If You Only Knew(62)

“No,” he answers. “I was, for a while. A nice woman named Alice. We lived together for a while, but...” He shrugs.

“So no heartbreak?” I ask.

“I didn’t say that.” He smiles a little. “She’s a good person. We just weren’t right for each other. We’re still friends.”

“My sister and her ex are still friends,” I say. “I don’t really understand how that works.”

“It has its awkward moments.” He pauses, but it’s still there, the happiness that we all so loved back in the day. The notion that Gus Fletcher never had a bad day in his life. Naive, but reassuring. “Your daughters are beautiful, by the way. Even when they’re snarling.”

“Sorry Grace bit you,” I say, feeling a smile start.

“It was a first. I’ll be Tweeting it later.” He takes a sip of coffee, his eyes still merry.

“So my husband had an affair,” I say.

“Ah, shit.” His smile drops.

And then I’m telling him everything. The Picture, the denial, the guilt over what I thought, how I just knew when I saw them in the same room. The rage, the fear, the awful, unbearable hurt, the escalator fantasy, which actually makes him laugh. Me, too.

I don’t cry. I just talk. And Gus lets me. I talk for forty-five minutes, according to the clock. And when I’m done, he covers my hand with his, gives it a squeeze and takes it back. “I’m so sorry” is all he says, and those smiley eyes are kind.

“I’m sorry I unloaded on you.”

“I’m not sorry about that.”

He has such a nice face. I wonder what would’ve happened if he’d asked me out a week before he did. Of all my coworkers, I had always liked Gus the best.

Well. No point in going there.

Fifteen minutes later, Gus leaves. “Thank you for everything,” I say, and my voice breaks a little, because the magnitude of his loveliness today, his helpfulness and kindness, hits me in a warm wave.

“I’m really glad I was driving by,” he says, and I can tell he means it. “Tell the girls thanks for exploding like that.” Another smile flashes. “Call me if you ever need your car cleaned again.”

Then he leaves, and that night, around nine, when Adam is watching the Yankees and I’m looking at Pinterest, thinking about repainting our bedroom, I get an email.

It’s from Gus. His phone number, and the words It really was great to see you.

Jenny

Since opening Bliss, I’ve booked eleven brides. I’ve also made the decision to sell a few of the sample dresses. I never had a storefront before¸ and now it seems silly to have eight dresses in the shop that aren’t for sale. As Andreas so wisely pointed out—between writing chapters of his lurid urban fantasy/gay erotica—the impulse buy ain’t gonna hurt.

And so I’ve designed a few more dresses, and the two of us have been sewing till our eyes bleed, more or less. We spend many happy hours discussing whether our celebrity crushes are gay or straight and how they’d be in bed. He tells me about his novel, his boyfriend and how he wishes he knew a straight man or two for me.

The extra work helps keep my mind off Rachel, too. It’s been tooth-grinding, not being able to help her out of her misery. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve plotted my brother-in-law’s death. Then I’m filled with guilt and remorse, because until very recently, I loved Adam. He made my sister so happy.

Now she’s dodging my calls.

“What’s wrong with Rachel?” Mom asks one day when I can’t find a reason for her not to come to the store. She wanders around, idly fingering material, clucking disapprovingly here and there. Andreas, who confuses her—A man? In bridal wear? But why?—has brought her a cup of coffee and leans against the counter, drinking it all in for his novel. He’s basing a character on her.

“I don’t know,” I lie. “She seems fine to me. We had so much fun with the girls the other day.” In fact, I was babysitting; Rachel barely said a word to me, so distracted and pale. “They came to my apartment, and I made them a pillow fort, and Rose—”

“Do you think Grace is autistic?”

This is my mother. Able to suck joy from the conversation in under one second.

“No,” I say firmly.

“Well, something’s going on with your sister. God knows what she has to complain about. She has a perfect life. She shouldn’t take anything for granted. I had a perfect life, too, once, and then it was gone in an instant. I told her to get over her little snit, whatever it is, and be grateful.”

I take a cleansing breath at that. Andreas practically skips into the workroom to his laptop, inspired.

“Maybe you just don’t remember what it was really like, Mom,” I say mildly, though my stomach burns. “Maybe it wasn’t quite so perfect, and you’ve just—”

“Oh, please. Your father and I were madly in love. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other.”

First of all, yuck. What kid wants to hear about their parents’ sex life, even—or especially—as an adult? Secondly, because I just can’t stand this kind of revisionist history, I say, “Yeah, but remember that last year? You were working so much, and Dad—”

“Are you jealous? Is that it, honey? Because of Owen and Ana-Sofia and how happy they are?”