Always the Last to Know(77)

Just then, my phone beeped. I took it out. Another text from my loving boyfriend.

Please come, babe. I miss you!

Did he now?

On my way, I typed.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR





John


There was another woman. In the not-so long-ago, he had been with another woman.

John remembers her hard face, which he had thought was not pretty when they met. (A party? There was dancing.) But the face became prettier as she said things he liked, things Barb didn’t say anymore. He knows now he should have been smarter. That these were the things all bored old men want to hear. He thought he deserved those things. He was a man, and men should be told those things.

Handsome. Smart. Funny. Strong. Those were some of the feelings or words she had said.

He said things to that woman, and most of them were lies. He lied about Barb. He lied about his unhappiness being her fault when she had always worked so hard. He remembers how hard Barb tried to fit in, to be not so different, because she thought being from Minnesota made her less . . . something . . . than other women. He told that other woman about that, and they laughed. The hard-faced woman laughed at his wife, and John had been glad and it makes no sense now.

Now he remembers the meals Barb made, the cookbooks she bought, the vegetables she grew. How pretty their house was, how nice it always smelled. He remembers how loving she was with Juliet, how delighted Juliet made her.

Juliet. John knows he could have been a better father to her. He should have tried more. She is an important person in the world somehow. People know her. She is impressive.

That other woman, whose name he doesn’t remember, doesn’t want to remember, was like . . . like . . . like that plant that grows up a tree and chokes it. That invader. Invasive species, that’s it. Kudzu. The word flies into his brain. She was kudzu, taking over, blotting out the view, tangling, and he let her.

Words are flying back into his head. Unfaithful. Cheater. Liar.

Cliché.

When his friend came, the new friend with the hair like pieces of rope, he was so happy. She didn’t know him when he was wrong, when he was a liar and stupid. She only knows him the way he is now, and there is no disappointment or hope in her eyes, no expectation that he will be anything other than what he is. She talks to him and talks to him, and laughs. She is not pretty, not like his girls or Barb or even the other woman, but Janet—yes, her name is Janet—makes him feel at peace.

A fear seeps through him, its tentacles cold and coiling. That he has done something terrible by being sick, and his family needs him to be the father again, the husband, and that he will never be able to do this. That he has to fix something or his wife and daughters will never get . . . never be . . . never know . . .

The thought is gone.

Shame. Another word he knows now. He is ashamed of himself, for lying to Barb, about Barb. For telling the invasive species his wife was cold and self-absorbed. That she didn’t care about him anymore, didn’t want to talk to him, when he knows that he should’ve turned that knob and opened the door to the bathroom that day in the long-ago, held her close and cried with her. He knows in doing so, he could have changed the course of their lives.

That is the thought that won’t go away. He hears her crying in the bathroom as he sleeps, and when he wakes up, he is so sad.

There is something about a flower he has to tell Barb. Something important. Something that will fix things, but the flower floats away. It has to come back. He has to make it come back. He has to tell her about the flower, but LeVon makes him exercise and the bossy woman asks him to make sounds, and now he is trying, trying hard, because he has something important to say.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE





Sadie


I chose the restaurant in which I planned to dump Alexander, and I made sure it was as expensive as I could find, which was really saying something in New York City.

He was there already, handsome, charming . . . shithead.

“You look beautiful, as always,” he said, leaning in for a kiss. I gave him my cheek. The ma?tre d’ showed us to our table, which was in a corner, because Alexander always asked for a great table. The restaurant was everything I hoped it would be—sleekly decorated, Michelin starred, quiet, with well-dressed people murmuring and drinking.

I didn’t plan on murmuring, but first, I did want to order pretty much everything on the menu. Alexander, my soon-to-be ex-boyfriend, wasn’t getting out of here without bleeding money.

The waiter came over. “Hello!” I said, as was my way. “How are you tonight?”

“I’m quite well, signorina. My name is Luciano, and it is my pleasure to serve you tonight.”

“What a beautiful name,” I said. “Please tell your mom she chose well! Luciano, I’ll have the Fiorentino, please.” I pointed to the drink that cost, yes, forty-nine dollars. Only in New York, folks.

“I thought you didn’t like brandy,” Alexander said.

“I’ve grown and changed.” I smiled brightly. “What are you having, hon?” The endearment felt like poison on my lips.

“I’ll have the Dante,” he said.

“Very good, signore,” Luciano said.

“Oh, and we’ll have a bottle of Cristal with dinner, okay?” I said, smiling my sparkliest smile.