1. Diana
It’s always been shocking to me how quickly life can change.
One minute you’re living a happy life as a teenager in your beautiful, tropical home country of Venezuela; the next, your parents move you the middle of the snow-covered mountains in Colorado, USA.
One minute, you’re living a quiet life, married with two kids; the next, your husband’s girlfriend shows up at your doorstep, revealing a multi-year affair.
And one second, you have a partner in life, one that provides at least a little support when raising your children; and the next he’s giving up on everything you’ve built together, leaving you to deal with the clusterfuck he left behind.
It’s all such a fun roller coaster, isn’t it?
“Hey.” My sister nudges me in the side. “You’ve been picking at that crab cake for the past ten minutes. Do you not like it?”
“That’s not it, Rosie,” I tell her, taking in her intricate updo, which looks even better thanks to her pastel pink hair.
“What is it, then? I mean, it’s a dumb question considering everything that’s happened—of course you’re not okay. But... Are you, you know… okay? You’ve lost a lot of weight lately.”
It’s a little difficult to have an appetite when your life is imploding and you need to keep it together for your two little girls.
“I’m fine.” Or at least as well as I can be considering I’m a mess right now. “Just thinking, you know?” I shrug nonchalantly. I don’t volunteer where my thoughts have gone because I know it would only be a matter of time before—
“If being at this wedding is too hard—”
There it is.
I lift up a hand to stop her and roll my eyes, because of course she would think that.
Of course everyone thinks that newly-divorced Diana is a fragile little butterfly who’s going to break at any second.
But I am most definitely not. I have never been that type of girl.
In fact, I was the rock for my sisters when we first moved here.
The one everyone could depend on. And now I’m regarded as this sort of weakling and it’s just… gross. And far from what I’m used to.
“Rosie, I’m fine,” I insist. “Rodrigo and I were over ages before we even told anyone. Eons before we signed the divorce papers. A wedding isn’t going to bring me down.
” And it’s not even a lie. If anything, tonight has been good for me.
It’s Memorial Day weekend in the Hamptons, the summer is just beginning, we’re at the beach at nighttime so the stars are visible, and even with my limited appetite, the food has been nothing short of to die for.
Honestly? My personal life being a disaster aside, tonight has been fun. I even plan on dancing later.
Maybe.
I don’t know.
Probably not, actually.
“This divorce hasn’t turned me into a jaded person who doesn’t believe in love or can’t be happy when others find their partner.
Especially Barbara, who has been nothing but nice to me.
I mean, the woman isn’t even my friend—she’s yours—and she’s offered me more kindness than many people closer to me ever have.
” Barbara Holt, former child-actress turned movie star—and also one of my sister’s very close friends.
“Barbara didn’t need to offer her guest house in the Hamptons to me and the girls.
I know she offered it under the guise of me house-sitting while she’s on her summer-long honeymoon, but it’s more than anyone would’ve offered. ”
“Did she also help you find a day camp for the girls?”
I nod with a smile. “Yes, thank god. It’ll give me some time alone to study and complete my paralegal certification for my new job.”
“Phew! Good!”
“Exactly. So I would never feel bitter about her finding happiness with someone else or resent her getting married. She’s been incredibly generous to me even when she didn’t have to be.”
“That’s who she is,” Rosie says, looking over her shoulder at her friend as she glides across the dance floor with her new husband, her golden hair flowing behind her.
And this is what I mean about not being angry at love: I know there are couples out there who are meant to be.
Barbara and her new husband, Theo. My sister and her boyfriend, Asher.
Barbara’s best friend Liza and her husband, Matt.
They all look at their partners like they’re heaven on earth.
A blessing. A privilege to even be around.
But Rodrigo and I, for example? We never looked like that.
I mean, for god’s sake, at our wedding, he got so drunk, we found him passed out in the coat closet from “celebrating so hard.” (In retrospect, he was probably mourning what he called his “freedom” during our divorce proceedings.)
“Maybe I felt a little jaded in the beginning,” I admit, thinking back to those first few months after we got separated.
“But I was hurt. And hiding all the things that had gone wrong in my seemingly-perfect little life. In reality, the divorce happened because we weren’t right for each other—not because love isn’t real or whatever.
It’s been two years since Rodrigo and I separated, so I think I’ve had enough distance and time to realize that. ”
“I know, but you only just signed the paperwork last month after the divorce dragged for so long. And with the whole custody thing…” She shakes her head and chews on her bottom lip.
“The whole custody ‘thing.’” I laugh, humorlessly. “What a ride.”
She grimaces, and I can tell she regrets bringing it up. To say that the divorce proceedings between Rodrigo and I were eventful is a massive understatement.
“It’s fine. It… It happens. It’s sad, but it happens.” I shrug once more, because what else am I supposed to say or do? It is what it is.
“He’s a jerk. Rodrigo is a jerk.” To put it mildly.
“Yes, Rosie. But I can’t dwell on that. I need to get my life together.”
With a sympathetic smile, Rosie reaches out to squeeze my hand in both of hers. “It’s going to be okay.”
“I know things will calm down eventually. I just need to make sure Emiliana and Cami don’t feel the stress.”
“How’s Emiliana doing, by the way? With her diagnosis?”
My gaze drifts over to my daughters, watching as they play in the sand, barefooted, with some other kids from the wedding party.
I smile, feeling relief when I hear them laugh and giggle with their new friends.
They need this summer of relaxation and rebuilding as much as I do.
The divorce has been difficult for Camila, my oldest. But it’s been brutal for Emiliana.
It wasn’t enough for her parents to separate, for her whole family life to destabilize.
Nope. Her body decided it was also time for it to fail on her. At least, her pancreas did.
“I don’t think she gets how type 1 diabetes works yet.
I mean, we only just found out ten months ago and I barely get what best practices are.
But she’ll get there. And I will, too. It’s just been difficult.
Her life is the one that’s changed the most, and I just wish I could protect her from it, somehow. Protect them both.”
Rosie nods, taking a sip from her champagne flute. “You’re doing your best, though. And that’s all anyone can ask of you. You know that, right?”
I sigh, my eyes on my kids’ happy faces.
Warmth spreads through my chest as I watch them play, looking more themselves and relaxed than they have in months.
It brings me hope. It dismisses my previous concerns on whether or not I made the right call by taking them away from their home for the next twelve weeks.
“I hope you’re right,” I reply, slightly appeased. Still, I pick at my crab cake, appetite nowhere to be found.
Eventually, Rosie leaves me at the table to join Asher on the dance floor.
And while I meant what I said and am happy for her and all the lucky couples holding each other as they sway to the music, there’s only so much I can take.
So I snuggle into my wrap and slip off my sandals.
Feeling the cold, soft sand between my toes, I move closer to where all the kids run around, chasing each other.
I’m not clear on what the rules of the game they’re playing are, but I couldn’t care less.
They’re happy and enjoying themselves, which is all I can hope for nowadays.
My girls may not realize it yet, but I’m pretty sure they’re excited about this summer, too.
They’re in desperate need of this distraction.
Try as I might to protect them, to protect their relationship with their father, it’s become increasingly obvious to me that they know he’s not the man they thought he was.
Through small comments here, certain looks there, I’m starting to believe my daughters are more aware of the situation than they lead on.
And that must be impossible and confusing for them.
They’re strong, though. I can tell by the way they carry themselves, even at this age. They’ll adapt and grow from this experience. I just need to protect them enough that they don’t get hurt.
I adjust my wrap when it slips off one shoulder, wind tugging at my dark hair as I watch them with a smile on my face.
It isn’t until I see a man approach the children, balancing several plates with large slices of cake on them, that my stomach drops.
I run over to my girls, dropping my sandals and wrap as I do, and pull them to my side.
In a panic, I pull the plates from both my daughters’ grasps and toss them on the sand as if they were made of poison. A slight overreaction, I know. But you try being a parent to a newly-diagnosed type 1 diabetic daughter.
“Mom!” my oldest whines. “We were gonna eat that.”
“Your sister can’t have cake, Camila. I’ve told you guys this a thousand times. She needs to watch what she eats, on top of the medication she takes.”
“Is everything okay?” the man with the plates asks.
At average height, the man stands before me in a chef’s coat. His light brown hair mussed, he stares wide-eyed at me as he finishes passing the remaining plates of the cake to the rest of the kids around us.
“I was just—”
“You were just handing out food to unmonitored children without asking their parents if it was okay. Without asking whether they had any food allergies or any other health concerns,” I snap.
His golden-brown eyes widen, his back straightens, and even under his chef’s coat, I can see the way his muscles tense. “I—I didn’t mean to—”
“You didn’t mean to, but you did. And how dare you just approach a group of children with sweets?” I hiss. “Can’t you see the way that looks? Are you some kind of weirdo or something?”
“Whoa!” He lifts his hands in the air as if I were pointing a gun in his direction (which, to be honest, I probably would if I could—momma bear instincts, and all of that).
“I am not some sick predator, alright? My daughter—Rachel, come here,” he calls out to one of the girls who was playing with Camila and Emiliana and takes hold of her hand.
“My daughter was over here playing, just like yours, and I wanted to offer her and her new friends the cake I spent hours making.”
“The cake you made?” I lift an eyebrow.
He points to himself. “Uh, chef? Can’t you see my jacket? I obviously catered the wedding. Why else would I be wearing this coat?”
I grow even more irritated with him because, dammit, his food was delicious.
“I don’t know your life,” I tell him haughtily.
Weirdo Chef snorts and shakes his head. “I just wanted the kids to have a piece before the adults ate it all. I didn’t mean anything malicious by it. I thought I was doing something good. I was being nice.”
“Well, if you think a normal parent would ever be okay with a stranger offering their kid food without their permission, then you’re off your rocker. Or just a really bad parent yourself.”
At my words, his expression suddenly shifts from apologetic to anger. “Are you calling me a shitty parent? Seriously?”
I shrug once. “If the chef’s jacket fits. How else would you ever, in your right mind, think what you did is okay? Or that cursing like that in front of them is acceptable?”
I know it’s a low blow for any parent to hear even a whisper of a suggestion that their parenting skills suck, so I’m pretty sure that stung. But by the expression on his face, it seems like I’ve pushed the right button a little too hard.
“Mami, please,” Camila begs. “I promise neither one of us will eat the cake. But can we go? You’re embarrassing us.”
I look down at my daughter as she pulls at my hand, trying to get me to move. “Embarrassing you?” God, when did she grow up? “Camila, I’m having a conversation with—with—”
“Michael. My name is Michael. And I’m not some weirdo or some creep.
Or a bad parent.” His eyes flash as he holds his daughter close, fingers clutching at her as if someone were five seconds from taking her away from him.
“And you are a prejudicial lunatic and the most uptight person I have ever met.”
“A—What?” I sputter.
“You heard me.”
Something inside me snaps, something about his nonchalance triggering bad memories of Rodrigo and his lax and uncaring parenting.
“God, Diana. Let the girls have a snack before dinner. It’s not a big deal.
” Or “Of course they can watch The Exorcist. I was their age when I first did.” Stupid stuff that would come with even stupider and completely avoidable consequences that I’d have to clean up on my own.
So I open my mouth to let him have it, to let this man know what he really is—a neglectful parent—but then I feel a tug on my skirt. Emiliana. I come back down to reality. “Mami, can we go? Please? I don’t want you to fight.”
And I realize she’s right. They’ve had enough of watching me fight with useless men.
This summer is about them. About doing everything I possibly can to secure their happiness.
“Sí, amor.” I run my fingers through her dark curls, hair a mess after an afternoon of running and playing at the beach.
Before I leave, I turn to glance at Michael just to shoot him a menacing glare, daring him to say another word.
“Let’s go say bye to everyone and then we can go.”
As we make our way back to the main party, I stop to pick up my sandals and wrap, forgotten in the sand, when I hear him whisper an emphatic, “Good riddance.”