Mrs. Fletcher(98)

“Maybe,” I said. “Unless I decide to go back to school.”

It was weird—until I said those words, I hadn’t even realized that I was thinking about maybe giving college another try. But I’d been feeling kinda down these past few weeks, listening to Wade and Troy and all my other buddies talk about how excited they were to get back to their dorms, back to their friends and their classes and the parties. It was hard to believe they’d just pack up their shit and leave me stranded in Haddington, doomed to a lifetime of installing water heaters and fixing leaky U-joints.

“You should definitely go back,” Gareth said. “I transferred three times before I got to Ithaca. You just gotta find the right fit.”

“I don’t know what my dad tells you,” Katie said, “but he never liked his job. He always said that he wished he’d gotten his bachelor’s.”

“Maybe I’ll fill out some applications,” I said. “Just to see what happens.”

“You’ll get in somewhere decent,” Katie said, and we all drank to that, and then to some other stuff, and we kept going until the bottle was empty and everything was pretty much a blur.

*

The guests continued to smile at Eve, beaming that united front of love and approval, but some confusion had begun to creep into their expressions, a collective unspoken question: Is something wrong? The Gray-Aires had been singing for a while now, so why wasn’t she moving? Why was she still standing on the patio, strangling that bouquet with her fists? What was she waiting for?

Go, she told herself, but her feet remained rooted in place.

The singers forged ahead with the second verse, though they sounded a little less confident than they had on the first. The quizzical look on George’s face had deepened into outright worry, and maybe even fear.

He’s a good man, Eve reminded herself.

There had been only one genuinely troubling moment in their relationship, a tiny blip on an otherwise unblemished record of happiness. It had happened a few months ago, maybe the fourth or fifth time they’d slept together, and it was not something she wanted to be thinking about right now, with the sun shining and everyone dressed so beautifully, and the rented minister trying so hard not to look impatient.

The sex had been especially good that night, Eve on top, which was the way they preferred it. They’d found a groove, sweet and slow, and their eyes were locked together. It seemed to her that they’d moved beyond physical pleasure to a place of deeper intimacy, a place where their truest selves connected.

Oh, God, he told her. I can’t believe this is really happening.

It’s amazing, she agreed.

Eve, he said. I’ve been dreaming about you for so long.

About me?

Fuck yeah, he grunted, in a voice that seemed jarring to her. It was harsher than usual, and maybe even a little angry, as if he were speaking through gritted teeth. You’re my MILF!

Eve stopped moving. A chill spread through her body, the memory of something unpleasant.

Excuse me? she said. What did you say?

He opened his mouth to reply, but then caught himself.

Nothing, he told her. It’s not important.

That was the whole incident, just a few words in the middle of some otherwise great sex. It broke their rhythm for a few seconds, but then they found it again. When they were done, Eve thought about revisiting the matter, but what was she going to do, ask him point-blank if he’d sent her a creepy anonymous text back when they barely knew each other, back when his wife was dying and his father was losing his mind? And what if he’d said, Yes, that was me. What would she have done then? Where would she be now?

It was nothing, really, just a passing shadow, and Eve had lived long enough to know that it was foolish to worry about a shadow. Everybody had one; it was just the shape your body made when the sun came out. Her own was visible at that very moment, a familiar dark figure skimming the ground, moving slowly over the length of the shimmering carpet, leading her to the man she loved.