Confessions on the 7:45(23)

A few more kids trickled in, headed for the donuts, then grabbed a space on one of the couches. They, too, settled in, took out notebooks and laptops. This was the most people she had seen here on a weekday afternoon. If it wasn’t for online sales, and the money that came from renting out the space for parties, meetings, book groups, Stella’s Pages would have gone out of business long ago. Charlie was good for the store. Good, it seemed, for Stella. And Pearl didn’t mind him either.

She wouldn’t let herself get attached.

The afternoon wound on. Pearl stocked the books on the front table reserved for big bestsellers. Then, she walked around with the feather duster—from literature to science fiction, from young adult to picture books. After she was done, she flopped into the overstuffed chair by the storefront window and worked on her homework.

Finally, it was growing dark and time to close up. Stella had not returned.

“I guess we’ll just meet her at home,” said Charlie, frowning at his phone. She’d watched him text a couple of times, then stare at his screen. She felt bad for him; this was probably the beginning. Stella was probably getting tired of him. Pearl knew the signs.

“We’ll carry in dinner,” he said.

They cashed out, locked up. Pearl took Stella’s tote along with her own bags and rode home in Charlie’s GTO. He was quiet, thoughtful. They stopped for burgers.

The lights were on upstairs as they pulled into the driveway. The smell of hamburgers and fries filled the interior of the car. Pearl saw a shadow in the window. Then her mother’s silhouette joined the form in an embrace. A new boyfriend, Pearl guessed.

Had Charlie seen it, too?

“You know,” he said, pushing up his glasses. He kept his eyes straight ahead. “Maybe just have your mom call me. If she wants.”

Pearl wasn’t sure what to say.

“Take the burgers,” he said quietly. “Make sure you both eat.”

He was pale in the streetlight, a muscle clenching in his jaw.

“I’m sorry,” said Pearl, exiting with her bags, her mom’s, the food. She took a hamburger from the sack and handed it to Charlie. When he reached for it, their eyes locked and he smiled; she smiled back. It was the closest she had ever come to feeling something for someone. Which she knew, distantly, was weird. But you can only be who you are.

She wanted to say something else, but he just waved her inside.

In the foyer, she heard music, her mother’s laughter wafting down the hall. Then, the rumble of a man’s voice. She looked back before shutting the front door. Charlie still idled in his car in front of the house. What was he doing? Just making sure she got inside safely.

She ate at the kitchen table alone, reading. The music from her mother’s room grew louder. After dinner, she cleaned up—loading the dirty breakfast dishes in the dishwasher, wiping down the counter. More laughter. An odd thudding.

She went up to her room, to finish her homework where it was quieter. Then the house grew silent again.

She was glad she hadn’t let herself get attached to Charlie.

But when she looked out her bedroom window just before turning out her lights to sleep, his car was still there.



TEN

Selena

Stephen and Oliver argued through dinner, fought as they all watched a movie, finally quieted down for a story, and took some parting shots at each other while they lay in their beds, Selena lying on the floor between them.

“Boys, be nice to each other,” she whispered in the night-light-dim room. On the ceiling, stars glowed green. She remembered sticking them up there with Graham. It took forever, both of them with aching arms and backs the next day. “Love each other.”

“Ew,” said Oliver.

“Shut up,” said Stephen.

“I’m one second from leaving this room,” warned Selena. They both quieted down at that, Oliver with a huff, turning his back. She felt the heat of Stephen’s stare. When he was smaller, he would watch her until his eyes closed finally for sleep.

The hard floor felt good on her aching back. The day had been brutal. It required herculean effort to pretend that everything was okay when your whole life was about to fall apart. The energy that it took to smile, to talk with clients, to put on the mask of normal; she was drained, cored out from the effort. Her networking lunch—all idle chatter and polite laughter and immobile botox faces, and designer handbags worn like shields—just about did her in. She’d left with a pounding headache.

“You okay?” asked Beth in the cab afterward.

Did she not seem okay? She really thought she was putting on a good front.

“Fine,” she lied. “Great.”

Selena hadn’t been sure what it would be like when one of your best friends was also your boss; but it worked. Mutual respect, compassion, teamwork, lots of laughs. Wasn’t it only men who implied that women couldn’t work well together? She’d never had a problem with female colleagues. In fact, quite the opposite. Any leg up she’d ever had professionally had been due to female mentors and friends.

“Just allergies,” Selena conceded. “My head is killing me.”

She and Beth had been friends a long time. They were publicists together in their twenties at a small publishing house, been through it all—boyfriends, breakups, the death of a parent, meeting the right guy, weddings, pregnancy, the birth of children, Beth’s divorce, and Michaela, the friend they’d lost to a sudden heart attack.