Eight Hundred Grapes (4)

I went to the pedestal by the window, striking a bit of a pose. Stella smiled, and egged me on. Put your hands on your hips, she said, enjoying the happy stares we were getting from people walking down the street.

Then I saw my fiancé walking down the street.

Ben was walking down the street with a woman I didn’t know. And not just any woman. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, with long red hair, a stunning smile. A matching version of the woman—redheaded and tiny, four or five years old—was by the woman’s side. But the woman outside the bridal shop window was the one who caught my eye.

I recognized her from somewhere, but it would take me a minute to place the where. Stella would actually place her for me. My fiancé was the side note.

And that wasn’t the biggest problem.

The biggest problem was what happened when I knocked on the window, failing to get Ben’s attention.

I was excited for him to turn around. I was excited to see Ben’s face—his strong jaw and cheekbones, a dimple that made no sense. I figured there was a reasonable explanation for what he was doing there with the woman. We’d spent that morning in bed together, in our home together, eating peach French toast. Laughing, getting naked. We were getting married in eight days. We were madly in love.

But Ben didn’t hear me. He kept walking, toward Sunset Junction. The woman was happily walking by his side, her mini-me by hers.

The woman leaned into him, into my fiancé, putting her hand on the small of his back, like it belonged there. And it jerked me forward, and out onto the street, wearing my un-hemmed wedding dress.

I gripped the lace in my hands, making sure the un-hemmed part didn’t hit the dirty street. Stella ran out into the street after me.

“Ben!” I called his name.

Ben turned around. As did the woman. And her little girl.

And then I knew how I recognized the woman, holding her daughter’s hand, as Stella said her name. Michelle Carter. The famous British actress. On the cover of so many American magazines. Close up she was light and lean, like a leaf. Like a pickle.

Ben looked at me. The woman looked at me. The little girl looked at Ben.

“Daddy,” she said.

Let me stop there.

With what Maddie said.

To Ben.

Let me stop there before Stella bent down and bustled as much of the lace as she could—my eyes holding on the little girl, the beautiful little girl, her eyes holding on mine. People stopping on the street, staring at Michelle, pointing.

Ben was moving toward me, completely panicked. Three words coming out of his mouth, but maybe not the words you’d think. Not: I am sorry. Not: It isn’t true. Not: I can explain.

Just this. As though it was all he could see. And if it was, does that count for anything?

“You look beautiful,” he said.



Ten hours later, I took off my satin heels and headed up the stairs, holding my dress so I wouldn’t slip, moving quickly to the safety of my room.

My phone rang again, vibrating through the house.

“Don’t hang up,” Ben said.

“Didn’t we just do this?”

“You answered, didn’t you? A part of you wants to hear what I have to say.”

He wasn’t wrong. There was a way to turn off the phone. I hadn’t done it. I hadn’t been able to. Part of me wanted Ben to tell me a story that would make this all okay, that would make him familiar again.

I sat down on the staircase, my dress billowing out to the sides.

“You need to understand, I didn’t even know about Maddie until a couple of months ago . . .” he said.

“Your daughter?”

He paused. “Yes. My daughter.”

“How old is she, Ben?”

“Maddie is four and a half.”

He emphasized the half and I knew why. We had been together for five years. The half meant she was conceived before me, before us.

“I obviously wasn’t going to keep this a secret forever, but it’s complicated with Michelle,” he said. “And I wanted to smooth that part of this out before I dragged you into it.”

“Complicated how?”

He paused. “That’s complicated.”

I stood up again. I’d had enough—enough of Ben’s non-explanation, enough of my heart pounding in my throat.

“Look, I just don’t want you to do anything rash. We’re getting married in a week.”

“I’m not so sure about that, at the moment.”

He got quiet. “That’s what I mean by rash,” he said.

He sounded devastated. And the problem was that it reminded me of the first time I’d spoken to him. My law firm had just signed Ben as a client and I called to introduce myself shortly after his bike was stolen. I didn’t know this about him yet, but Ben had owned that bike for ten years. It was less his preferred mode of transportation and more . . . an appendage. And still, by the end of our conversation, he was joking, happy. His bike, and his sorrow, a thing of the past. Because of me, he said. And, even now, there was a huge part of me that wanted to make him feel that good again.

“Where are you?” he said. “Let me come talk to you in person.”

I was at the top of the stairs. Maybe because Ben asked where I was, I looked around. My bedroom was to the left—the door wide open. My parents’ bedroom was to the right.