4. Bree #2
“I’d love that,” Janet said, and this time the smile she gave my mom was real, warm, nothing like the one she’d just handed Wren. “I’ll call you.”
Gavin had just finished signing the receipt, so we all stood up, said our goodbyes, and headed for the door.
A day or two later, Janet found my mom on social media and sent her a message, asking for her phone number. She said she needed to talk to her about something important.
When Mom called her back, Janet told her that Wren had broken up her son’s marriage.
At first, Mom didn’t believe it. She’s read enough books to know that no single person can be blamed for destroying somebody’s entire marriage.
But Janet kept going. She told Mom that Wren had cheated on her own husband, with Janet’s son.
That Wren broke her own home apart first, and then her son had been stupid enough to cheat on his wife with her.
Janet said Wren went around telling everyone this whole tragic story about how her husband cheated on her, and wouldn’t even give her a divorce, and how she had to gather all this strength to finally walk away and stand on her own two feet.
But according to Janet, the truth was a lot uglier.
Wren had actually fought hard for alimony, and there’d been this long, bitter legal mess over the settlement.
And the second she finally got her money, she dropped Janet’s son cold.
Just like that. Even though, according to Janet, the two of them had genuinely been in love, and her son had actually wanted to marry her.
And that night at the restaurant, when Janet saw Wren standing so close to Gavin, she just knew. She knew exactly what Wren’s next move would be. That’s why Janet felt like it was her responsibility to warn my mom.
When Mom first told me all this, I was skeptical.
I figured Janet was probably just bitter, trying to pin all the blame on Wren because her own son couldn’t manage to stay faithful in his marriage.
But after that, I started noticing things about Wren I hadn’t let myself notice before.
The way she touched Gavin’s arm during a joke, or gave him a light little punch on the shoulder.
The way she always seemed to be “so depressed” and “so sad” on exactly the nights Gavin and I had plans together.
The way it had been her idea, originally, for Gavin to get a documentary made before he retired next year, how good it would be for your legacy, she’d said, but also how good it would be for keeping him relevant, keeping him in the public eye for future endorsement deals.
“You’re only twenty-nine, Gavin,” she’d said.
“Imagine what this could do for you if it blows up.”
Not long after that, she started telling me things separately.
How her videography studio was struggling to become profitable.
How her ex-husband had completely screwed her over in the divorce, hadn’t given her a single penny, even though he was the one who’d cheated.
She told me how he used to bring his mistress into their home while Wren was away, how she’d find the woman’s underwear in her own house.
She picked me, specifically, to hear all of it.
And one day, in the middle of one of her sad little stories about not being able to land a good project, I said it myself. “Why don’t you do Gavin’s documentary?”
And the rest, as they say, is history.
Of course, when I finally worked up the nerve to tell Gavin all of the Janet story, guess what he said?
He said exactly what I was afraid he’d say. That he doesn’t put stock in gossip, and I shouldn’t either. He didn’t believe me. Worse than that, he made me feel like a horrible person for even bringing it up, for even letting myself doubt Wren’s intentions in the first place.
And look where that landed him. Actually — look where that landed me.
Because today, I watched my husband lean on another woman for comfort the exact way he’s supposed to lean on me.
The one he promised to be with, in good times and bad, in front of God and both our families.
And instead, today, he leaned in close to her ear and told her that he only feels like himself when he’s with her.
And he called our home, called me, a baggage.
Fresh tears rolled down my face right there at the table.
Dad was cutting me a slice of the apple pie, putting a huge dollop of ice cream right on top, just like he’d done every single Friday night of my childhood.
He always still smelled faintly of cheese and fresh bread from the deli whenever he cut that pie, and he’d cut a slice for himself, and one for Mom, and we’d all sit together and watch some rented movie. Life used to be so simple.
I looked at the huge slice. “I don’t want to eat,” I couldn’t believe I was saying those words, but apparently I was.
Dad and Mom looked at each other.
Dad set his hand on top of my head. “No one, and nothing, is worth letting go of this, Bree,” he said. “Trust me.”
“Maybe give her a smaller piece,” Mom said.
I looked down at the plate in front of me. “No, it’s okay,” I said.
I took the first bite. And something in my chest felt warm, like somebody had wrapped a soft blanket around it. I closed my eyes. One more tear slipped out anyway, but I let it. I just sat there for a second, letting the taste of it fill my whole mouth.
“Gavin. Another name to go on the list. I’ll put it up first thing tomorrow,” Dad said, as I ate.
I smiled, just a little.
That’s when we all heard it. A loud screech of tires, right out in the driveway.
“Looks like the jerk is here,” Dad said.