Chapter 25 Michelle - My So-Called Life
MICHELLE: MY SO-CALLED LIFE
Despite having her own room to retreat to, Melanie had been spending most of the week in ours.
Now she sat cross-legged on the sofa and flipped absently through a magazine as she waited for me to put Keith and Emma to sleep.
I changed into a t-shirt and pajama pants before sitting across from her in a too-stiff chair.
She gave my loungewear a once-over. “I can’t remember ever being that comfortable.”
“This is my fancy set.”
“I’ll give you credit, Michelle. I didn’t think you’d last a month. And here you are—nearly six years in cotton-polyester. I underestimated you.”
I laughed. “The things we do for love.”
Her amusement faded. “I know you don’t want to think about it—”
“Melanie, stop,” I warned.
Melanie and I had been circling each other since the dinner four nights ago, trading polite smiles and useless small talk. We were both avoiding the inevitable. But I knew why she kept pushing. Mother was behind it, pulling the strings, as if leaving my husband were a decision you made on a whim.
“She meant well,” Melanie said at last.
“Did she?” I didn’t need to ask who she meant. “Because it felt more like a transaction than a concern.”
Melanie sighed and set the magazine aside. “She’s offering you a way out. You should at least consider it.”
“A way out?” I repeated. “By finding me some rich husband to play father to my kids?”
Melanie’s eyes narrowed slightly. “A good husband. A man who can give you stability. Safety. You’ve been running on fumes for years, Michelle. You can’t raise children on love alone.”
“I’m not raising them on love alone,” I said. “I’m raising them with Scott.”
She shook her head, almost pitying. “You’ve never seen him clearly. You see who he could be, not who he is. And I’m scared that while you’re waiting for him to catch up, your life is passing you by.”
I met her eyes. “I know exactly who he is. I didn’t marry him by accident.”
She gave a short, humorless laugh.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No,” I challenged. “You definitely want to say something.”
Melanie’s stare lingered, then went cold. “You married him out of revenge. You’ve had your rebellion, Michelle. It’s time to come home.”
The bitterness in her voice shook me. “That’s all you think this is—a rebellion? Melanie, I love him.”
“Love is a luxury we Carvers can’t afford.”
“Oh, stop with the cryptic Carver bullshit. Love doesn’t cost a dime. It just requires sacrifice.”
Any pretense dropped from the conversation. “You know what kills me, Michelle? You think you’re the only one who paid a price.”
My stomach turned. “What are you talking about?”
“You act like I wanted to marry James.” Her voice cracked just slightly.
“He’s my Donald Lavelle the Third. You think I dreamed of country clubs and cotillions and two kids to round out the perfect Christmas card?
You’re living my life, Michelle. Mine! I was supposed to be the outcast, the one Mother’s friends whispered about.
The one who married for love. But then you went rogue, and somehow, your destiny became mine. ”
“Melanie—”
“No, don’t,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t want to hear it. You left for love, Michelle. And left me here to clean up your mess. To hold up the name. To prove to everyone that the Carver girls weren’t a total disgrace.”
Her words came fast and ragged, the truth she’d been holding in all these years.
I fought the rising lump in my throat. “You could’ve chosen differently.”
She laughed with no humor. “No, I couldn’t. Because you already did.”
I stared at her, letting the words settle. Was that really true? Had Melanie been trapped by my freedom?
“You don’t owe them,” I said, treading lightly. “Why give up your own life for theirs?”
Her gaze sharpened.
“Because you wouldn’t.”
Melanie and I hadn’t ended on the best of terms, leaving me tossing and turning all night. I hadn’t even finished my morning coffee when the door swung open without so much as a knock. Only one person entered a room like she owned it.
Well, technically, she did own this one.
“Mother,” I said flatly.
Lydia Carver swept in, elegant as ever, with a slim folder dangling from her manicured fingers.
“I hope I’m not interrupting,” she said, which, of course, meant she knew she was and didn’t care. “But let’s talk husbands.”
I nearly choked on my coffee. “It’s been a week since I left him.”
“Time is of the essence, dear.” She smiled pleasantly, settling into the armchair like she was about to conduct a board meeting. “You’d be amazed how quickly opportunities vanish when one hesitates.”
I stared at the folder. “What is that?”
“Information,” she said, her voice light. “On a potential match.”
“You’re joking.”
“Do I ever?” She opened the folder and slid a glossy photograph across the table. “You’ll remember him—Graham Whittaker. His parents owned the vineyard up north.”
I blinked, the name stirring half-forgotten memories. I’d been a child the last time I remember seeing him. And he was a tall, lanky teenager with dark hair and a shy smile. “Graham? He’s not already married? That surprises me.”
“He was.” Mother’s lips curved. “But not anymore.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Do you know what happened?”
“Rumors of an affair. Hers, not his. But it was all tight-lipped.” She waved a hand dismissively, as though fleeing wives were a mild inconvenience. “Anyway, the divorce was finalized almost a year ago. He’s quite ready to move on.”
“How old is he?”
Mother checked her file. “Thirty-two. You see? He’s mature and accomplished. Perfect for you.”
“And he’s… on board with this?” I asked, my skepticism warranted. “This isn’t all being planned between you and his mother over afternoon tea?”
Her smile didn’t waver. “I assure you, Michelle. He’s aware of the arrangement and has expressed genuine interest. Obviously, he’ll want to meet you. See where your head is at.”
“My head,” I repeated, incredulous. “My head is all over the place, but my heart hasn’t budged.”
“Your heart has gotten you into enough trouble,” she said evenly. “As for the children, Graham has none of his own. A blessing, really. No competition, no divided loyalties. Just a clean slate.”
“You understand that Scott is not going to willingly disappear from his kids’ lives, right? You may hate him, and the two of us might not be on the best of terms at the moment, but no one can say that Scott isn’t an amazing father.”
She rose gracefully, smoothing her skirt. “I have no doubt he’s a fine father. But with you and the kids living on the East Coast, Scott may find it… difficult… to stay connected.”
The cruelty of it all. Yes, Scott was in the wrong, and he’d have to get his shit together before I’d allow him access to the kids again, but moving his children across the country, knowing what I did about his absolute loyalty to being a present father, made me ache for him.
I sat there staring at Graham’s photo, my pulse a slow, uncertain thud. He looked older, of course—and more accomplished—but a steady kindness lingered in his eyes. Exactly the type of man I used to think I wanted.
“I don’t think I’m ready to make a decision like this,” I said finally, setting the picture down. “It’s too soon. Everything’s too—”
Mother lifted a hand, cutting me off with that serene, patient smile.
“Darling, no one’s asking for a decision. It doesn’t hurt to meet him. To see if he’d even be an option.”
Her take was so reasonable that it was impossible to argue with.
I exhaled. “Fine. I’ll meet him. But that’s all.”
“Excellent. And you’re in luck—he flew in this morning.”
“Wait… he’s here? Already?”
“Of course he is. You’re a Carver. Not too often one of those comes on the market.” Mother clapped her hands once. Immediately, a woman appeared in the doorway, carrying a garment bag the color of champagne. “You’ll wear this tonight. Dinner at eight.”
It took some convincing for me to leave Keith and Emma in the care of Rosie, a trained nanny.
Scott and I didn’t have a reliable, extended family to watch our kids, so our date nights always included them.
Except for the night I spent in the hospital after giving birth to Emma, I’d never been away from my kids.
It felt reckless. Selfish. But the nanny came with colorful props, and the kids couldn’t say goodbye to me fast enough.
Graham Whittaker stood when I approached the table. I smoothed my hand down my dress in a self-conscious bid for composure, trying not to think about how much this would hurt Scott if he knew.
“Michelle Carver,” he said with a smile that was both familiar and disarming. “Or do you go by something else now?”
I smiled faintly, a little nervous. “McKallister. Though it’s complicated at the moment.”
“It always is,” he chuckled, offering his hand.
He looked good—better than I remembered, actually, with his dark hair and a body that fit nicely in his tailored suit. And he still had that modestly handsome thing, like he didn’t need to announce his presence.
“Thank you for meeting me,” he said as we sat. “I wasn’t sure if you’d actually come.”
“Neither was I,” I confessed.
Dinner started stiffly with talk of the weather and other intensely awkward things, but the moment that broke the ice was when he leaned in and lowered his voice conspiratorially.
“So, be honest,” he said. “Was this your idea or your mother’s?”
“My mother’s. What about you?”
“Same.” He grinned. “Mine called it ‘an elegant solution.’ I’m still trying to figure out what problem we’re supposedly solving.”
“Me,” I laughed. “I’m the problem. And according to my mother, you are the solution.”
“Oh, man,” he said, his eyes warm. “Then I feel sorry for you.”
We talked easily after that about the Vineyard summers, about how he’d traded wine country for finance and now spent his weekends on a sailboat trying to remember what joy felt like. There was something disarmingly honest about him.