Chapter 3
Above the towering bramble, only Lorraine’s straw hat is visible, a steady stream of expletives tumbling forth between caught breaths.
After some thrashing, she emerges, forearms scratched scarlet, loppers in hand, a half-filled mason jar of something swinging around her neck.
Cece’s having second thoughts about agreeing to help with the yard work, but there’s no backing out now.
“Japanese wineberry,” Lorraine says, tossing a handful of the magenta vines onto the yard. “It’s invasive. Impossible to get rid of the stuff once it gets established. Beating it back is a yearly tradition.”
Digging the plants out at the roots makes more sense to Cece, but Lorraine doesn’t strike her as the kind of person who takes suggestions well, and she’s in no shape for a debate, so she just puts her head down and keeps cutting.
She wouldn’t say she’s hungover; then again, she wouldn’t say she isn’t.
It’s more the lack of sleep than the alcohol that’s taking its toll.
Cece surreptitiously slid out of Morgan’s bed around three in the morning.
An awkward conversation was the last thing she’d wanted.
The night had been blissful, the sex, mind-numbingly good—why ruin it?
“A little hair of the dog?” Lorraine asks, offering Cece the mason jar after unscrewing the lid. The women are sitting on lounge chairs around the pool, taking a spell.
Cece isn’t sure what to be more confused by—the offering from around Lorraine’s neck or how she knows Cece’s business.
“Sheesh,” Lorraine says, “you should see your face.”
Cece does her best to smile, but all she feels is tightness.
“I was awake when you got in last night. I can’t seem to get more than three hours of uninterrupted sleep anymore. Don’t ever get old.”
Cece has no reason to feel guilty or embarrassed. She’s a grown woman. Yet here she is, feeling like a college freshman caught making the walk of shame. “What’s in the jar?”
“Hard kombucha. Brew it myself.”
“I’ll pass.”
Lorraine stands and rubs her hands on the seat of her overalls. “Suit yourself.”
The women work steadily in silence, the block waking up slowly, screen doors wheezing open, newspapers swept up from driveways, the pleasantly tedious drone of lawn mowers.
Cece allows her mind to drift back to last night, Morgan’s legs between hers, his thick fingers unhooking her bra with shocking nimbleness.
It was strange and exciting all at once, being with someone else after four years with Jonathan, not enough time for things to have grown rote and stale, but somehow, they had.
It wasn’t that things were particularly bad in bed with Jonathan; it had all just become so routine—a task to be checked off their to-do list. Even on the rare occasion when spontaneity struck them, Cece found herself able to predict his every move: the hurried kisses on her neck, his preference for her right breast, his insistence on taking a shower immediately afterward.
If she’s being honest, Jonathan’s militant commitment to postcoital hygiene didn’t bother Cece all that much since it gave her just enough time to lie in bed and finish the job he’d started.
Cece cringes, thinking about her desperate attempts for excitement and unpredictability toward the end, when their relationship was on life support: tugging him toward the bathroom at his company’s holiday party, a suggestive smirk on her face, donning a plaid skirt and knee-high socks on a Friday night and surprising him.
Both instances had failed miserably, Jonathan looking sheepish and uneasy.
He’d given her a peck on the forehead, hands resting lightly on her hips, as if to say, I won’t have my future wife and potential mother of my children demeaning herself.
When they’d first met, Cece had been enamored, seduced even, by his normalcy and uncomplicatedness.
Here was a mature, well-adjusted adult. Here was an unrelenting optimist, a man with a fifteen-year plan, a son who loved his parents unconditionally.
He was an actuary’s dream, an exception to the risk model, an unprecedented piece of data that all but guaranteed compatibility in Cece’s love life.
So taken with him, or perhaps the idea of him, Cece had overlooked a few not-so-insignificant potential red flags: his disinterest in her career, his inability to allow Cece to pay for a single thing whenever they went out, and an unhealthy obsession with having exactly three kids so that he might replicate his own idyllic childhood.
It wasn’t that these characteristics were all that terrible, but they were nonetheless worrisome.
Yet she was afraid of complaining to her friends or Wynonna, her sister.
Jonathan wanted to take care of her and start a family.
Was that so bad? Wasn’t that what Cece was supposed to want?
And if so, why did it make her feel small and insignificant?
It spoke to a deficiency on her part, Cece thought.
What else would explain what happened between them after she was fired?
On that day, Cece caught the train home after clearing out her desk.
Surprisingly, all her personal effects—her framed college diploma, a bronze paperweight in the shape of a swimmer perched on a starting block, a photograph of her and Jonathan atop the Empire State Building with matching I Heart NYC T-shirts back when they liked to pretend to be tourists for the day—fit easily into a single cardboard box.
Surely there was more to show for her eight years at the company, but it seemed not.
She made certain to use the service elevator, for fear of running into anyone on her team.
At the time, Cece and Jonathan were living in Stamford, sharing a two-bedroom apartment in one of those snazzy new high-rises in the South End catering to the young professionals who weren’t quite ready to give up proximity to the city for the suburban dream.
Jonathan’s private equity firm had offices in Greenwich and Manhattan, but on most days, he worked from home, the second bedroom affording him comforting views of the Sound and, beyond, Long Island.
It was only midday, and Cece had lingered in their neighborhood, walking among the monochrome buildings and bustling lunch crowd.
People with places to go, things to do. What would she say to Jonathan?
How would he take her firing? She imagined him rallying to her cause and savaging the higher-ups: They’re threatened by you, Cece!
This would never happen if you were a man!
I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re begging you to come back in a week!
Standing outside her apartment door, the carpeted floor freshly vacuumed, Cece tried to collect herself.
People like her didn’t get fired; people like her weren’t left in the lurch, without a plan—yet here she was.
Cece had always adhered to the belief that if she worked hard, if she committed herself, she would be compensated fairly; she’d be valued.
And if people were laid off, if they were pushed out, it was for a good reason; they weren’t innocent victims of a laissez-faire market; they were incompetent or inflexible—but now, she couldn’t be so sure.
Before Cece could fully compose herself, the door swung open, and Jonathan appeared, earbuds tucked into his ears, a black athleisure top zipped to his stubbled chin. All the words she’d planned were of no use, and she crumpled into his arms, tears welling from a source she never knew existed.
Cold ice water pressed into her shaking hands, a seat cleared on their downy sectional, tissues retrieved from the bedroom, Jonathan patted her knee and asked what was wrong, what had happened?
His eyes were somber, his voice low and steady.
Cece felt something like comfort then, reassurance that at least she had Jonathan, someone who understood.
It was one of the qualities she admired most about him: the ability to stay calm and collected even in the worst situations.
There was the flight to Milan when their plane got hit with extreme turbulence.
As the oxygen masks tumbled from above, he’d helped untangle Cece’s and secured it before putting on his own.
Wasn’t that the thing they told you in the safety videos never to do?
As luggage tumbled from overheads and prayers swept through the cabin, he held Cece’s hand, just tight enough to reassure her but not raise alarm.
Then there was the time her dad burned the turkey at Thanksgiving, and while her family devolved into recriminations and excuses, Jonathan ran out to the closest Boston Market and returned triumphantly with a rotisserie bird, endearing himself forever to Cece’s parents.
That was him—always looking for the practical solution while everyone else was panicking.
After Cece had blown her nose and dried her eyes, she told Jonathan she’d been fired. She explained what the executives had said about cost cutting and the nature of mergers. She was at a loss. She didn’t understand how this could happen; she didn’t know where to go from here.
Jonathan did a strange thing then, relief flooding his features, shoulders relaxing, hand pushing through his brown hair—he smiled. “You had me scared there for a minute, Cece. I thought something truly awful had happened.”
“Something awful has happened.”
“Of course, but you’ll find a new gig. There’s always demand for actuaries.”
Cece fiddled with her engagement ring. She still hadn’t gotten used to wearing it, often finding herself surprised by its shiny existence. “That isn’t the point. I know I can find a new job.”
Jonathan looked as if he wanted to say something, but he kept his mouth closed and buried his hands deep into the pockets of his joggers. He’d offered his solutions. What else did she want?
“They had no cause. I worked there for eight years.”