29. October 4th
Angie
“Are you sure you wanna be dropped off here and not at home?” Jared asks, putting his sleek BMW into park in front of Cora’s house.
“I’m sure,” I reply with a sigh. I’m drained from the events of tonight. I admitted to my best friend of over twenty years that I was in love with him. I can’t go back there right now. I don’t know when I can. I don’t know when I’ll be able to face him again.
I already texted Cora the situation, and she told me I was more than welcome to stay with her.
Jared has been nothing but a gentleman tonight. He’s sent me several text messages and calls since I last saw him, before he had knee surgery and retired from playing rugby altogether. Our conversations were always brief, and like always, he was flirtatious. But I had no interest in going out with him until this week. Until I pulled the plug on the arrangement with Rafael—pulled the plug on affection and sleeping in the same bed.
When he asked me out, he knew full-well I was pregnant, and I knew full-well I had to replace Rafael in my heart. I was grasping at straws. I was hoping to find a deeper connection with Jared—someone I used to trust with my body, but not to the same level I trusted Raf. I wanted to see if there could be more with him.
And in my desperation, I hurt my best friend. My plan was to quickly change from work before he picked me up—not to find Rafael at home waiting for me and cooking enough food for a family holiday. He was never supposed to know about my evening with Jared. I know it blindsided him and I feel like shit for the way he found out.
I had no intention of sleeping with him tonight though—I knew I couldn’t do it. Not out of consideration for Raf, but because the idea of sleeping with someone else feels completely wrong, even with someone I trust like Jared.
“Thanks for dinner and letting me talk about it with you, Jared. It means a lot.”
The corner of his mouth curls up, then he puts his hand on my knee and strokes his thumb against the fabric of my maxi dress. The placement is low enough that it reads as friendly and not suggestive—a perfect picture of how tonight’s date has been with him. Jared might be a little dumb, but he knows how to read a room and be a friend. Maybe I was too shaken with emotion to properly evaluate him, but that outside-the-bedroom spark doesn’t exist between us. The spark I know all too well, as misguided as it is.
“Anytime, Angie. We go way back. Call me whenever you need to.”
“Thank you,” I say softly and reach for the handle.
“Let me get that for you,” he says, jumping out of the car and coming to my side. And even though it’s Jared opening my door, all I can picture is Rafael doing it for me.
When the door opens and I swing my legs out, the car is too low to the ground and I’m too round to get up without looking like I’m crawling out of a mud-wrestling pit. He smiles and extends his hands to lift me out. “Let me help.” Finally standing up with a lady-like grunt, I take a deep breath and thank him again.
Jared holds my hand for a few steps before the memory of Rafael’s confession strikes. You had no idea how bad I wanted to simply hold your hand in the hallway. Like a reflex, I retract my hand.
What happened tonight hurt Rafael, I know that. I should have handled it in a calm manner, but my emotions are all over the place lately. I hate this unhinged version of myself. I’m supposed to be a reasonable person. I’m well-educated and guide my patients into having meaningful conversations, but I still snapped. I don’t want to use my hormones as an excuse, but I was a completely different person back there. What I said needed to be said though. I know that.
Cora’s already standing in the doorway to her beautiful townhome when we climb the stairs.
“Thanks for bringing her,” Cora says before giving him a friendly hug. “It’s good to see you again, Jared.”
“It’s good to see you too, Cora.” He pulls back and looks between both of our prominent bellies. “Looks like a couple of best friends are making some best friends.”
A needed smile finally crosses my face as I lean in for a hug as well. “That’s the goal. Thanks again.” Before he backs away from the embrace though, he places a soft kiss on my cheek and all at once a flood of guilt hits me.
Dammit, I think to myself. Raf doesn’t have any claim on me. I’m not his. I’m free to let other men kiss me, as chaste as this is.
“Have a good night. And call me if you need me.”
I give him a short nod and step inside because if I open my mouth, I’m going to cry.
As soon as Cora shuts the door, I fall apart anyway.
“Oh honey, I know.” Cora holds me as fiercely as she can, our bumps bumping and our hands gripping the other for dear life.
It’s the kiss. It’s the guilt. It’s the heartbreak and fear of the unknown raining down on me. I want it to wash away everything in its wake and leave me new again. Leave me the girl I always wished I could be—the one who isn’t in love with her best friend.
But I know that’s not how this works. I’m going to let it all out and feel a sense of relief once the tears stop, but my mind will keep going until something new hits me and it’ll start all over again.
I’m vaguely aware of moving to the couch as I continue crying and a box of tissues appears. I’m overwhelmed with a menagerie of emotions including immense gratitude for Cora. I might be in total distress right now, but I haven’t felt this level of comfort all week.
Finally catching my breath and dabbing my face dry, I give Cora a weak smile. “Thank you.”
“Tell me what you couldn’t over text,” she says calmly and hands me a glass of water from the coffee table. I didn’t notice until now, but it’s covered in glasses of water, wine, chocolates, nuts and cheese.
“Wine?” I ask, a little confused.
“We’re allowed a little. Tonight seemed like that kind of night.”
“Bless you,” I whisper, grabbing the stem of the glass and taking a sip. Cora does the same. It’s only about four ounces, but I relish in it as the wine seeps into my tongue and stare blankly at the wall of books in front of me.
Right as I’m about to speak, my phone buzzes incessantly from my purse next to me. Pulling it out, I see it’s yet another call from Rafael which I send to voicemail.
“Is that him?” Cora asks.
“Yeah,” I sigh. “It’s the seventh call since I left. I should text him what’s going on.”
Angie: I’m at Cora’s. I don’t want to talk right now.
Instantly I get a reply back.
Raf: Do you need me to pick you up?
Angie: No. I’m staying here tonight. Maybe all weekend.
Raf: Please come home. Let’s talk about this.
Angie: Not now. I need space and I need you to respect that.
Raf: sad face emoji> Ok. I’ll be here.
I set my phone back down. “Raf got me bookshelves,” I say flatly and let that statement marinate. When Cora doesn’t say anything, I continue. “He’s having them custom-made for his house on Chestnut. For me.”
I turn my head to see her confused expression. “He really wants you to stay with him, doesn’t he?”
“What’s wrong with me? Why do I fold for bookshelves?”
“Because it’s not about the bookshelves. It’s about him. It’s about what he means to you. He could give you a cup of dirt and say this reminded me of you, and you would swoon.”
She’s not wrong.
Swirling the wine, I stare down at it. “You were right, before. When you said he treats me like a wife. I think I’ve—no—I know I’ve been letting him do that. For a long time.” I swallow. “I know I was torturing myself, but with all my inconsequential, painful, terrible dates over the years, having him treat me like that was nice. Comforting. The most reassurance I’ve ever felt. It’s my own fault.”
“Don’t do that,” Cora says, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Whether he knows it or not, he’s been using you too. You’re allowed to feel at fault and guilt, but you’re allowed to be angry at him.” She takes her hand away and seems to refocus. “Tell me everything you’re feeling, regardless of it making sense.”
God, she gets it. She gets that even though I’m a therapist, it doesn’t mean I’m perfect at regulating my emotions. Logic and emotion do not always march hand in hand, especially since I’ve been pregnant.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and take inventory. “Shame. Fear. Guilt. Heartbroken. Anger… Anger,” I repeat.
“Why are you angry?” she says, like she’s opening a door for me.
“I’m angry…because he can’t love me the way I love him. Because he got jealous of Jared and still couldn’t do anything about it. Because I may have just broken whatever relationship we had and it’s going to hurt our kids. Because he would make the best fucking partner in the world if he just got over his stupid fucking commitment issues! Fuck!”
“Yes, Angie. Let it out.”
“How can he be the most committed friend, but he can’t romantically commit? Like, what the fuck? How is it different?” I ask rhetorically.
“He only lets me see the real him,” I say, then take a sip. “And he uses my affection for his own comfort so he doesn’t have to seek it out from anyone else.”
“He told me he had a crush on me in high school. He told me how beautiful and perfect my body was while he worshiped it. He made me feel like our arrangement was more,” I cry out. “I’m fucking mad!”
“That’s it,” she snarls in agreement and gets up to power on her Bluetooth speaker on the shelf and tap away on her phone for a second. “We’re going to let our feminine rage out.”
When the melody to Miley Cyrus’ Wrecking Ball takes over, there is absolutely no stopping me from standing up, taking one more swallow of my pinot, and joining my best friend on the rug. Letting myself succumb to the almost unfairly-accurate ballad, I lean into the dramatics of all—raising my fists to the sky, belting out lyric after lyric next to the woman who’s stayed by my side through everything and let me be there for her too. Through every heartbreak and all-nighter in college, through every death and moment of pure bliss, we have always been there.
As I sing and sob, I think of how Rafael has been that person for me too.
I think about how the relationship between Cora and me is going to change once we have kids. We won’t have the time to see each other like we used to. We’re going to be wrapped up in our own bubble. Will we be able to make the effort to see each other like this?
I think about how I’ve ruined what Raf and I have. I want us to stay friends, not just for the sake of our children, but for ours. I just don’t know how our puzzle will fit together anymore.
I think about my mom and how much I wish she was here now. I wish I had more than her journals. I wish I had that close mother-daughter bond. I wish she was still alive, and I could giggle and agree with other girls when they talk about how annoying their moms are, how they all hate their moms just a little.
I’d rather hate her a little but love her a ton than miss her so much it hurts.
Between verses, I spot Jay barreling down the stairs with Marco stepping behind him. Jay joins the rage-a-thon in solidarity or because it’s just too good of a song not to belt from your lungs. But I think it’s the former.
Marco joins us and he takes my hands in his, stares directly at me and hammers the chorus along with me for a couple of lines—it’s intense and it fuels my emotional fire. I’m caught off guard when he turns behind me, inserting his forearms under my arms and hoisting me like he”s a forklift. Squealing, I let a smile cross my face and he twirls me around slowly.
The last of the lyrics are spent with me feeling like Rose on the deck of the Titanic, except it’s not romantic love coursing through my body for the man behind me. It’s a love for all three of them—a love for the kind of people who let you free yourself with ballad rage and join in.