Cherry Baby

Chapter 16

Cherry didn’t know how to get ready for seeing her not-quite husband (and not-quite ex-husband) for the first time in almost a year.

Was she supposed to clean the house? Was she supposed to look good? As she liked to say to her team at work, “What’s our key message here? What’s the takeaway?”

Cherry didn’t have a key message for Tom. Did she want to remind him that he used to love her? Or reinforce his decision to

leave?

Her sisters would want her to strike fear in his heart. They wanted Cherry to go hard after Tom’s new money and future earnings.

That seemed unnecessary. Cherry had talked to a divorce lawyer; she would almost certainly get half the publishing money.

(The entire Thursday series had been on the bestseller list for two years.) And she’d get half the movie money, at least for the first movie.

The lawyer had been shocked that Tom wasn’t moving faster toward divorce, to cut off Cherry’s claim on his income.

Cherry had laughed. Tom had never rushed a decision in his life.

It was Cherry who’d decided they should get married. Cherry who’d urged Tom to say yes to the graphic novel editor who wanted

to publish Thursday. Cherry who told Tom to go to Hollywood and see what came of it.

And Cherry who told him not to come home.

Tom would be here any minute . . .

What did Cherry want him to feel when he looked at her?

Guilty.

That wasn’t a very noble goal, but it was true.

She ended up in jeans and a T-shirt and an oversized pear-colored cardigan that hung around her hips.

She’d had Stevie groomed that morning. (Cherry definitely wanted Tom to think that Stevie was living her best life.) She vacuumed while she waited for him. Her pulse was racing. She thought about calling him and

saying that today wouldn’t work after all. That no day would work. That she’d pack up his things and ship them to California.

That she’d pack up the entire house and ship it to him. Money, as her therapist said, was no longer a limiting factor.

Cherry herself was the limiting factor. She didn’t have the heart for this.

Tom used the doorbell when he got there. (Because he doesn’t live here, Cherry told herself. She felt like throwing up.)

Stevie was already at the door, barking. Cherry held her collar to keep her from squeezing through the open door. The dog

jumped up onto Tom before he could even walk in.

Cherry stepped back. Let them both do whatever.

Stevie was going wild—did she recognize Tom? He squatted down to greet her, and she was all over him. He was grinning and petting her roughly.

“Stevie Nicks, what a good girl. Did you miss me? I missed you, too. What a good girl.”

Tom was wearing ratty old green corduroys and a black hoodie. (He was going to be covered in white fur.) His hair was longer

than Cherry had ever seen it.

Tom had curly blond hair. Truly blond, even as an adult. His hair was so light that you almost couldn’t see the color when

it was short—and he’d always kept it short because he didn’t like dealing with the curls.

But it was grown out now, just past his ears. Ash-blond curls as thick as Cherry’s thumb. He must be using some product to

smooth them out.

It was a knife to Cherry’s heart that Tom had waited to leave her to grow out his hair. (Probably the first of many knives headed her way that afternoon. She’d have to make room in her chest for them.)

Tom stood up, still petting Stevie. He looked at Cherry. Less excited, less at ease. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Cherry said.

Tom wasn’t quite six feet tall, but he was big, so he seemed taller. He’d played football in high school, but he hadn’t been

good at anything but standing there and letting people plow into him. At least that’s what he’d told her.

Tom had always been heavier than he wanted to be—but he seemed to have lost weight. California, Cherry figured. And no more

desk job. And money to spend on protein boxes and sea moss smoothies. (Cherry had also lost weight in the last year, but it

was purely from misery and self-neglect.)

His face was changed . . . Still handsome. Still thick-boned and rugged. Still just a little bit strange—with his wide-bridged

nose and narrow eyes, and high, wide cheekbones that pushed out into his temples. But Cherry had missed a whole year of wear.

“She’s gotten so big,” Tom said, rubbing Stevie’s flank.

“A hundred and thirty-eight pounds at her last visit. Dr. Lewis thinks she’s finally done growing.”

Tom scratched Stevie’s ears with both hands. “What a beauty. What a good girl.”

“Did you just get in?” Cherry asked.

“A couple days ago.” He was still scratching Stevie’s ears.

“Well . . .” Cherry looked around them. “I didn’t know where you’d want to start . . .”

“Oh.” Tom looked up again. He was frowning. “Where do you want me to start?”

“Did you bring boxes?”

“They’re in the car.”

“I guess, start with the boxes,” she said.

He nodded. “Right.”

Cherry took hold of Stevie’s collar again so that Tom could get out the door. When he went outside, she put Stevie in the

kennel—ostensibly to keep her out of the way, but mostly because watching Tom shower the dog with affection was making Cherry

want to howl like a wounded banshee.

Tom thumped back up the porch steps and slowly opened the door. He was carrying a flat pack of brand-new boxes.

They both stood there in the foyer, not looking at each other.

“I could start with my clothes—” Tom said.

Cherry cut him off. “No.” She didn’t want him in the bedroom.

Maybe he guessed that, because he said, “I could leave you with some boxes for my clothes.”

“I’m not packing your clothes, Tom.”

He stared at the floor.

“Just start down here,” Cherry said.

“Okay.”

She looked up at him, her composure cracking. “I know you said we should both be here, but I think I’ll just . . . get out

of your way for a while.” She walked past him to pick up her purse. “Let you get the lay of the land.”

“Okay,” he repeated.

“Just start packing,” Cherry said. “And if we need to talk about something, I’ll be back.”

She held her tears until she got out the door, but it was a near thing.

Cherry went to the grocery store. She walked up and down the aisles for an hour, pushing an empty cart. She thought about

Tom, back at the house for the first time in a year. Tom in their house. Opening their cabinets and sitting on their couch. Petting their dog.

She could tell herself that none of it was Tom’s anymore—but it wasn’t Cherry’s, either.

All of it was theirs together. When Tom left for California, he’d taken the whole point of the house with him—that it was something for them to share. Cherry lived there now like a squatter. Like one more thing Tom hadn’t needed and left behind.

She remembered the day they’d put in a bid for the house. How happy they’d been when they got the call from the Realtor. They

could just barely afford the place, and it wasn’t in the best neighborhood—but it was near a good neighborhood. And it had three bedrooms. They wanted three bedrooms. For children they weren’t quite ready to seriously

discuss.

The apartment they’d been living in had always felt temporary. It had been Cherry’s apartment first, and they weren’t allowed

to paint or plant anything. They couldn’t even take down the blinds.

But this house would be theirs.

They planted fruit trees that first spring. And lilac bushes and perennials. Things that wouldn’t bloom for years. Things

they could watch grow.

When Tom left for California, Cherry had become the house’s keeper. And the dog’s keeper. The person who had to pick the fruit

and weed the garden and change the filters in the new furnace. The person who opened all the bills.

Tom hadn’t just left her—he’d left her with their broken life, with all their abandoned plans and dead projects. He’d left her in their broken life. The last resident in a ghost town.

Cherry did another full circuit of the grocery store and bought dog food. (She always needed dog food.) And cream, so she

could offer Tom coffee. And packaged salad and a rotisserie chicken, so she’d have something to eat when he left.

When she got back to the house, Tom was sitting at the dining room table. He stood up, abruptly, when she walked in the door.

Stevie jumped up, too. She’d been sitting at his feet.

Tom didn’t look good. He was pale, and his eyes had that hollowed-out look they’d had for so much of the year before he left.

Cherry used to go to him when he looked like this. She’d take his hand, touch his cheek. “You okay?”

She didn’t go to him now—but she still felt pity for him. She made room in her hard heart for the fact that this was the first time back for Tom, too.

“Do you need help with the groceries?” he asked.

“This is all there is.” Cherry set down the dog food. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

“Um . . .” Tom’s forehead wrinkled. “Would it be okay if I came back tomorrow?”

Cherry clenched her jaw. “I have plans tomorrow.”

“Right,” he said. “Maybe Monday night?”

She didn’t want Tom here at night. It was too grim. She needed the sun to help keep her head up. “Never mind,” she said. “Just

come back tomorrow.”

“But if you have plans—”

“They’re movable.”

“Thanks, Cherry. Sorry.”

Cherry shook her head, like he didn’t have to apologize. Tom gave Stevie a few more scratches, and the dog followed him to

the door.

Cherry went into the kitchen. She didn’t want to see him out.

“I’ll text you before I come over,” Tom called.

“Okay,” she said. “Thanks.”

Cherry set the groceries on the island. When the front door closed, she hung forward over the counter. She took a few deep,

intentional breaths, letting a great wave of something wash over her.

What was it . . . Sadness? Loss?

Whatever it was, it hurt.

She sank to the floor and leaned back against the cabinet under the sink, then stayed there, staring at the baseboards.

Stevie came in to investigate—pushing her wet nose into Cherry’s neck and face.

Stevie didn’t like it when Cherry was on the floor. Or bending over. Or even lying on the couch. (She wouldn’t let Cherry do anything resembling yoga.) Her protective instincts kicked in. She’d bark sharply and nose at Cherry’s face. Sometimes she’d rest her teeth around one of Cherry’s wrists.

“I’m fine,” Cherry said now, patting Stevie’s muzzle.

Stevie seemed mostly satisfied that Cherry was all right. She flopped down heavily on the floor next to Cherry and laid a

paw over her leg. This was one of Stevie’s more charming habits—the way she’d rest a leg on you, like someone putting a hand

on your lap. Cherry mindlessly combed her fingers through the fur on Stevie’s neck.

Cherry had always been a furious thinker, the kind of person who could never really turn off. It was sort of incredible how grief could clear her head—how Tom could make Cherry go totally still inside. None of her

gears spinning. None of her neurons firing. The way the sadness settled inside of her like concrete.

Cherry hadn’t told her sisters that Tom was coming over today. They’d make too much of being angry and offering Cherry support.

One of them might have shown up to snub him.

She hadn’t told Stacia for the same reason.

The only person Cherry had told was Russ—because it seemed like the sort of thing you should tell the person you were dating. And also because Russ had asked her if she wanted to get together today.

He’d been very careful when Cherry told him why she couldn’t. They were lying in her bed. Undressed. Sexed. Cherry was draped

over him, and he was playing with her hair.

“I can’t,” she’d said. “I have plans on Saturday.”

Russ toyed with her bangs. “What kind?

“Tom’s coming over to pack up his things.”

“Ohhh,” Russ said. (Just like that, with three hs.) His eyebrows dropped down, concerned. “That sounds awful. Do you want to talk about it?”

“To you?” she said, trying to smile. “Right now? Absolutely not.”

He laughed softly and tugged at her hair. “Okay.”

Russ had never asked for details about Cherry’s divorce. (Probably because he didn’t want to talk about his own.) Cherry had given him the highlights: arguing, long-distance arguing, Rachel.

All Russ had told Cherry about his ex-wife was, “I think she always kind of hated me, and I mistook that for ‘interesting.’ ”

“Is this the first time he’s come back?” Russ asked.

Cherry nodded her head.

“Fuck,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

Her eyes were burning. She closed them.

“It’s going to get easier,” Russ said, running his fingers through her hair. “Not immediately. Immediately, it’s going to

be horrible. But it will just keep getting less horrible, and eventually it will be mostly okay.”

Cherry hummed, dubious.

“I never got any distance from my ex,” he said. “Because of Liam. It was relentless—I’d see her every couple days, and we

were constantly texting each other . . . I wonder if that made it better or worse.”

“It sounds worse.”

“Yeah, but I built up some immunity. And I got to process my anger and guilt. You haven’t had a chance to process anything.”

She lifted her head to look at him. “I’ve processed.”

It was Russ’s turn to look dubious.

“Why are we talking about this?” Cherry asked. She felt rankled. Poked. Naked in a bad way.

Russ had just shaken his head and smiled, already stroking her shoulder and back. Soothing her. “We’re not talking about it.”

Now, sitting on the kitchen floor—not processing, not thinking, and numb around the edges—Cherry heard her phone chime. She

had everyone silenced but work and Russ, and probably still Tom. She took her phone out of her pocket, hoping that it wasn’t

Tom saying he was on his way back.

It was Russ.

“I was torn about whether to check in with you today or give you some space. I decided to check in. I hope you’re doing all

right.”

Cherry sat up a little to type. “I’m fine. He’s gone already.”

“That was fast.”

“We didn’t get started. I think he chickened out.”

Russ sent a medium-sad emoji. “That sucks. I’m sorry.” Then he sent, “How are you, really?”

“On the floor, nearly immobile.”

“There’s the truth—I knew I’d find it.”

“You got me,” she sent. “I can only lie once.”

“Do you want some company? Or is today a floor day?”

Cherry smiled. She realized that she’d been petting Stevie for so long, there were tracks in the dog’s white fur.

Cherry had spent too many days like this. On the floor. On the couch. Sitting on the front steps some nights after work when

she couldn’t bear to go in.

“I’ll take company,” she typed. “But not here.”

“Liam’s at a birthday party, and I’m free until 8. Come see me.”