our friend group? Not because you wanted Eden to have her ‘support system,’ but because you were trying to hide that you’d knocked up someone else? What happened to not wanting kids?”

“Cass,” Jeff says.

“Don’t ‘Cass’ me. You made it clear we’re no longer friends. At least now we know why.”

We’re drawing the attention of a family waiting for a table. A teen in sweatpants and an oversize T-shirt gawks openly while her parents avert their gazes. Sunday brunch in a crowded San Francisco café does not permit discretion.

“Cassie,” I hiss as I tug on her arm. “Let’s go.”

“No, stay. We’ll go,” Jeff says, ever magnanimous. “Enjoy your brunch. Try the matcha waffles, Edie. You’ll love them.”

Cassie’s incredulous laugh attracts more stares from nearby guests.

I wish Jeff would let us leave, that he would grant me this one kindness.

But Jeff, I see now, is not kind. I thought he was, but I confused politeness for kindness.

Jeff holds the door open for Nadia, and the bell chimes as her name finally rings a bell in my brain.

“She was your physical therapist.” The words escape without my permission, loud enough that Jeff turns. This time, his wince is full-body—a slight shudder.

Jeff whispers, “I’m sorry, Edie,” but looks away. He places his hand on the small of Nadia’s back—a gesture I feel against my own skin like a phantom—and escorts her out.

“Eden, party of two?” the host calls from behind us.

“That’s us.” Cassie puts her hand around my waist, holding me up as we walk. I slide into a booth across from my oldest friend as the host places menus in front of us.

“What a cockmuppet,” Cassie says. “I hope he catches his dick in his zipper again and has to be examined by a room full of med students. I hope Carmex stops manufacturing that lip balm he’s obsessed with, and his lips crack until they bleed.

I hope he stubs his toe and gets a paper cut every day for the rest of his miserable little life. ”

I wish I could express outrage like Cassie.

I wish I could feel as deeply as Cassie, but my emotional muscle was torn in two a long time ago and never healed, forcing me to watch my most dramatic moments happen from a distance.

I’m lucky to have Cassie feel them for me.

She is unapologetically herself—definitive, direct—voicing thoughts I can’t articulate out loud.

Even my appearance is less decisive. Whereas Cassie is a striking brunette with a rich tan and chestnut eyes, my hair is not quite brown or blond, straight or curly.

My eyes can’t make up their mind between green, blue, and hazel, and my complexion changes with the weather.

“I can’t believe that slutbag,” Cassie continues. “Pretending he’s the bigger man. ‘I’ll let Eden keep the house, friends, and favorite corner coffee shop,’ when really he was trying to protect his precious reputation while committing Douchebaggery 101.” She throws the menu open.

I’m barely listening to Cassie’s rant. Instead, I’m scrolling through my phone, checking old entries in our shared calendar, trying to figure out how long ago he started physical therapy and met the woman he left me for.

I freeze when I land on September, eighteen months ago.

The appointments are blocked out three times a week for a year.

Jeff knew Nadia when we bought the couch we’d saved up for, when I had an emergency appendectomy, and when I replaced my IUD because he still hadn’t changed his mind about children.

I was hoping he’d come around. And I waited, wasting so many years.

How much of a sham was I living?

Cassie grabs my hand. “Maybe this is the turning point in the story, you know? It’s the big twist, and now you’ve pulled his mask off, you know he’s the villain, and—”

“This is not an episode of Scooby-Doo, Cass.”

“But—”

I hold up both hands and loosen my shoulders. “I’m fine. Fuck him.”

“Yeah! Fuck him,” she roars, a deep, guttural sound. Heads turn, and a middle-aged blond woman glares at the back of Cassie’s head, covering her son’s ears. “How does it feel to say that?”

“Shh.” I dart my focus across the dining room, wary of the attention we’re attracting.

“Don’t shush me. This is a powerful moment. This is your moment.”

If this is my moment—sitting down to brunch after learning my ex-husband impregnated the woman I didn’t know he left me for—my life is sadder than I thought.

“I think . . .” She pauses, a rarity in conversation with Cass.

It typically means she’s not sure she should say what’s coming next.

Her track record suggests she shouldn’t but absolutely will.

“The hardest thing about the divorce is you didn’t understand it.

You two were solid, and then you weren’t.

And Jeff’s explanations didn’t add up. Maybe this is closure.

He’s just a standard-issue cheating scumbag.

Now you know.” She lifts her shoulders in an apologetic shrug and chews her bottom lip.

My phone rattles on the table. I should ignore it.

But the alternative is listening to Cassie tell me about the hardest part of my failed marriage while her adoring husband waits for her at home.

I don’t check the number before I answer.

It could be a telemarketer selling an extended warranty or asking me to take a survey.

Either option is preferable to Cassie’s well-intentioned but clumsy psychoanalysis.

“Hello?”

“Eden Hawthorne?” a reedy voice asks.

“That’s me.” I plug my other ear and whisper into the phone, hoping to avoid additional judgment from our fellow diners.

“This is Adelaide Chan.” Adelaide, Adelaide.

I scan my mental Rolodex for the name, but it’s escaping me just like Nadia did a moment ago.

I think shock kills brain cells. “Your mom’s friend?

I’m her neighbor.” Or maybe I keep all artifacts related to my pain locked away in the same faraway vault.

“I hope I’m not out of step calling you, but I think you should take a trip out to Grand Trees to visit your mom. ”

The suggestion erupts across my nerves like a lit fuse. If seeing Jeff threw me into darker days, mention of my mother drop-kicks my heart into pitch black. Mom and I aren’t estranged exactly. We talk—sometimes.

When I don’t respond, Adelaide continues, “Caleb’s been helping out, you know.

But Abby had a cold all week, so he didn’t want to expose your mom, what with her diagnosis.

And I didn’t realize how much he’s been doing or how bad it’s gotten.

Caleb just handles it without complaint.

But I learned a lot this week, and I thought it was about time for you to visit and convince your mom that treatment will help. ”

My attention snags on “diagnosis.” I can’t keep up with this woman’s monologue, complete with a cast of characters I’ve never heard of. I don’t even know what questions to ask.

“Diagnosis?” I mutter.

“She says there’s nothing to be done, but I went to the library, looked up some articles online, and there are good treatments available.

Since Sonny died, I think your mom has given up.

And I get it. When my husband died, it took me years to accept that I still had a life to live.

But you know your mother. She’s as stubborn as they come and . . .”

Cassie frowns and mouths, “Who is that?”

My head feels like it’s been pressed in a vise, my temples pounding, and my skin stretched taut and thin. I slide out of the booth and move to the exit, searching for air as Adelaide prattles on about people who all seem to know my mom in ways I don’t.

“I’m sorry.” I emerge into the cool morning air. “Diagnosis?” I repeat, begging for context but unable to admit I know less about the woman who raised me than this stranger on the phone.

“Well, yes,” Adelaide says, clueing in, and sympathy coats her words like buttercream. “The Parkinson’s, dear.”