chapter 3 #2
Why didn’t he just box it up and send it to her? Didn’t he have her parents’ address?
He’d had it at one time. Maybe he’d deleted it. It had never really meant anything to him.
She almost told him to ship her the mail, but he hadn’t mentioned the clothes she’d left behind—or asked when she planned
to collect the rest of her belongings. That gave her enough hope that she couldn’t deny herself the opportunity to have another
conversation with him. Even if they never got back together, maybe they could gain some closure which would make the next
few months easier. Part of the hurt she felt came from the fact that he hadn’t explained why he was throwing her away, why
he’d changed his mind about them. Certainly, he could do that much.
I’m happy to come get it. I’ll also put in a forwarding address. When would you like me to drop by?
If he said he’d just set it outside or that she knew the code to the house so she could get in while he was gone, she’d tell
him to mail it, she told herself. But he didn’t.
What’s wrong with today? You busy?
She should be writing, could’ve used that excuse. But she didn’t.
Today’s fine. I’ll be there in an hour.
He gave her a thumbs-up, and she closed her laptop.
“What is it?” her mother asked.
“Cliff wants me to pick up my mail.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re going over there?” She didn’t sound excited by the idea.
“Just to get my mail,” Charlotte reiterated, but what she was really after was answers.
“Would you like me to go with you?”
“No, I’m afraid that’ll make it too hard for us to talk.”
“What about looking for apartments?”
“We’ll do it after we have lunch with Dad.”
Her mother finished wiping the counters. “Okay.”
Charlotte thought about Julian as she went to put on her makeup. She doubted he’d think it was a good idea for her to go over
to Cliff’s house. But Cliff’s house still felt like her house—like home. And a small part of her couldn’t help wishing that when she got there, everything she’d been through during the past nine
days would simply dissolve into the past.
Even if it did, however, even if he wanted her back, could her heart ever truly forget how pitiless he’d been when he told
her he wanted out of their marriage? Or that picture of him with Marija Vidmar?
After ringing the doorbell, Charlotte clasped her hands tightly together. She’d used her key card to open the gate so she
could drive onto the estate. Fortunately, Cliff hadn’t changed that, probably hadn’t even thought about it. But she felt so
estranged from him that she wasn’t comfortable just walking into the house any longer—although ringing the doorbell at the
home she’d shared with him for more than three years felt odd, too.
While waiting for him to answer, she imagined him reclining on the couch, a remote in one hand, as he watched the Golf Channel.
When she lived here, she’d always been the one to get the door. He hadn’t cared enough to bother interrupting whatever he
was doing.
She knocked in case he hadn’t heard the bell, and he finally opened the door looking like he’d just rolled out of bed.
He was wearing a pair of basketball shorts with no shirt or shoes.
Clearly, he’d been lounging around, probably watching TV as she’d imagined.
They’d had so much fun together on days like this—going out to get coffee and a doughnut or bagel, spending time barbecuing in their backyard, entertaining his family or friends.
Seeing him so relaxed and accessible again made her miss him. But she didn’t move in for the hug she craved. “Looks like you
have a new tattoo.” She pointed at his right shoulder. She knew every inch of his body, would’ve noticed it no matter what,
but the plastic wrap that protected it from getting infected made the new ink obvious. “You went for an alien, after all,
huh?” She tried to keep the censure from her voice. He’d been talking for a while about getting a Predator tattoo—from the old Arnold Schwarzenegger movie of the same name—but she’d always managed to discourage him with the question
“Are you sure you want that on your body for the rest of your life?”
Now that he was unfettered, however, he’d apparently decided to disregard her advice.
“Yeah. And I like it,” he said defensively.
She nodded. “That’s . . . good.”
His eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to make me feel bad?”
She blinked innocently. “No!” She just thought it looked ridiculous—exactly as she’d imagined it would when he first started
talking about it—and was having a hard time pretending otherwise. She kept seeing it through Julian’s eyes, knew how hard
he’d laugh and felt her own mouth begin to twitch. She could hear her friend’s voice: Do you really want to be with a dude who has a Predator tattoo?
“Then why do you look like you’re about to crack up?” Cliff demanded.
Because she was about to crack up. Covering her mouth to try to stop herself, she said through her fingers, “I don’t know what you mean.
I’m just . . . smiling,” but busted up right in the middle of that statement.
It was terrible timing—not the smartest thing she could’ve done when hoping to have a heart-to-heart with the man she loved.
But the harder she tried to stop, the funnier his tattoo seemed.
He looked stunned. Not many people laughed at him—at least not to his face—and that it was her, his wife, who’d always done all she could to protect his ego, had to be a shock. “That’s it. I’m not even giving you your mail,” he
said and slammed the door in her face.
The wham startled her enough to bring her out of it. Sobering, she wiped her eyes. What was wrong with her? She’d never get him back
by making fun of him.
But did she really want him back? Wasn’t it already too late, anyway?
She couldn’t answer that question; her emotions were all over the place.
She turned to leave, but then she remembered his bewildered expression when she didn’t like his tattoo and gathered the nerve
to open the door. She could’ve been kinder . . .
“Cliff?” she said, poking her head into the entry. Fortunately, he hadn’t locked it. Although she had her key, it would’ve
been harder to go that far.
He stood about ten feet away, wearing a sullen expression and holding a beer in one hand. She thought he might tell her to
get out. But he didn’t. He seemed okay with the intrusion, so she let herself in and closed the door behind her. “I’m sorry.”
“You don’t seem sorry,” he said.
She could see why. Just talking about it was tempting her to start laughing again. What was wrong with her?
She lowered her eyes, hoping that would help her maintain control. “Can I . . . can I go ahead and get my mail?”
He walked into the kitchen and returned with a bag full of what appeared to be mainly adverts.
“Isn’t most of this for you?” she asked as she reached in and flipped through it.
He shrugged. “You were always the one who dealt with it.”
That essentially released it to her, so there couldn’t be anything important for him in there—or he was relying on her to
get it back to him if there was. “Okay,” she said and turned to go.
“Is that all you came for?” he asked petulantly.
Hope flared within her as she faced him again. “Isn’t that why you messaged me? Because you wanted me to pick it up?”
“I also wanted to see what the hell’s going on with you.”
Bewildered, she shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“That dude you were with last night. You’re already seeing someone else?”
The irony—and the fact that he didn’t recognize the irony or care about it even if he did—flabbergasted her. He could see someone else, but she couldn’t? That was so egocentric; it made her want to applaud Julian for insisting they go
out last night. “I was just with a . . . a friend,” she stammered. If he’d ever shown any interest in the people she cared about, she would’ve given him Julian’s name, but there was no point, since he wouldn’t recognize
it.
“Yeah, that’s what it looked like!” he said sarcastically. “Almost everyone I know has been blowing up my phone, telling me
my wife’s already fucking another dude.”
He’d always used profanity; she’d grown used to it. But today the harshness of his language grated on her. He could’ve shown
her a little more respect. “I’m confused,” she said. “You kicked me out. You said you wanted a divorce, remember? And you’re seeing someone else yourself—a model.”
“There’s nothing going on with Marija. We just . . . went out one night.”
“Went out,” she repeated. “But . . . that’s exactly what I did.”
“Look, a split is going to be hard enough. Just . . . don’t embarrass me, okay?”
“You mean by moving on with my life?”
“I mean . . . can’t you lie low for a while? Give it some time, for God’s sake, before you’re all over the next guy?”
Nothing he was saying made sense. He could be seen with other women, but she couldn’t be seen with other men? “Are you listening
to yourself?” she asked.
He seemed frustrated—teetering on anger. “Work with me here, Char. Our breakup isn’t like other breakups. You should know
that.”
“Because you’re special?”
“Yes, if you want to put it that way! Fame changes everything. You knew that before we were ever married. I’m under a microscope
all the time.”
“You don’t care how our divorce affects me.”
“Of course I do! It’s just that you can slink off into anonymity. I don’t have that luxury.”
Neither would he want it. He was addicted to the upside of fame—the attention, praise and money. But he didn’t think he should
have to tolerate any of the negatives, and he expected her to mitigate what she could, even though he was cutting her out
of his life. In other words, he expected her to continue to protect him as she always had—to have empathy for his situation
when he had none for hers.
“I’m just going to live my life the best way I can,” she said. “That’s it. It won’t have anything to do with you, so don’t
take it personally.”
“What does that mean?” he demanded.
“It means I’ll continue seeing Julian if I want to.”
His shoulders drooped. “You like him?”
She lifted her chin. “I do.”
He gave her a skeptical look. “What’s so great about him?”
“My feelings matter to him, for one. With you . . . I don’t even know what I did that made you want out of our marriage.”
He scratched his neck. “I’ve been trying to figure that out myself. I think it was just that you’re . . . I don’t know—too
nice.”
“Too nice?” she repeated, dumbfounded. “Are you saying I’m boring?”
“Not boring. Too accommodating, I guess,” he said with a wince.
“Oh, I see. How could you possibly put up with someone who was too accommodating? God, that must’ve been terrible! I mean . . .
the pain! The suffering!”
“Okay! I’m sorry!” he snapped.
She hefted the mail to her other arm. “No problem. Since it’s easier not to be nice and accommodating, I should be able to fix that, right?”
He didn’t seem to know how to respond. “I guess.” He peered more closely at her. “Are you saying you want to try to save our
marriage?”
“No, I’m not saying that,” she said. “I’ll be looking for someone else—someone who doesn’t have a stupid Predator tattoo.” Whirling around, she took the mail with her as she stalked out.
“What the hell, Charlotte? This is a cool tattoo, just like I thought it would be. Anyway, you’re acting like . . . I don’t
even know you right now.” He followed her as far as the front stoop as she hurried to her car. “You’re going to be sorry!”
he yelled, but for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out what she had to be sorry for. She’d given him and their marriage
her very best. He was the one who’d torn it to shreds—because she was too nice!
“Let him get with someone who isn’t nice,” she muttered. “See if he likes that any better.”