Once he’s gone, which is shortly thereafter, I dive back into my work, but Jack’s words nag at me, insinuating themselves into the sentences on my computer screen.If only you were as confident as your advice.It reminds me of something I’ve heard, or perhaps read, somewhere, but I can’t seem to figure out what or where. It bothers me. I don’t forget things that feel important, and this oddly does.
I shake off the silly nagging thought that leads me nowhere but late to finish my work.
So much so that my stomach rumbles, and I’m forced to grab my leftovers from the break room fridge. I down what’s left of my enchiladas with a diet soda. That doesn’t mean I diet. I don’t. I like my french fries and pizza. I simply dislike syrupy-sweet drinks. As for my eating habits, my mother didn’t have high cholesterol until she was forty. I have some time to enjoy what I eat.
Once I’ve finally sent the presentation to Kara’s inbox, I gather my things, and while I’d normally linger to enjoy the sounds the books whisper in my ears, I blink and I’m already on the escalator, thinking about the illusion of eating badly not affecting my health later in life,not because I’m worried about that illusion or my french fries. What I’m worried about is the larger illusion that might be in my life—one where my rock-solid parents are more brittle glass with a broken future.
I’m reminded of a book I read once. The main protagonist was a woman who was convinced she was blessed to be in the perfect marriage. Her life was a fairy tale until it wasn’t, until every truth she knew unraveled and became nothing but lies. Perfect was an illusion. I believe everyone’s story is riddled with illusion, and a big portion of that illusion is of our own making. Some might say that fiction allows you to hide from reality, to live inside a world of perfection rather than face your own illusions. Perhaps my father is also hiding from the illusion of a perfect marriage, too absorbed in self-hate to see anything but it, including my mother.
I blink and, without ever remembering the decision to do so, end up on floor two in the self-help section, specifically the relationship categories. Titles here range fromWho’s Cheating on WhoandThe Wrong BedroomtoBroken Marriage. I grab a book calledOpen Your Eyesthat seems to be more about healing relationships than placing blame. I could easily blame my mother, but a lot of that is my own dirty history with her.
My father survived humiliation of a professional nature. To survive betrayal on the most personal level is another beast—and a brutal one at that. I’m not sure how he’ll survive her cheating. I mean, what would it feel like to trust someone, to feel you know them, and know them well, and later discover they are leading a double life? I can’t imagine trusting someone completely and finding out they are not the person you believed them to be at all.
I stop at the top of the escalator leading to floor one, where the hectic beats of a busy lobby have become absolute calm. I wait, watching below, expecting something to happen when I don’t remember ever expecting anything but the joy of peace and quiet. I step on the escalator, that feeling expanding inside me for no good reason. Logically, I tellmyself it’s because I’m unsettled, but as my eyes fall on the seat where the dark-haired man had sat and watched me, my mind conjures a different take on that experience. Why wasn’t I invisible to him? Maybe my mother’s potential affair simply has my mind far removed from floor three and the romance section, but, rethinking the experience, it now feels a bit creepy.
Suddenly the silence inside the library is stifling, and I can’t travel quickly enough to the exit.
Chapter Nine
Once I’m outside, in a coolish seventysomething Nashville September evening, that uneasy feeling fades. The high energy of a city that never sleeps replaces the quiet as a bus blasting loud music drives by, the party guests screaming to all who might hear. I barely do anymore. When you live and work downtown, it all becomes white noise. Even on Friday night, when we become a whole other level of party city. Beneath the rowdiness, though, are culture, good food, and, for me, everyone and everything about my life I love.
My walk is short, a whole two blocks, and I stop in front of a used bookstore, as my loft is above the retail area. Three years ago this past June, I was living in a high-rise apartment not far from here. I’d chosen a high floor, as it felt safer, but the elevator wait was forever, and it was not a fun way to deal with groceries. I’d been considering buying a small house, like Jack, only closer to downtown than his place, which is a fifteen-minute ride daily, and I considered it with such seriousness that Jess and Jack were tolerating each other to help me look for a place. I’d started the process feeling as if I’d earned this step in my life. After all, I was at the top of my pay scale without changing jobs. I was in a stable, happy place in my career in general. I dived into the hunt bubbling with excitement, only to discover that everything I found was small and expensive, and defeat clawed at me as imminent. Then oneday at lunch, Jess and I had been out walking and the FORRENTsign had caught my attention.
She must have seen my eyes light up, reacting instantly, pulling me around to her. “No. This will be loud, cheap, and not yours.”
“I can’t afford a house I want where I want it.”
“I told you to spread your wings to other areas of the city.”
“I like being a walkable distance to work.”
“Move back in with me.”
“We’re grown-ass women, Jess.”
“I know that, but you can save money and buy the same house outright. You know I don’t touch my inheritance. I’ll pay for half.”
My heart had squeezed both with the generous offer and for the truth in those words. Shereallynever touches that money, and yet she hasn’t donated it, either. Jess owns a nice house, drives a nice car, and wears designer clothes, but she’s earned it by being darn near famous at this point in her career. Sometimes I think she holds on to it to hold on to the connection it represents to her parents. Other times I think the connection it holds to her family disgusts her as much as they did.
One day we’ll figure out what she needs to do with that money, or she will, and I’ll just be there to support her, but it won’t be spent on me. I’d squeezed her arm. “Jess, I love you. I do. Thank you, but no.” I’d grabbed the FORRENTsign, and the rest was history. Now, years later, the owners of the bookstore are thinking about selling it and the building, and I’ve saved enough to make all of this mine officially. But there is no way I’d leave the library to run the store, so soon I’ll be house hunting again.
I unlock and open the building door, locking up behind me. I ignore the glass doors to the store and head right a few steps, then up a set of stairs. My door is the only one at the top of the climb, and I quickly enter my loft, walking straight up the black steel staircase to the bedroom, which overlooks the living area and kitchen. I plop down on the bed, set my bag beside me, and kick off my shoes.
My phone buzzes in my purse, and based on the distinct sound of that buzz I heard earlier, I’m fairly confident it’s the dating app. The dating app I shouldn’t even be registered for—Thank you, Jess. I shake my head and ignore it, pushing to my feet and heading to the bathroom.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m in pajamas and on the bed, with my MacBook open, when Jess appears in my instant messages.
Have you looked through your messages yet?
Of course she means from the dating app.
No, I reply.I haven’t decided to even do this.
Please, she replies.
That word,please, is the start of a bigger push. She knows it. I know it. History knows it. My cellphone rings, and I answer with, “Tomorrow,” though I’m already loading the app on my Mac. “I had to work late. I need to unwind and watch some HGTV orBeat Bobby Flay.”
“You’re such a geek, woman.”
