Chapter 18 Andrew #2
“It was a little more complicated than that,” she says.
Her shoulders slump, searching through the right words to tell me her story.
“I convinced him to move to California after we were in Phoenix for so long. We stayed there because of his work and to be close to his family, but I wanted to be close to my own family. And Teeny was here too. For a while, I thought it was just a phase because he was settling into his work and getting used to the change. I thought we’d get through it, I just needed to be patient, and he’d go back to being my Frankie.
And then he didn’t. I realized we wanted different things.
I wanted to have a family, while he wanted to live this lavish life filled with expensive cars and designer clothes.
Kids weren’t part of that plan. It was my fault. ”
“How?” I ask with a furrowed brow.
“When we got engaged, we decided that we didn’t want kids,” she explains.
“We just felt kids weren’t for us, and we were happy with our freedom.
And then I got this itch. He was working a lot, and I got a case of baby fever.
My sister was talking about having kids, I saw Teeny with Sadie, and I couldn’t help but wonder if I was missing out on something. ”
“He didn’t?”
“No,” she tells me with an added punch of certitude. “And after I brought it up, he started treating me differently. Going days without talking to me, and when he did, it was to rub in my face that I was backing out on our deal.”
“What deal? Your marriage?”
“Wanting kids,” she answers. “In the end, I just couldn’t take it anymore. I hated being treated like an unwanted guest in my own home. Always walking around on eggshells, worried he’d lash out his anger at me. So I asked for a divorce.”
“Wow.”
She nods. “If you ask him now what happened, he’d probably blame it all on me. And I guess, he’d probably be right.”
“That doesn’t seem fair.”
“Is it fair that I changed my mind after we already discussed it?”
“Grace, all you asked for was a future,” I argue. “You were still his wife. You exchanged vows. I think that overshadows any promise like kids.”
“So you think he should’ve just had a bunch of kids he didn’t even want?”
“Who says he wouldn’t want them once they’re born?”
“And who says he would want them?” she rebuts. “Would it be better that he resents me?”
“I mean, no, but…”
“I wouldn’t have won either way,” she confesses, waving the white flag she already flung at her ex-husband. “I already lost the second he decided it was all an excuse to treat me like an enemy instead of a partner.”
It’s like she’s had this discussion a thousand times.
She has a comeback for every scenario, and they’re all good, viable responses.
Ones I can’t argue with. As much as I think she was essentially placed between a rock and a hard place, she has a point.
And that’s the problem with letting someone in.
There’s no win-win situation. At the end of it all, everyone loses.
Hearts are broken, lives are ruined, and souls are crushed.
“So, commitment and marriage and that jazz,” I say. “It’s as scary as it sounds?”
She smiles a downcast smile that looks sadder than a tear-ridden pout. “Even scarier.”
“Then I shouldn’t even try?” I ask. As lighthearted as I try to sound, I can’t help the slight melancholy in my voice.
I don’t even know why. It’s not like marriage or the ostentatious display of soulmates is something I was striving for or even on the horizon for me.
But to learn it may all be some kind of weird propaganda to uphold the sanctity of weddings and vows and all that “’til death do us part” bullshit feels a little heartbreaking.
Like learning your favorite celebrity is actually an asshole in person.
“No,” she argues with true sincerity.
“No?”
“As bad as the divorce was, I don’t regret it,” she continues. “I loved being with someone and knowing I was going to grow old with him. To have someone to come home to, eat dinner with, watch movies with.
“I was never really…alone.”
“And now you are?”
“My ex-husband’s grandpa passed away about two years after we got married,” she says after a pause. It’s an unexpected segue, but I listen. “He was devastated. He’d lost his grandma about eight months before, and he was still grieving her death.
“We got to the grave site, and I saw his grandfather was being buried right next to his wife. They were going to spend their afterlife together. And I thought how grateful I was that I would be buried next to Frankie. I’d have someone to spend my afterlife with.
I wouldn’t be stacked under a bunch of coffins in some single section of the cemetery. I’d be with my other half.”
“But then you got divorced.” I don’t mean to say it out loud, don’t mean to spotlight what she views as a flaw or vice of her character.
Her plans didn’t pan out the way she thought, and it changed more than her marital status.
It changed her opinion of herself into some spinster destined for solitude.
“But then I got divorced,” she repeats. “So, I guess it’s either let my mom continue to set me up on these blind dates, or, you know, check out the single side of the cemetery for future prospects.”
I laugh a soft, morose chuckle which Grace mirrors, and then she starts picking at the skin lining her thumbnail. “I don’t know,” she murmurs. “I’m starting to wonder if maybe it’s me…”
Her voice trails at the same time she ducks her head. Whether in shame or because the conversation took a turn she wasn’t expecting, I’m not sure. And it doesn’t really matter. But when her gaze remains solemn with it zoned in on her lap, I no longer fight the urge to comfort her.
She notices me when I slide in next to her. She looks a little surprised—a little confused—but when I gently place my hand on top of hers, she doesn’t pull away.
“There’s nothing wrong with you, Grace.”
She scoffs. Her weak protest falls short when her lips turn wobbly. “I wish it was that easy,” she whispers. “Someone telling me there’s nothing wrong with me and just accepting it and believing it. But thank you.”
I realize then that, while she’s clearly made it out of her divorce alive, the aftereffects of it have left her broken. She really believes it was her doing. She blames her hopes and dreams for the downfall of her marriage. And it’s completely unfair.
I don’t try to argue with her. Debating and discussing something she so strongly holds on to, no matter how incorrect she is, isn’t what she needs right now.
What she needs in this bubble of heartache and regret is for me to be her friend.
What we’ve already established we are. But with her small hand hidden under mine, I wish I could do more.
I wish I could show her all the ways she’s completely enough.
Sit her down for an hour-long PowerPoint presentation with a laser pointer in my hand, running down a long bullet list of things that make her the perfect partner.
No, not just a perfect partner, but a perfect person.
Someone who’s kind and funny and considerate.
Someone who sits through a two-hour-long movie she has zero interest in just because she wants to know about the things I love.
Someone who guards her friendship with my sister because she’s basically family at this point.
“You’re welcome,” I tell her. My head tilts a little toward her, but her temple sitting mere millimeters away from my ear doesn’t meet.
I hover over her, letting myself imagine what it would feel like to hold her.
And before we know it, our coffee is refilled once again.
We ignore the fact that what we have is starting to blur.
Calling her a friend feels inaccurate. To the point I feel we need to create a brand new word to describe our natural affinity for each other.
Something that aligns more closely to words like want and need and adore.
“Teeny said Sadie didn’t break anything,” she informs me, looking at the new message on her phone. “They’re getting ready to be discharged.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah.”
She’d just finished telling me about her trip to Japan last year, her mouth nearly overflowing with saliva as she talked about all the food.
While the interruption from Teeny comes with good news, I know what’s next.
It’s a reminder. A little alarm chirping in the form of a text.
Time’s up. And just as predicted, Grace sets her phone down and searches the restaurant, looking to flag down our server.
I can see how her eyes have already changed, returning back to a place where our friendship will always have a curtain pulled in front of it.
We settle the check—a swift battle that I win with wits and speed—and walk out in silence. I press my hand to her lower back, an impulse I don’t mean to act on but can’t help.
“Thanks for breakfast. And the company. And conversation.” We’re standing in front of her car, each holding a Styrofoam box of leftovers. It’s finally time to say goodbye, and I don’t want to.
“Yeah, well if you ever want a…friend, you know who to call.”
“Yeah,” she says softly.
I watch as she gets in her car and drives off, leaving behind a small divot in my chest. It’s barely noticeable now, but I can imagine how much bigger it will get with every goodbye.