His expression crumples a little. He tries to hide it, scratching the corner of his eye. But his eyes water when he brings his hand back.
“Hey—are you okay?” I ask gently.
“Allergies.”
“Liar.”
“Just got a text from my attorney. The divorce is final.”
“Oh—I’m... sorry.”
He shrugs. “It is what it is. It had to happen. It’s just—it’s been ten years, and it’s not how I wanted things to turn out.”
“If you need to talk, I’ll be here.”
“I know you will be, Lizzie.”
I give him a minute. It’s difficult to know what to say. I’ve been aware there were problems for years, but still my chest tightens in pain for him.
“I guess I’d better go. I’m going to try to make yoga class tonight, and then I’ve got these letters to sort through and a batshit romance book to finish.” He’s trying to be cheerful, but I hear the heaviness in his voice.
“Just take care of yourself, Henry. Please.”
“I will.”
After we hang up, I stare at my phone. His is not the same grief as mine, but this will be hard. There’s no easy way through loss of any kind. I’d give anything for him to have a Ms. Fernsby at his side now, with a listening ear and steaming cups of tea.
@BluestockingBadass:A tryst with a hot optometrist in an office chair? @ADHemmings even you can do better. #womenreadersaresmarterthanthis
Six Years Earlier
New Year’s Eve
We invited Henry and Ginger over for New Year’s Eve on a whim.
Although neither of us is a party animal, Philip and I always spent previous years at his law firm’s downtown gala. There, Philip mingled with local judges while I sipped champagne and tugged awkwardly at my satin opera gloves, grateful this was the one and only time of year I’d be expected to wear them. Fortunately, this year, two-month-old Heathcliff gave us an excuse to bow out. Our holiday has been a long, sleepless stretch of pajamas, Netflix, breastmilk, poopy diapers, and takeout. (It’s amazing how comfortable we’ve become with baby poop.) But it’s been sweet nonetheless—bonding with this squalling tiny creature the universe thrust into our arms to love and keep alive.
Now, as I pump breastmilk in the den while Philip puts together a charcuterie board in the kitchen, I feel nothing but gratitude for our little family and this low-key evening with friends. Henry and Ginger snuggle Heathcliff in the living room, and I relish a few minutes alone.
Maybe it’s the postpartum hormones, but I tear up staring at our hybrid Christmas tree of everything Midwest and Southern. A little train runs around the tree base, circling a ceramic snowy village, the scene Dickensian and vintage except for the little cousin Eddie figurine in his bathrobe. (Philip’s touch.) University of South Carolina football ornaments and an artsy blown-glass set from Mirabel dangle from the branches. A large shiny “Baby’s First Christmas” bulb from Patrick hangs near the tree’s star. Every decoration gestures to the life Philip and I’ve built together these past eight years.
Although Heathcliff must be hungry, I can’t help but stop in the kitchen, where Philip arranges the smoked meat and aged cheeses. I hug him from behind, nuzzling my cheek against his warm back. He turns around with a half smile. “What’s that for?”
“I just love you. I really, really do.”
He gives me a lingering kiss as he opens the olive jar.
I sigh happily, tightening the breast milk bottle cap, and walk to the living room.
I never see Henry as much as Philip does, and I haven’t had more than passing conversations with Ginger. She’s niceenough, but I’m not sure we’ll ever be close friends. She’s an active member of the Junior Service League and loves everything monogrammed. Even her beer koozies.
“It’s all your fault,” she hisses angrily.
I pause uncomfortably in the doorway. They’re standing near the fireplace, in front of the draped garlands. A sleeping Heathcliff snuggles against Ginger’s chest.
“I’ve said I’m sorry a million times,” Henry says.
“I’d still have my Zoie if you hadn’t been fiddle-faddling around with your tackle box.”
