Chapter 31
Chapter thirty-one
George
When my alarm goes off, the room is already too bright. Baxter noses the bedroom door open, and sits beside the bed watching me.
I reach for my phone out of habit. I set it face-down on the nightstand.
I get up and give Baxter his treat. It's the kind Tessa recommended when she pet-sat for him. The bag crinkles in my hand.
The best approach to a day like this is to fill it up. It's two days before my sister's wedding. Filling up my day shouldn't be difficult. I call my mother and offer my assistance.
***
When I arrive, my mother's list is already waiting on the kitchen counter, written on actual paper in her neat, deliberate hand. She's been awake since five. I can tell by the second coffee cup and the angular set of her shoulders.
I read through the list once, start at the top without commentary, and call the transportation company in a tone that suggests I do this professionally, because I do.
The hotel puts me on hold for four minutes. I wait without irritation, staring out the window at the neighbors' magnolia tree, which is in full, preposterous bloom and completely indifferent to anyone's rehearsal dinner.
Eleanor appears in the kitchen doorway still in her robe, hair not yet done, and says, "You didn't have to start already," with the gentle suspicion of someone who knows I'm filling a container.
"I was awake," I say.
Mother looks at the crossed-off items and says, quietly, "Your father would have appreciated this level of organization." I nod once and say nothing, because there is nothing to say that would improve on the silence.
I notice that nobody in the room is laughing. The absence of it sits strangely in the air, like furniture rearranged in a room you know well.
***
I pick up the welcome bags from the hotel and drive to the venue to confirm the food delivery, completing both tasks before noon, which is the kind of fact I find genuinely stabilizing.
Eleanor asks, "Have you talked to Tessa?"
"We broke up," I say, and the three words feel, as they leave my mouth, like stepping off a curb I didn't see.
"What? She's one of my bridesmaids!"
"She'll be at the wedding," I say. It seems important to say out loud, and also because it's a fact I keep returning to, privately.
Eleanor studies me for a half-second. Then she hands me a glass of water and changes the subject, which is the kindest thing she could have done.
***
In the afternoon I clip Baxter's leash to his collar and we walk the familiar route without discussing the destination.
He stops outside the dog park and looks up the street with his ears slightly lifted, nose moving through something invisible. I follow the direction of his gaze. I can't help myself. He and I scan the sidewalk for someone who isn't there.
"She's not coming," I say, quietly enough that the couple passing us doesn't hear.
Baxter waits three more seconds, nose still working, and then walks on. I find that somehow harder to witness than I expected. It's just his small, uncomplicated grief, the way he just accepts it and moves forward. I'm not sure which of us is handling this better. I don't think it's me.
***
The rooftop bar is warm and crowded by the time we arrive, strung lights turning everything amber at the edges, the city skyline going soft behind it.
Daniel's cousin from Chicago intercepts me near the door and begins explaining his flight delay in more detail than the situation requires.
He talks in detail about a mechanical issue, then a gate change, then something about his luggage.
It requires nothing from me emotionally.
But then I see Tessa.
She steps onto the rooftop alone, already scanning the crowd with social ease I have always quietly admired.
She's wearing something dark and simple and she's already smiling at Daniel's sister, but it's the slightly more controlled version of her smile, the one she uses when she's being appropriate.
I know the difference. I have always known the difference.
It does something unhelpful to my chest that I choose not to examine.
I turn back to Daniel's cousin and ask a follow-up question about the flight with complete sincerity.
***
She finds me across the room with her eyes less than a minute later — less than a second, really, like a reflex, like something neither of us decided to do.
She gives me a small, composed nod. I nod back.
The professionalism of the exchange is somehow more disorienting than an argument would have been.
There is nothing to push against. There is just the distance, and both of us standing on our respective sides of it, correctly.
I watch her move through the room the way you watch a weather system. Tracking it without intervening.
She says something to Eleanor that makes Eleanor laugh, a real laugh, and Eleanor grabs her hand briefly with visible relief. I take a long drink of something cold and look out at the skyline.
Daniel appears beside me. "You doing alright?"
"Yes," I say, which is true in every measurable category.
He says, "I heard you two broke up," not looking at me when he says it.
"I know," I say.
Across the rooftop, Tessa is now listening to my mother complain about the florist, her head tilted at the specific angle that means she is actually listening and not simply waiting to respond. Mother doesn't notice the difference. I do. I look away.
***
I spend the next twenty minutes coordinating rides back to the hotel and am genuinely useful and not thinking about her in any sustained way.
At some point we end up within ten feet of each other near the drinks table. Neither of us closes the distance. She's listening to an older relative of Daniel's talk about his daughter.
She reaches past me for a glass of water, and says, "Excuse me."
"Of course," I say.
She walks away. I take a slow breath through my nose and look at the city.
***
Eleanor announces the last round of guests are heading down and begins the process of hugging everyone twice, which is her standard procedure. Tessa joins the group near the elevator, already mid-sentence with Daniel's sister, coat folded over her arm.
She doesn't look back across the rooftop.
***
I get home late. Baxter meets me at the door with the kind of enthusiasm that requires no context and asks no questions, which is, tonight, exactly what I need.
He trots hopefully toward the front door, pauses, looks back at me.
Waiting for someone who came with me once, who laughed when he pressed his whole face into her hands.
I sit on the couch and rub his ears and don't say anything out loud this time.
The house is the same size it has always been.
It feels significantly larger.
I sit with the quiet for a while, which is something I'm usually good at, and which is not working particularly well tonight.
I think about Tessa saying, You never chose me.
It was not an ultimatum, just a fact she was tired of carrying, stated plainly.
I think about every task I completed today.
I was productive, efficient, and I did them correctly, without complaint, without letting anyone past the perimeter.
And I finally let myself consider something I've been sidestepping since the argument ended.
Tessa didn't try to control me. She didn't try to change me, or reshape me into something easier to love, or convince me to fight for her. She just looked at me, clear-eyed and exhausted, and walked away.
I stare at the quiet room.
And I realize, slowly and with considerable discomfort, that I may have just let go of the one person who never tried to take anything from me at all.
Baxter puts his chin on my knee.
I don't move for a long time.