Chapter Twenty-Six
Amina is the best possible audience for any sort of story, as she is incapable of muting her reactions.
She listens to me like she’s in a movie theater, her eyes widening at the scary parts, her gasps genuine.
I dwell for long stretches on my interpretation of Lachlan’s face and mood as soon as Claire entered the room; she nods solemnly like I’m a Nobel laureate delivering a lecture.
I tell her about our game of Truth or Dare in the Lake District; she actually squeals.
It’s incredible to unburden myself with the unvarnished version of our saga.
Amina is not Josh; she won’t judge me for actions that are, if I’m being honest with myself, right on the border of homewrecking.
And listen, I’m not proud of all of it, but I don’t see what the alternative is.
I’m in too deep. I can’t get him out of my head, and honestly, I’ve stopped trying.
Am I a bad person? I hope not. After all, I don’t think Lachlan is a bad person, and he’s doing everything I am… right?
I finish my story and await her verdict.
It comes quickly: “Okay, so he’s leaving her for you.”
The thought makes me queasy and elated in equal measure, an emotional Tilt-a-Whirl. “No, Amina, this is the part where you convince me it’s all in my head and that I’m a fool to even think about it, much less give voice to these delusions.”
“Why would I do that when I know you’re already having that argument with yourself?
” she asks, nailing it. “I’m just trying to present the case as I see it: He likes spending time with you, it’s getting increasingly intimate and flirty, and—most importantly—he looked like he was going to shit himself in terror when his long-lost wife returned.
Does she know that you’re living together? ”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. Why?”
“Well, if he’s told her, then he probably just thinks of you as a friend. Like, someone Claire shouldn’t be threatened by. But if he hasn’t, it’s because it’s something he wants to conceal. Because he thinks of you as more than a flatmate. Because he’s in love with you.”
I fall onto her sofa and press a pillow to my face.
Amina pours some peanuts into a bowl and chews on a handful, a curious look on her face. “How much do you know about the divorce process in Scotland?”
I lift the pillow and frown. “You know, I almost majored in Scottish jurisprudence, but decided to go with the far more niche choice of communications in the end. Damn.” I snap my fingers.
She rolls her eyes. “Okay, I’ve been thinking this for weeks now, ever since you told me about the Minute of Agreement you saw, but I didn’t want to get you all excited. However…” She draws the word out with a pointed look. “If you’re domiciled in Scotland, as I assume Lachlan is—”
“Domiciled?”
“Legal residence, basically. The point is, if you’re getting a divorce in Scotland, you have to be separated for a year before it will be granted, and separated for two years if only one party wants the divorce.”
Now I sit straight up. “Seriously?”
“Yes. I’m sure in America you can go to the drive-thru and get a divorce with a milkshake and a side of fries, but here in the U.K., we actually have laws. So it’s possible…”
“…that he’s just waiting for a year to be up?”
“Yes. And again, I didn’t want to tell you, because I know how your brain will take this one tiny nugget of information and spin it into some wild fantasy, but come on, what the fuck is the point of having a law degree if you can’t use it to help your mate shag a footballer?”
“Wow. Huh. Okay. Interesting. Very interesting.” I’m spewing words like an anthropomorphic Vesuvius, stalling for time while I shift around this new piece of information.
“Think out loud, babe.” Amina pulls herself off the couch and waddles over to the kitchen, retrieving a jar of pickles and a tub of peanut butter from a cupboard. Such is the state of my mental disarray that I barely even flinch as she begins dipping the former into the latter.
As she indulges her pregnancy cravings, I clutch my rosé and pace around her living room.
“Okay, so, on the one hand, this little Scottish law loophole would explain a lot of things. But on the other…why wouldn’t he just tell me that?
I mean, set aside the hypothetical feelings we have for each other or whatever. ”
Amina raises an eyebrow. “Hypothetical?”
I ignore this look. “Isn’t that something you could tell your friends?
At least to have them commiserate about how terrible the year of separation is going to be, give you a shoulder to cry on, et cetera?
” I take a swig. “And, just to fully engage with my lunacy, if he did have romantic-y feelings for me, wouldn’t it make sense for him to say, ‘Hey, I really like you and I’m separated from my wife, but we can’t get divorced until we’ve been apart for a year, so just letting you know that’s my time frame’? ”
Amina twists her lips. “I’ll admit that does seem logical, and it’s a bit worrying he hasn’t said anything like that.”
“You know, at the cabin the other week, I had this thought that maybe it’s all in my head. Maybe we’re not actually friends, because we’re not sharing these things with each other. Like, I haven’t even told him Steven and I were engaged.”
“Shit, really?”
“Yeah. In the beginning it was because I didn’t want him to pity me—I wanted just one person in my life who didn’t know and would therefore never give me that stupid little pouty face with the ‘I’m so sorry for you’ eyes and the condescending shoulder pats.
” Amina makes exactly the face I’m describing; I chuck a peanut at her.
“But then it became almost like a game of chicken, like which one of us would slip up and be vulnerable and talk about our old relationships first.”
“Isn’t that your answer? Maybe he’s not telling you for the same reason you’re not telling him: He doesn’t want you to pity him or think he’s a failure,” Amina says. She has now made a pickle and peanut butter sandwich, which she chews with a thoughtful look on her face.
“Yeah, but my thing is in the past and his thing could very well affect the future.”
“He’s entitled to feeling that way just like you are, no matter what other logic you want to put on top of it. You can’t have your cake and eat it too, my love.”
“Ugh, I hate it when you make sense.”
She takes the wine from the fridge and tops up my glass. “Don’t have a lawyer for a bestie if you don’t want to get decimated in closing arguments.” She screws the top back on the bottle and looks at me, genuine concern in her eyes. “So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I’m trying to be less of a pushover, more vocal about what I want, but how do I tell him that without being a homewrecker? If there’s a chance he can save his failing marriage, don’t I owe him some space to figure that out?”
“Counterpoint: If there’s a chance you could make him happier than she can, don’t you owe him the opportunity to find that out? I mean, I’ve never seen you so happy—that is, when you’re not in abject despair.”
I have to laugh at that. “You’ve got me there. One thing I know for sure is that I’m so sick of thinking about it and talking about it and having it consume my entire life. This roller coaster of emotions is not fun to be on.”
She rubs her belly. “Now you know how I feel. Anyway, let’s get a takeaway. My parasite is craving fried chicken.”