Chapter 63
— Chapter 63 —
We have a little over four months. We have Step’s plan and some of the gear. We have never been backpacking.
“I’m just going to get arrested, right?” I ask Bee when she comes into the bar for Sunday dinner. She stops in for meals at least twice a week now, and in snippets between customers, we talk about anything and everything. Even though we had so much time when we weren’t friends, she still understands me better than anyone else. She treats me like the earnest, careful nine-year-old I used to be—as if that girl is a fact—and it connects me to the core of myself.
“I guess you could get arrested,” Bee says. “If Steena actually notices her daughter isn’t in Somers anymore. You might be in the wilds of Vermont by then. Do they even arrest people in Vermont?”
“Aubrey will go by herself if I don’t go with her. I’m sure of it.”
“I’m sure of it too.” Bee takes a bite of her burnt butter funghi e piselli over handmade ancient grain strozzapreti and groans. “This is really good. What is it?”
“I have no idea.”
She holds her hand over her full mouth. “Anyway, it’s not hopeless. I’m meeting with Hans tomorrow.”
“Hans?”
“Yeah. I called him this morning. I’d been thinking once Aubrey turned sixteen, we could apply for emancipation. But the hearing process might take too long to work for your trip. And Hans has an idea.” Bee gets distracted by something at the other end of the bar. “Oh shit.”
“What?”
“Eddie.”
I look over and he’s hanging his jacket on the coat rack.
She wipes her face and drops her napkin on the bar.
“Bee,” I say. “Don’t.” But she’s already on her way.
She taps him on the shoulder, and I hear her say “Hey, Ed! Talk to you for a sec?” brightly, like she’s happy to see him. She takes his jacket with her when they step outside.
I have to run to the kitchen to grab an order of fries, and when I come back, Bee is at her seat eating her pasta like nothing happened, and Eddie is nowhere to be found.
“What did you do?” I ask.
She nods while she chews, clearing her mouth so she can talk. “He’s giving you space.”
After closing, I have to get through the end of week tasks, which is the bum luck of a Sunday shift. I dump a fistful of quarters in the jukebox and pick all the songs I’d never choose if anyone was around to judge me. I empty the ice bin, dump the garnish tray, run all the bar mats through the dishwasher.
The bell on the door rings while I’m listening to Amy Grant sing Baby, Baby and restocking napkins.
“We’re closed,” I call without looking up, hoping whoever it is will go away and leave me to my guilty pleasures.
“Hey, Freya. Can we talk?”
When I turn around, Lexi Doyle-Davis is standing across the bar, twisting her purse strap in her hand. She’s just as pretty as she used to be, still has perfect dancer’s posture. Her honey-colored hair is twisted in a complicated braid over her shoulder, and the light over the bar makes her fuzzy white sweater glow at the edges of her.
One time in second grade, when I realized my mom forgot to pack my lunch, sending me to school with wilted celery sticks and yesterday’s apple core, Lexi noticed me panicking. She gave me half her cream cheese and jelly sandwich without saying a word, smiling while I ate it, like it made her happy to share. I would never have slept with Eddie if I’d known they were still together. And now I’m realizing that even if they weren’t, it was still fucked up. Lexi and I were never close friends, but we grew up together. Her husband should have been off-limits forever.
“Oh god, Lex. I’m sorry. I didn’t—” I catch myself before I let on that Eddie said they’d broken up. If it could fix things, maybe I should tell her he was drunk and I threw myself at him.
“Eddie and I really are separated. He didn’t lie to you. I’m the one who’s been lying,” she says. “I wanted the divorce wrapped up before the rumor mill started, so people would know we got through it without turning on each other. I didn’t want to hear ‘Oh, well, you think you’re keeping it friendly, but wait until…’ Because we are keeping it friendly. So friendly that he’s been pretending we’re still married because I’m being a wimp.” Lexi cries—a quick sputter of sobs that seems to surprise her as much as it surprises me. “I don’t think I can handle being the bad guy in front of the whole town.”
“How could you ever be the bad guy?” I pass her some bar napkins, then fill a glass with ice and ginger ale and walk around the bar to give it to her. “Here.”
“Thanks. I’m sorry.” She wipes her face, smudging her mascara. I’m tempted to reach over and fix it for her, but I know it would be weird.
“Don’t be sorry,” I say.
“This is ridiculous!” Lexi twists the damp napkin and coils it around her finger. “I’m basically here begging you not to dump my husband and now I’m crying all over you.”
“It’s really okay.”
She sips the ginger ale, tapping her shiny pink nails against the glass like she’s trying to calm herself. “I’m shit for leaving him.”
“No,” I say automatically, even though I don’t know why she left.
“I just want things I can’t—he can’t—maybe I shouldn’t tell you any of this—”
“It’s fine,” I say, even though I’m not sure I should know.
“Eddie and I got married when we were twenty-four. After 9/11, the whole department was down at Ground Zero working in the rubble for weeks, and I was so scared the whole time that he’d get hurt. I wanted to grab on and not let go. We never talked about what we wanted or what our life would look like. We just got married and I—” She gets overwhelmed, takes a moment to collect herself. “I don’t regret it. I love him. But I want kids. He’s not sure if he does. And I’m thirty, and I have PCOS, and I don’t have time to wait for him to figure it out. Eddie needs to take care of his mom—that could be years. And I’m still scared all the time.”
“Because of his job?”
She nods. “He had a close call last year. They had an accident in the ambulance. And I know accidents can happen to anyone…” She sighs. It feels like she’s going through an old argument in her head. “You hear about people getting divorced and they hate each other, but we’re just at an impasse. I want to be like my mom and dad and take road trips and go for walks after dinner and snuggle on the couch while we watch movies with our kids.” Lexi untwists her napkin and blows her nose. “I kept thinking I could love him enough to make up the difference. Eddie finally told me I shouldn’t have to give up the life I want for him.”
She tucks loose hair behind her ear the same way she always did, holding the strands for a moment, hand resting on her cheek. “It wasn’t fair to make him keep it a secret. I’m just scared. He’s a literal hero and I’m like, ‘That’s not enough for me.’ Everyone’ll think I’m a monster.”
“I won’t,” I say.
She looks at me and smiles. “Thank you. So, will you please date my husband?” Her laugh sounds the same as it did when we were kids. Broad and open and generous. “He really likes you.” She pokes at the ice in her ginger ale with the straw. “I’m sorry this is so weird.”
“It’s okay. It’s really nice of you to come talk to me. Eddie tried to tell me.”
Lexi laughs again. “I wouldn’t believe a guy saying that either! But this time it’s true.”
Shray stayed with Aubrey while I was at work. I called him a bunch of times to check in, but he didn’t pick up. Bee gave me her old phone when she got a new one, so I can get texts now. Every time I called, Shray would send me an AOK , so I know they are basically fine. But I’m still nervous as I drive up to the house. I don’t know how a kid is supposed to recover from everything Aubrey has gone through.
When I get out of the car, I hear music coming from the basement.
They’re in the studio, blasting my old Bon Jovi cassette. There are Christmas lights strung from the rafters. Aubrey’s drop cloths cover the floor and my workbench and their art projects. They’re still in their party clothes, makeup smeared on their faces, and they are completely covered in paint splatters. Aubrey has my Instamatic in one hand and a brush loaded with neon green paint in the other. She flings the paint at Shray, snapping the picture as it splashes across his cheek.
“Oh! That was perfect!” she says.
Shray laughs. “It’s so hard not to wipe it away! But I don’t want to ruin the splatter! Let’s do orange next.”
“Aunt Frey! Paint with us,” she calls when she sees me on the stairs.
“Okay, but not in my work clothes.”
I change into my old red prom dress and join them. We shout along to Livin’ on a Prayer and fling paint at each other and use up the rest of the flash cubes.