13. Harrison
13
HARRISON
I slump into a chair outside, sinking into one of my least happy memories.
When I landed in London, I hadn’t seen my wife in four months.
We’d intended to see each other—she was supposed to come to California in November but ran into an issue at work, and my trip planned for the holidays got canceled because I’d had to prep for a trial. And the second the trial was over, I had to pack up our house and leave my job, and there wasn’t a second to spare.
I texted her as I walked toward customs to say I’d caught an earlier flight. I saw the three swirling dots of her reply, but nothing came, and I knew what that meant—that she was flustered, rushing to get to the flat and irritated that I’d changed the plan. Resentment began stirring in my chest over her imagined irritation. Marriage is like an old country road that gets a little more banged up with each passing year. You start expecting the holes and the bumps before you’ve even hit them. You feel the resentment before it’s even been earned. Audrey and I hadn’t been married all that long, but there were already a lot of holes and bumps. Too many, according to my friends.
“Cut it out,” I’d told myself. “This is a fresh start.”
Sure, it wasn’t a fresh start I’d necessarily wanted, but what was I supposed to do? She’d moved to California with me after law school and she’d always hated it. It was time to try things her way instead.
When I reached customs, my passport wouldn’t scan and I was sent into a long line with other weary passengers to wait for an agent. And Audrey still hadn’t replied.
You’re sleep deprived, Harrison. Don’t read into this, and don’t see it all as a bad omen. You’re about to get laid for the first time in… I couldn’t even remember how long it had been. Not since the summer before, at the earliest, when we’d had too much to drink and she became the girl I’d fallen for in law school—giggly, relaxed, flirtatious. Which is the second problem with marriage. You fall in love with someone, and when that version of them disappears…do you wait? Do you try to love the new version instead? Is it your fault she disappeared in the first place?
“Visiting?” the customs agent asked.
“No, actually. My wife is working here now. We’re moving.”
He glanced from the passport to me. “Do you have a job, then?”
“Not yet.” Lots of American firms had a London office, but it was uncomfortable, admitting that I was now unemployed for the first time in my adult life. I’d given up every client, though I’d been earning twice what Audrey was in California, and I wasn’t quite sure what I was getting in exchange. Not if she couldn’t even reply to a fucking text.
My passport was stamped. “Enjoy your visit,” he said, as if he was already certain I wouldn’t be staying.
I took the express train to Paddington Station. A group of school children ran past in uniform, laughing as they clutched sketchbooks to their chests. That was what Audrey wanted for the family we were about to start working on—an urban upbringing full of art classes and museums on weekends. I’d always pictured my kids living a childhood like mine—weekends surfing or out at the lake—but it was too late for doing it my way. I was here, and so was she. Unwillingly, I moved toward the line for High Street—and she finally texted.
Audrey
I left you a phone message. Didn’t you get it?
No. What’s up? I just got off the express train.
Oh God. Please go listen to the message.
I swiped over the screen of my phone until I found the voicemail. I hadn’t even listened yet, and I was already tired.
“Hi,” she began, her voice choking on a sob. “Hi. God, Harrison, I can’t believe I’m doing this, but…I don’t think you should come. I know you’re probably on your way to the airport right now, but this just isn’t going to work.” She made this high-pitched noise I’d never heard from her before, but it was the man’s voice behind her, murmuring reassurance, that rang the first warning bell. “This is so hard to say, and I know the timing is terrible, but David? My boss?”
A piece of me, something darker and wiser, knew what she was going to say. Even as I was telling myself not to jump to conclusions, I knew exactly what she was about to fucking say.
It was something I didn’t want to discuss with anyone then, and now, six months later, I still don’t want to discuss it.
“I’m not going to ask,” Daisy says, taking the seat beside mine. “I shouldn’t have suggested it.”
I stare out at the ocean. I guess it doesn’t matter at this point—she’s mostly figured it out. “Audrey’s engaged. To her boss. She was sleeping with him pretty much the whole goddamn time I was here selling our house and packing our stuff. ”
“Oh,” she whispers. “God. I’m so sorry.”
I laugh, a trifle bitterly. “He’s got a title. She’s going to be Lady Audrey, apparently.”
Daisy blows out a breath. “She sucked, Harrison. And I’m not saying that because of what she did. I’m saying that because she always sucked. She was stuck up and miserable.”
“She wasn’t always.” It’s less about defending Audrey than it is about defending myself, defending what were, in retrospect, several really poor choices on my end—marrying her, agreeing to move. I’m no longer sure I even did it because I wanted our marriage to work. I think I was just unwilling to fail at something.
“She changed after her brother died. And I think she blamed me. She didn’t want to leave the East Coast in the first place.”
Daisy shakes her head. “You married a girl who hates the beach . Someone like that was never going to make you happy. She was like…all the worst parts of you.”
I turn her way. “Worst parts?”
“The super high-charged, willing to work ‘til all hours to get ahead side. You should have taken some time off after London.” She frowns. “Wait. If you knew she was with someone else, why’d you stay there for two months ?”
I release a slow exhale. I could lie, but why bother? She’ll probably divine the truth about that too, eventually.
“I didn’t.” My head falls to the top of the chair. “I sat here for two months pretending I was still in London before I told anyone I was back. It would have been too obvious what happened if they knew I flew home the very next day. Please don’t repeat any of this.”
The whole situation was so fucking embarrassing. But it’s more embarrassing that I sat here in silence for two months, lying to my friends and my family .
She reaches out and squeezes my hand. “I understand that better than you think.”
I can’t imagine she actually understands much. She’s twenty-one. What could possibly have happened in her life that would compare?
“And I won’t tell anyone. I was never going to tell anyone about the girlfriend thing anyway,” she adds. “I’m still making you run tomorrow, though.”
I laugh. I like that she’s not treating me like a kicked puppy. “Yeah,” I tell her. “I knew that too.”
There’s something adult in the smile she gives me as she squeezes my hand and walks away.
She’s mature for her age.
Of course, that’s the same bullshit every man tells himself to justify a very bad decision, isn’t it? It’s a slippery slope from tempted to villain .
I’m worried I’ve already begun to slide.