Chapter 8
Walking into the hotel restaurant feels like walking onto an entirely different planet than the one I was on last night when I ate here with Charlie. Last night I was relaxed and loose and remarkably myself. Tonight, despite the vodka shot and the bathroom pep talk, I’m sweating with clammy hands. The heels I’m wearing might be just a smidge too high, because I’m not able to stop my knees from shaking, even as I totter towards the table.
Because I’m late, everyone has already been seated and served drinks. They are at a round table near the center of the dining room. The same white candles dance, giving the same warm ambience as last night, and the open door to the patio lets in the pleasant evening air, but the adrenaline pumping through my body means I’m freezing cold in my spaghetti-strap silk camisole and cigarette pants. I clutch my bag in a tight fist as I approach.
My mom sees me first. “There she is!” she says. “Hi, Buttercup!”
The table turns to look at me, all their heads swiveling in unison as I approach, like an interview panel seeing a new candidate for the first time.
Rob’s eyes skim up the length of my body, and Michael looks awkward as he rises to greet me. Gabby is holding Rob’s hand on the white tablecloth, a red drink in a martini glass in front of her. I see the knot of Rob’s throat move up and down as he swallows. I meet his blue eyes, and they dart away.
I plaster a smile onto my face, “Hi, Mom!” I say as she reaches for me, and I give her a hug. My mom is wearing all white again. Her elegant blouse is tucked into a pencil skirt, and her ears twinkle with sapphires.
“Hi Michael… everyone.” I bob my head up and down like a doll as I greet the table. And then I sit.
I’m placed between Rob and my mom, with Michael and Gabby on either side of them. The words fifth wheel swim through my head as I look at them all with my rictus smile. This is bordering on ridiculous. Has surpassed ridiculous, actually. We are into absurdist territory. Mockery. Farce.
“Well.” My mom clasps her hands in front of her, and her princess-cut engagement ring sparkles at me. Mine was round-cut. “Now that we’re all here, I just want to say it is just so good to have all of us together, isn’t it?”
The discomfort around the table might as well be a sixth person seated right there with us, leaning over and slurping soup with its elbows planted on the table.
“It is, Diane. It’s so nice.” Michael rubs her back supportively.
“You have always been like a son to me, Rob, and I am just so thrilled that you’re here,” Mom says, “And, Gabby, it’s so great to finally meet you.”
“I’m thrilled too, Diane.” Gabby gives her a charming smile that I immediately dislike. “Rob just adores you. I’m so glad to be a part of all of this.”
“Well, I adore Rob right back,” my mom says to Gabby, and then winks at Rob.
“I think it’s safe to say we all adore Rob.” Michael chuckles uncomfortably.
Rob lifts his glass and takes a large gulp in response. It occurs to me now that the only word I’ve heard Rob speak thus far is the “Oh” he uttered when he ran into me in the lobby this afternoon. And now he’s seated next to me, with his new girlfriend on the other side, thus far refusing to make eye contact or acknowledge me.
He’s drinking a martini, dirty. I know this without even looking. Dirty martinis are what he drinks when he needs something strong and the occasion is formal. Coronas when out with friends, red wine when cooking dinner at home, and when he’s hiking he fills a CamelBak with water and hydration powder and brings a can of Coors along for when he reaches the top. I rarely hiked with Rob, but when he forced me out on the trail, he always packed one for me too.
My mom has her usual glass of white wine in front of her, and Michael is drinking what looks like a Manhattan. A server comes to take my order, a lovely middle-aged woman who seems to have already picked up on the tension tonight, and so I have my gin and tonic in front of me in a matter of moments.
“So how was everyone’s flight in?” Mom asks, her eyes bright and lively.
“Good,” I say as I take a much-needed drink.
“It was terrific, Diane,” Gabby chirps.
A little bubble of resentment slides up my throat. Gabby really is perfect. She’s wearing an elegant black cocktail dress that I haven’t been able to scrutinize properly because she’s sitting down, but I just know it looks amazing on her. The pearls at her throat look real, and she has a dainty little cocktail ring on her right ring finger that seems to say, “Wouldn’t a ring on her left hand look great too?”
I’m now regretting not wearing a dress. I wanted to keep it cool, like I’m here but I don’t need to be here, and a dress felt like it would be a display of too much effort. But now, in this moment, all I can think is that Gabby is the daughter my mother wished she had. Tall and swan-like, expensively dressed, and charming enough that if any real conversation is going to come out of this dinner, it’s going to be coming from her.
Gabby reaches across the back of Rob’s chair and rubs between his shoulder blades. I pull my lips between my teeth and clench the napkin in my lap.
“The airport wasn’t too crazy?” Michael asks. “We knew having the wedding over Labor Day weekend might put some pressure on the out-of-towners, but we couldn’t help ourselves. It just seemed like a great excuse to stretch the party.”
My mom beams at him.
“It wasn’t too bad,” Rob says. It’s good to know that his vocal cords are in full working order, at least.
I consider telling the story about giving the car in front of me the finger, and then sitting next to the driver of said car for three and a half hours, just to watch my mom fall off her chair. For all the shit I gave Charlie, the truth is my mom offered to fly me out in business class, but I refused. I was happy to accept the hotel accommodations, because, quite frankly, I can’t afford a DC hotel for this many nights, but I put my foot down at business class. I’m not too good for economy. I wonder if Rob and Gabby took her up on that offer though. If they were sipping champagne and stretching their legs out when they took off from Denver Airport.
My mom loves Rob. He was like a son to her. She told me that she felt like she had a “real family” when she was together with Rob and me and his parents. “ This is what I’ve always wanted,” she’d said.
I wondered, at the time, that if that was what she always wanted, then why did she spend my whole childhood wandering from city to city, refusing to allow herself to make any meaningful connections? Why wasn’t anything ever enough for her? Why wasn’t I enough?
When Rob and I broke up, she claimed to be genuinely crushed for me. But she never expressed anything beyond that hurt. She never really apologized for her part in it. At least, not in a satisfactory way. And as everyone peruses the menus, I begin to truly feel, for the first time, that being here was a genuine mistake. But I also know that if I wasn’t here, the guilt would have absolutely crushed me.
Our server returns to take our orders. I exhale in the first time in what feels like an hour. The tension at the table has my spine ramrod straight, and I’m in dire need of this reprieve.
“So, what’s everyone having?” she asks, holding a pad in one hand, a pen in the other.
Please God, no one order appetizers, I think.
Last night I lost myself in a bowl of pasta, but tonight I order a grilled shrimp salad, dressing on the side. I’ll dip the tines of my fork in the dressing, like my mom taught me to do, rather than pour it over the lettuce.
The server finishes taking orders, and we all look around the table at each other again, blinking as though we’re surprised to find ourselves here.
Rob clears his throat and adjusts himself in his seat, and he reaches over and grips Gabby’s hand in his own. I’m certain no one else notices, but the look she gives me is smug. I win, it says. It’s the first actual reason I’ve gotten to dislike her, which is oddly satisfying. Until now, my resentment towards her has been unfair, but now that I’ve gotten that look my mind is free to unspool imaginings of her spilling her soup in her lap or smiling at the table with spinach stuck in her teeth.
“How’s work been, Rob?” Michael asks. It’s a safe, man-to-man sort of question, and everyone at the table latches on like it’s a life raft.
“Rob actually got a promotion last week!” Gabby chimes in and smiles at Michael as she holds her cocktail in one hand, Rob’s hand in the other.
“Is that so?” Michael says with a pleased expression. “Well, then let’s celebrate that!”
“Yes!” Mom agrees enthusiastically. “Congratulations, Rob!” And she raises her glass, and we all toast to Rob’s success in financial management.
We struggle through dinner. The conversation is stilted and awkward, and does not improve. By the time we are halfway through the entrée, everyone has been extremely well plied with alcohol, and my mom has developed a pleading look in her eyes. I’ve seen this look many times, and I know it’s my turn to take up the baton.
“So,” I say, turning towards Rob and Gabby between bites of shrimp and bitter lettuce, “how did you two meet?”
Rob twitches in his seat and turns to look at me wordlessly. This is when I notice his face is coated in a light sheen of sweat. I’d failed to consider the fact that this is just as painful for him as it is for me. Possibly more. A small pang of sympathy runs through me.
“We met at the park,” he says like it’s a question he’d forgotten the answer to and he’s only just remembering. He twists his drink—the second martini—by the stem, back and forth.
“He was playing frisbee and he hit me in the head. My dog, Molly, almost bit him,” Gabby adds.
“Oh, what a nice meet-cute!” my mom exclaims. “What kind of dog do you have, Gabby?”
“She’s a labradoodle—half Labrador, half poodle,” she explains as if we haven’t all heard of a labradoodle before. “And she’s so smart. She totally knew that Rob threw that frisbee when he came up to apologize, and then she lunged at him, but he handled it so well I knew he was a keeper. I don’t trust anyone who’s not good with dogs, but he was just a natural, so I asked for his number.”
“Oh, so you made the first move, huh?” Michael asks. “I like a woman with some confidence, right, sweetheart?” He glances at my mom and shoots her a wink. If Donna were here, I would be demanding her bottle of bourbon right this instant.
“Anyway, after that it was just really natural,” Gabby continues. “He took me to Pastore’s—this cute little Italian place right by his apartment, and the rest is history.”
And this, right here, is the moment their relationship really feels real. My fork stops on its way to my mouth like I’m in a freeze frame. Pastore’s was our spot . It was the place we walked to when we felt too lazy to cook. It was the place that made my favorite pasta primavera that I could never go to again after we broke up. I spent countless nights sitting across from Rob over Pastore’s cheesy checkered tablecloths, eating breadsticks and then shoving the basket away because I can’t control myself, sipping wine and laughing, and stealing bites from his tiramisu. The thought of them there together actually makes my stomach turn, and my pathetically inadequate dinner doesn’t seem so insubstantial anymore.
I turn my head slowly to look at Rob next to me. His face has taken on a distinct pallor, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. That Gabby stepped into the life we shared and took my seat across the table from him. And yet, I know there’s some irrationality to this. It’s not like restaurants can be claimed by a relationship. But when relationships end, there is this natural way in which each party sort of knows which spot belongs to them, and which spot belongs to the other. Pastore’s was Rob’s spot, and of course I knew, without actually thinking about it, that eventually another girl would be there with him. But regardless, it still hurts, and I can see that Rob knows that and is fully aware of me looking at him.
“Did you ever go to Pastore’s, Daisy?” Gabby asks.
My eyes shift from Rob to her, and she is wearing a look that reads false, innocent sweetness that wouldn’t fool even a child. She knows exactly what she’s doing. Her eyes are a little bit glassy, probably from all the drinks. People say and do stupid things when they’re drunk, but I don’t care. This question, clearly intended to do nothing but hurt me—to point out that now she is the one going to dinner with him—is a measure too far. I think about what Cara would tell me to do. Her voice is in my head, telling me to fight fire with fire, and I take a deep breath before I speak, steeling myself.
“Lots of times,” I say, and take a sip of wine, as though I’m feeling completely comfortable. “Actually, the first time Rob and I made out was in the hallway between the coat rack and the dining room. You know the hallway, right, Gabby? It’s really dark and sort of mysterious. You can really lose yourself in there. Like no one else is watching. I was hanging up my coat, and Rob just couldn’t help himself, I guess. He just pulled me in.”
Gabby blanches, and Michael coughs into his drink, and my mom’s knuckles turn white on her silverware. Then Mom laughs, the high, forced falsetto laugh that she uses when she’s with strangers and not really herself. “Let’s not overshare, Daisy. We’re at dinner.”
“Oh,” I say innocently, “I’m sorry, Mom. I don’t mean to make anyone uncomfortable.”
Dinner wraps up pretty quickly after that. Michael gets the check, and no one protests. But, as we file out, awkwardly saying goodnight, my mom pulls me aside to a small room off the lobby where guests can read the paper or perhaps a Dickens novel, picked from the tall dark bookshelves lining the walls, filled with gorgeous leather-bound volumes. Cushy blue velvet sofas sit opposite one another beside robust palms and reading lamps glow with welcoming light. I barely have time to take any of this in as my mother stands in her tall brown leather wedge sandals, planted shoulder width apart on the carpet, with her hands fisted firmly on her hips.
“What was that , Daisy?” she asks in a tone reserved specifically for making me shrink away from her. The impulse to hide is still there, and I feel a familiar pang of shame at having disappointed her, but I stand my ground.
“What was what, Mom?”
“You know exactly what,” she spits. “That performance at dinner. Gabby looked like she was going to cry.”
I scoff, turning away and staring at the rows of books. “Oh, I highly doubt that.”
“Do you? How do you think she felt—the fifth wheel at a table full of family, next to her boyfriend’s ex?”
It hasn’t occurred to me until right now that Gabby probably felt pretty damn awkward. But after this monumentally uncomfortable mockery of a family dinner, I don’t care.
I turn back to her, gripping my little bag hard in my right hand by my side. “We aren’t family, Mom. As much as you want to make us pretend like we’re all one big happy family, we aren’t, okay? It’s not real, and you forcing everyone to pretend is not helping.”
My mother looks momentarily stricken by my uncharacteristic outburst, but I ignore it, and continue. “Never mind Gabby. She knew what she was walking into, and believe me, she can handle herself. She, at least, has someone’s hand to hold, you know? How do you think I felt, sitting there next to Rob, who dumped me?”
“You promised me that you were okay with all of this,” she says angrily. “You promised not to make a scene this weekend. I need to be able to count on you, Daisy.”
Guilt slithers through my gut like a muddy eel. I did promise that.
“You understand, don’t you? I need you this weekend. I need you to be my Buttercup.”
“I am… I am your Buttercup, Mom,” I say. My voice is small now, all my self-righteous bluster gone. “You can count on me. You always can. I’m sorry I upset you.” And there it is. Another apology, even when my heart isn’t entirely in it.
Through this whole conversation, neither one of us has addressed the elephant in the room. The thing that we’re aware of, and that I know she’s counting on me not to mention. So, I don’t.
Her face softens then, and she nods. “Thank you, Daisy,” she says, sounding like my mom again. “You know how much I love you. What would I do without you?”
I’ve heard that refrain my entire life. What would I do without you? As though I’m the parent, and she’s the one relying on me for support.
“I don’t know, Mom,” I say, and then give her a cheeky smile that I know she loves. “You’d probably be living in a yoga ashram in Bali with some guy named Apollo or something.”
My joke finally cuts the tension, and my mom pulls me into her for a hug. Her perfume surrounds me, and I let my shoulders drop. She’s my mom, I think. Despite everything, she’s still my mom, and I need to get this resentment under control.
When she leaves to go to her room, I sink down into a sofa. It’s so deep my feet don’t reach the floor when I lean back into the cushions. With the sigh of the long-suffering, I unbuckle my heels and let them drop onto the carpet. I curl into the sofa, leaning into the back and arm rest, tucked in like a child with a blankie, and burrow my head down into my knees. Deep breaths, I think as my heart rate slows. The first night is over with. I never have to do that again. Just keep looking forward.
It’s still too early for me to go to bed, and if I go to my room, I can lose myself in Real Housewives reruns, but I know I’ll also be lonely. The lobby is still and quiet, but the sounds of the restaurant bar filter in and make me feel, if not like I have company, then at least like I’m not the only person in the universe.
I relive dinner in my head. Gabby’s smug look, Rob’s discomfort, Michael’s attempts to smooth things over, my mom’s disappointment in me, and my own outburst born of a fit of jealousy. Finally, the urge to cry overcomes me, and the tears wet the knees of my pants, leaving dark spots and, I’m sure, smudging my mascara down my face. I suppress a full-blown sob and take deep, slow breaths.
“Dinner was that bad, huh?”
I look up at Charlie from my knees. I imagine I look rather pathetic, sitting here curled up like a child hiding under a table after having a tantrum.
“What are you doing here?” I say, swiping beneath my eyes for runny makeup.
He sits down on the far end of my sofa. “I’m not saying I was spying on you. But we are at the same hotel, and I did happen to know that this was going to be a tough night for you, so maybe I was spying on you just a little. I was at the patio bar. I saw your family leave.”
“So, in other words, you were totally spying on us,” I grumble at him even though I’m starting to smile.
He raises his hands in a gesture that says I mean no harm. “I couldn’t hear anything that you guys were saying. I just didn’t want you to be alone, in case…” He drifts off. “You know, the ex turned out to be a complete twat about things.
I shake my head. “He was fine. He hated it as much as I did. I could tell. And he didn’t do anything wrong.”
“You mean besides being the idiot who broke up with you?”
I laugh a little through my tears. “I guess besides that. Yeah.”
“And the girlfriend?”
“She sucks,” I answer. “And I ended up acting like a bitch and my mom is totally upset.”
“How long have you guys been broken up?”
“A year.”
He sighs. “You know, when my girlfriend dumped me, I barely functioned for a year. For the first six months I didn’t do anything besides go to work and go hiking. And then I started actually seeing people again, and started putting my life back together. But even after a year, I would have hated running into her. There’s no way I could have sat through a whole dinner with her new boyfriend.
“I think you were really courageous, and I don’t know the whole story, but to be frank, I think your mom was kind of an asshole for inviting him.”
He looks at me with his warm, disarming eyes. He’s facing me on the sofa, one polished shoe on the floor, the other hanging off the edge. He has his arm across the back of the couch.
He’s wearing the same clothes he was wearing earlier today. The shirtsleeves are still rolled up, and the veins running down the inside of his forearm are clearly, enticingly visible. My eyes drift there, and want to linger, but I force them back to his face, which is tilted in concern. It’s impossible not to notice how handsome he is. Even when I’m this sad and stressed out, I’m still a heterosexual woman who hasn’t really been touched by a man since Rob kissed me on the forehead the last time he left my apartment. I don’t know why Charlie has decided to care, or why he has gotten so invested in my problems, but I’m glad he’s here.
“It’s not like that.” I shake my head. “She didn’t have a choice in the matter. She just wants us all to be happy again.”
His brows dip in confusion. “What do you mean, she didn’t have a choice? She couldn’t have chosen not to invite your ex-fiancé to dinner with you and her future husband, and force you to sit through a whole night with the new girlfriend? I know I’m overstepping here, but that seems kind of selfish, Daisy.”
I look at him and say nothing. The silence stretches between us, unspooling like a ball of yarn rolling across my living room floor. I chase after it, trying to think of something to say. Some explanation that will answer the question in his eyes, what’s really going on?
But nothing comes to mind. I haven’t volunteered this information to a single soul, except Cara. I’ve never talked about it with anyone. The shame and embarrassment has been like an anvil on my chest for over a year, squeezing the life from my lungs and limbs, and I’ve been trying frantically to hold back my feelings about it. It’s been like sitting on the hatch to the cargo hold of a ship in a grisly storm, attempting to keep the encroaching water down, even as the vessel comes apart all around me with crashing waves.
I swallow hard. My hands clench around my knees, still tucked up against my chest. I look at him. He looks back at me, his gaze steady and unwavering. I’m still a little bit loopy from the alcohol. My guard is down. And suddenly, the urge to tell the truth is immediate and overwhelming.
I rub at the corner of my mouth with clammy fingers. My heart drums a heavy beat in my chest.
“The thing is, Charlie,” I begin slowly, “My mom’s fiancé, Michael, is a great guy. And Rob is a great guy. But Michael is Rob’s dad.”
Hearing it said out loud like that—the truth that I’ve been hiding for so long—makes me want to go into hysterics all over again.
“Michael was my fiancé’s dad. And he and my mom, like, fell in love, I guess, and they had an affair. And Michael ended up leaving his wife—Rob’s mom—and now he’s marrying my mother.”
Charlie’s face is blank with astonishment, then shock. His mouth falls partly open. “You’re kidding me, Daisy.”
I shake my head. And then drop it back into my knees, hiding from the judgement I know is about to radiate off him. This is so fucked up. This is so. Fucked. Up.