3. Chapter 3
Elowen
After work, I arrange for a babysitter to watch the kids so Julian and I can meet Trey and their friends for drinks.
Normally Julian prefers upscale restaurants after work, but he’s more willing to let loose when his college friends are in town.
Which is why we’re at the Nusty Nickel, a gritty dive bar on the east side of town.
Julian guides me through the bar’s door, his palm flat against my lower back. Sometimes I wonder if it’s a romantic gesture or a possessive one. Probably both. I just wish it was romantic more often than not.
The dim lights catch on exposed brick walls and vintage beer signs.
Even though the place is packed, I immediately spot them in the corner booth.
There’s Carmella’s perfect silhouette, Trey’s boisterous gestures, the others nodding along to whatever story he’s telling.
As we approach, I feel a shift in Julian’s gait.
His energy spikes, his focus locking onto the booth before we’ve even reached it.
My throat tightens. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, straighten my blouse, and follow my husband toward the people he chose before he chose me.
“There they are!” Trey’s voice booms across the bar, drawing glances from nearby tables. He half-rises, scotch at the ready. “The Plazas have arrived! Now the party can start!”
Carmella turns, and I feel myself shrink. Her black dress hugs every curve like a second skin, her makeup flawless despite the hour. The blouse I spent forty minutes choosing suddenly feels like something grabbed from a clearance rack.
We have history. Not me and Carmella specifically, but in a triangle of sorts among the three of us. Julian knew Carmella before he knew me. They had a “thing” just before Julian started dating me. He didn’t cheat, to be clear. In the end, he chose me completely, so it all worked out.
“You look lovely,” Carmella says, her eyes flickering down and up in a quick, dismissive glance. I don’t buy it for a second.
“Thanks,” I manage. “You, too.”
Pleasantries over, her gaze drifts past me to Julian as he greets her, his hand sliding from my back to my waist to guide me into the booth.
“What are we drinking?” my husband asks.
Trey slams his glass down. “The eighteen-year Macallan, my friend. Life’s too short for the cheap stuff.”
“Says the man who once drank tequila from a shoe,” Julian replies, and the table erupts in laughter.
I laugh too, but a beat too late. Feeling awkward, I scan the drinks menu, though I already know I’ll order red wine. The choice is taken out of my hands entirely when the waitress arrives. Julian orders a whiskey for himself and a Pinot Noir for me.
“Actually,” I interject, “I’d like the Cabernet tonight.”
Julian’s fingers press into my side, not painfully, but to correct me. “Are you sure, honey? The Pinot Noir is better here.”
“Oh, for sure,” Carmella agrees, raising her own glass of the same. “You should try it, Elowen. You haven’t lived until you’ve tried the Pinot Noir.”
“So, how’s the luxury market coming along?” Gage, one of Julian’s college friends, asks. “Heard finding the right developer to back has been a nightmare.”
Julian launches into the bottlenecks of green infrastructure and his hunt for a collaborator, specifically a ruthless man named Robert Thompson.
Since I dislike Mr. Thompson, I look down at our water glasses, watching the water droplets run down the glass paths.
Even so, I remember the hundreds of hours Julian spent researching this real estate pivot, and I feel proud of his focus.
I sit back in the booth, believing we are partners in this business venture.
When the waitress sets down my wine, I take a sip and smile to be polite, though I want the red wine instead.
“You should have seen Jules in college,” Trey says, gesturing with his glass so widely that amber liquid sloshes dangerously close to the rim. “Even then, he had that killer instinct. Remember that economics competition junior year?”
“God, yes.” Carmella laughs. “When you convinced the opposing team that their data was flawed?”
“Strategic misleading,” Julian says, but his smile has that sharp edge I recognize from when he’s proud of himself. He leans forward, engaging her directly, the space between them seeming to shrink while I sit frozen in the periphery.
“Ellie,” Carmella says suddenly, using the nickname I’ve never offered her, “Julian mentioned you’ve been redecorating. I’d love to hear about it.”
All eyes turn to me. I straighten, grateful for the inclusion. Perhaps I’m too self-conscious, but my husband huffs under his breath, which I take as annoyance.
“Just the living room,” I say. “I found this beautiful sectional that works better.”
“She wanted gray,” Julian says, his tone indulgent but dismissive. He glances at Carmella and rolls his eyes. “I told her black is better for resale value.”
I still don’t understand his reasoning. We’re not selling, and even if we were, the sectional wouldn’t stay with the house, anyway.
No one else seems to find the holes. Gage nods approvingly. “Always thinking ahead.”
“It’s gray-blue,” I clarify, but they’ve already moved on.
“Speaking of forward thinking,” Trey says, “remember that time we road-tripped to Lake Michigan, and Jules had packed emergency supplies for every possible disaster?”
The table dissolves into stories I wasn’t part of.
There are inside jokes about professors I never had, about people I’ve never met.
He was a senior when I was a freshman studying business administration, and we had an entirely different circle of friends.
We hadn’t even properly met until after college.
I sip my wine, nodding and smiling at appropriate times.
Julian’s hand remains on my waist, his thumb occasionally stroking my side, but his attention is fully absorbed in reliving his glory days.
“God, and then Carmella showed up in that red bikini,” Trey continues, whistling low.
“Some things never change,” Gage says, his eyes meeting Carmella’s for a moment.
I reach for my wine again and find the glass empty. When did that happen? I signal the waitress for another, adjusting my blouse as I do. It suddenly feels too tight, though I know it’s not.
My second glass arrives as Trey orders another round of drinks for the table.
The whiskey is flowing freely now, his volume increasing with each pour.
His gestures grow more expansive, his laugh more explosive.
Julian matches him glass for glass, his hand on my waist gradually loosening as the alcohol takes hold.
When a momentary lull hits the conversation, I notice Trey’s eyes have taken on a mischievous gleam. His words are slurring now. Three rounds ago, he was just loud, but now he’s sloppy.
“Hey, you know what?” Trey raises his glass, pointing it vaguely in my direction. “I just remembered the funniest story from the good old days about you two.”
Julian shifts beside me, his shoulders stiffening.
“Trey, maybe now’s not the time,” he says. His voice is casual, but I feel the tension radiating from him.
The others sense it, too. Gage suddenly becomes fascinated with the label on his beer bottle. A woman whose name I can never remember from Julian’s economics seminar in college studies the ceiling.
They know something I don’t. And they know exactly what story Trey is referring to.
“No, no, this is good.” Trey waves away Julian’s objection. “Did Ellie ever hear about how you two actually got together?”
My smile freezes in place. Even Carmella raises a brow, a question forming on her face.
“Actually, Trey,” Julian interjects, his corporate smile still in place but failing to reach his eyes, “how’s the new position going? You were telling me about that project in Olympia.”
Trey dismisses Julian’s diversion with a flap of his hand. “Too boring to discuss. Let’s go with classic Jules instead.”
A muscle jumps just below Julian’s ear. I’ve seen that look before, when a deal is going sideways, when someone challenges him in a board meeting. I’ve never seen it directed at his friends. Or because of me.
“So, Jules here,” Trey continues, leaning toward me conspiratorially, “was totally torn between Ellie and Carm.”
My heart lurches. I stare at Julian, but he won’t meet my eyes.
“You know our boy,” Trey says with drunken affection. “Always the logical asshole. Anyway, he does what any normal person would do when deciding between two women.”
I find my voice. “What’s that?”
“He made this brutal pro-con list!” Trey howls with laughter, spilling whiskey on the table. “Color-coded and everything. I swear to God, I saw it with my own eyes.”
My fingernails dig into my palm under the table. Eight years of marriage. Two children. A shared home, shared name, shared life—all of it suddenly feeling cruel.
“It wasn’t like that,” Julian says, forcing a chuckle that doesn’t match his eyes. “You know how Trey gets. He’s exaggerating.”
“Am not!” Trey protests. “You showed me the damn spreadsheet. There were entries and everything. ‘Carmella: Family connections. Elowen: Organized.’ Remember?”
Someone at the far end of the table tries to change the subject to football, but Trey steamrolls over them, his momentum unstoppable now.
“We all thought he’d go for Carm,” Trey continues, gesturing sloppily toward Carmella. “They’d been dancing around each other for months.”
I remember, but he chose me.
“Ancient history,” Julian says sharply. His free hand clenches around his glass.
I glance at Carmella, who says, “No, no, I want to hear the story. I deserve to hear the story.”
Trey nods in a way that says, very well, before continuing, “It was a spreadsheet. A fucking spreadsheet to choose his wife!”
A few nervous laughs ripple around the table. Julian’s fingertips press deeper into my waist.
“And Elowen won?” she asks.
“Spoilers,” Trey says. “Wait until the end of the story.”
“I think that’s enough reminiscing for one night,” Julian says.