Chapter 2
Candace
Thankfully, my alarm clock went off this morning, ensuring we’d be on time, and I’d be dressed before the girls dragged their feet in for cereal.
Double-checking my outfit in my full-length mirror, I switch things up and change my cream-colored halter top for a pristine white that better matches my skirt.
Tennis every Tuesday used to be reserved for doubles.
Greg thought it’d be a good idea to get to know other couples at work, so I put on my best smile and can-do attitude.
Now, it’s just me and my trainer Chris, a former professional athlete.
Although couple activities were never my strong suit, I looked forward to our date.
Tuesdays are now a bleak reminder of yet another thing that’s changed in my life. I doubt he even remembers.
It’s a welcome sight—my younger sister sprawled on my sectional, an ice pack pressed to her face. “Long night in the E.R. Didn’t wanna drive home, so I crashed at Casa de Stepford,” she groans, rolling off the couch to join me in the kitchen.
I ignore Courtney’s running commentary and pour her a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, hoping she moves on to anything else. This isn’t the first or last time I’m hearing how uninterested she is in my life.
Her unimpressed expression says everything, but of course she won’t hide her true feelings.
It’s not in her nature to hold her tongue, especially with me.
“You seriously have nothing stronger?” Taking a big gulp, she winces from the sour taste of citrus.
“How do suburban robots survive the day without caffeine? This isn’t the 40s anymore, but I guess you could take something to enhance your cleaning abilities, if you catch my drift,” she winks, downing the rest and pouring another glass.
“No, I don’t catch your drift. I’m headed to tennis in an hour, that’ll be enough to wake me up.”
She rummages through my pantry, finds a box of granola bars, and makes herself cozy at my counter. “You once took a shot out of a stranger’s belly button. Where’d you go? You used to be so fun. Don’t you wanna live a little again?”
Not needing that spring break mental image, I move away to my breakfast nook, where I can enjoy my oatmeal privately.
It’s a two-seater table, with a view of the entire neighborhood, given we’re in the middle of a cul-de-sac.
Staring out the window, I watch the husbands back out and head to work.
There once was a time when I sat in this spot, watching Greg drive off in his silver BMW.
He’d wave from the driver’s seat and blow me a kiss.
I’d finish my bowl of plain oatmeal and move on with my continuously growing to-do list.
“So, will you be spending the day here?” I asked Court, who is now scouring my fridge. “I won't be around, but you’re welcome to hang out.”
“You know, for someone who doesn’t have a job, you’re literally the busiest person I know.” Grapes fall out of her mouth as she continues her morning insults.
She’s not intentionally being rude. The truth is we couldn’t be more different.
We’re three years apart, but it might as well be thirty with the contrasting paths we took early on.
Of course, I followed in my dad’s footsteps and attended his alma mater to study law, hoping to become a public defender.
She took two years off after high school to traipse around Europe, finding herself in hostels and blowing through her trust fund.
With no money left to play with, she found herself on our dad’s front door, begging for a med school loan, the one dream that actually panned out.
“My life would fall apart if I wasn’t busy.” I take a bite of oatmeal, my jaw tightening with every chew.
“Oh, here we go again. Your life has already fallen apart. What’s left to save? Your pathetic excuse for a husband chose a woman with bigger tits and a smaller waist. I’m sure the twins want to see their mom happy rather than up to her eyeballs in aerobics classes and charity luncheons.”
Once upon a time, Court and I couldn’t be closer Not only did we share a room, but each other's clothes and secrets. Having a built-in best friend was a highlight of my childhood, and thankfully I have girls who get to have the same experience. This version of her, though, doesn’t understand the pressure I’m under.
Never been married, not interested in commitment, or raising a family of her own.
“I’m doing the best I can, Courtney. This is my life.
” I gesture around the kitchen, at everything I’ve spent years building.
“Right here is all I’ve known for sixteen years.
Obviously, it wasn’t good enough for you then, so why would it be now?
I wouldn’t know how to change if you paid me.
Greg didn’t stick to our deal, but I did. ”
“That was then. This is now. You’re June Cleaver without an actual husband,” she accuses, throwing away her mountain of wrappers and heading back towards my couch. “He’s gone. You don’t have to play house anymore.”
Her words hit hard this morning, and it couldn’t be worse timing.
Any minute the girls will barrel down here and I’m on the verge of heading back upstairs to crawl into bed.
Her blunt criticism isn’t news to me. There’s been plenty of times over the years where she’s shared her concerns or pointed out the red flags I refused to acknowledge.
Usually, it’s not this early in the day though.
After yesterday’s tardiness and enduring Betty’s comments, I’m not in the right mindset for my sister's inner thoughts. It’s only been a bit since the divorce, everyday I put on both my mom and dad hat, hoping I’m not slacking in either department.
Advice from a woman who’s never had a relationship longer than a sneeze isn’t sitting well in my gut.
This type of interrogation usually comes from my mom, although it's much harsher and always includes a list of things I’m ruining and how I’ve yet to achieve prime community status.
“Aunty Court,” both girls yell, rushing down the stairs to attack their favorite person. Even though her final trust fund purchase paid for her fabulous downtown penthouse, she’d rather spend time with us, scrolling the channels for trash TV.
“What’s up, my twinners?” She squeezes them both. Hearing their giggles and secret whispers makes my heart happy and chest warm. Their relationship is pure whimsy, there’s no rules or discipline with Aunty Court. It’s all fairy dust and silly handshakes.
“Are you taking us to school?” Kate asks, pouring cereal before reaching for the milk in the fridge.
“Hell ya!” she shouts, but looks over at me, knowing I’ll scold her for the language.
“I get to pick the music today!” Madison yells. “There’s no way I can listen to oldies anymore. We just got the new Avril Lavigne CD.”
“The 90s aren't oldies, you turds, and if I have to listen to Avril, then you owe me two Alanis Morissette songs, deal?” She grins.
She’s met with massive eye rolls from both girls, but after agreeing, they grab their backpacks and run out the door, not even a nod to their mom as I stand there waving them off.
“Thanks, Court.” She gives me a big hug on her way out. It’s the only ‘I'm sorry for berating you about your life’ I’ll get, so I embrace it and remember she’s only this way because she loves me.
My sister hated Greg, hates a strong word, maybe not hate.
More like severely disliked and used every chance she could to make it known.
If he told a joke, she wouldn’t laugh. Brought up an important client, she wouldn’t ask questions or fake an interest. If they were alone in a room, you’d think they were rivals because her body language was cold as ice.
She’s on the anti-man train right now because of some bad first dates.
At her core, she’s a hopeless romantic and wanted more of an old Hollywood, happily ever after for me than a life in the burbs with my college sweetheart.
Her take on love is sweet, but once life kicks in and kids arrive, there’s more to it than lovemaking on a beach surrounded by rose petals.
Speak of the devil. My cell phone rings right as I pull into the club, early for tennis. Not too long ago, a call from Greg would’ve made my heart stop. Now it’s like talking to a stranger.
“Hello?” I answer, sounding brighter than I mean to.
“Look, I’m going out of town with Claire this weekend and won't be able to take the kids. With the ongoing remodel, they probably wouldn’t have much fun at our place anyway.” His voice is muffled, like he’s driving.
“Oh, okay. I understand, but I don’t think they’ll mind. They're really looking forward to coming over, Greg. It’s been a month since you’ve seen them.” I remind him, knowing he couldn’t care less about our custody schedule.
“They’re children Candace, they’ll be fine. While I have you here, I’ll be taking them with me to the cabin for Thanksgiving. We’ll be gone for a few weeks.”
“Kate and Madi have only a week off for break. They can’t be gone longer than that.”
“Then take care of it, Candace. I’ve gotta get back to work. Talk later.”
Click. Conversations over, just like that.
Inhaling a deep breath, I check my makeup and grab my purse and water bottle.
It wasn’t always like this. We were the dream team.
Both of us had a voice and contributed to the relationship in what I thought was a healthy way.
After college, when he proposed and showed me this gorgeous gated community we could move into, I agreed immediately.
My parents were beside themselves when I told them I would pursue motherhood rather than the courtroom, but Greg was on board, and that’s all that mattered.
We found our rhythm as a unit, even as the girls got older and their schedules dominated family time.
Everyone was happy, the house remained clean, and healthy meals were cooked.
While the girls were in school, I busied myself with charity functions, PTA meetings, and the occasional trip to the city for art auctions.
Greg was a doting husband and father, always buying lavish presents and bringing back expensive bags and jewelry from wherever work took him.
The glass house I lived in shattered into a million pieces along with my heart the morning I found out about the affair.
Even though our divorce has been final for just shy of a year, I haven't put a single piece of myself back together.
Of course, he chose today to be the thorn in my side after my sister dubbed me the queen of Stepford.
My husband traded me in for a newer model. So what man is left wanting someone like me? I don’t need a new man. I just need something to wake me back up.