I had prepared everything in advance. I knew I’d find my bag packed and the approval letter waiting inside it, and that she probably expected me to leave the keys and signed copies of our agreement in her mailbox.
When I unlocked the back door that led from the street into my workshop, the first thing I saw standing next to one of the folding tables I had set up weeks ago was my packed bag. The letter approving my status was in it, as was my carefully wrapped macchinetta. After a few rounds of carrying everything, it was an empty room again, and my car’s trunk was full.
From the back seat, I took the things I had brought with me and climbed upstairs.
Two things struck me at once when I entered the studio—the smell of cinnamon and blood oranges and the disorganized space. Relatively speaking.
The bed was rumpled, two cold, half-finished cups of tea stood on the bedside table, dishes in the sink, and a wedding invitation for January Raine and Oliver Madden with today’s date on the kitchen table. Next to it was a rumpled note in unfamiliar handwriting.
“Glad you’re feeling better. Brought more matcha and food to hold it down. Call me any time. Rio.”
She had been sick.In sickness and in health, June. My June, who had chosen this date so she wouldn’t be home when I arrived.
I left the documents on the counter, along with everything else. I then washed the dishes, including her mugs; rearranged the bed, though none of her hotel-staff level tucking; inhaled her scent as if I could take it with me; and then locked the door and left the keys in her mailbox.
Back in my apartment in San Francisco, I found her wedding ring in the inner pocket of my packed bag.
With this ring, I thee divorce.
I put it in my jeans pocket, next to mine.
Nice try, June.
35
June
Sore eyes, sore heart. Not the best way to enjoy your sister’s wedding, but that was me.
I knew that, at some point—while I was chatting to wedding guests, showing Amy Locke, who was the caterer, where to put things, and catching up with my nephews—Angelo would be in my building again, perhaps even in my apartment. My exhausted heart would give anything to be there with him, but my safety valves—fear and rationality—were still winning.
Eventually, he’d find the ring.
I was screwed up enough to have put it there, and even more so to maintain a speck of hope that he wouldn’t find it so I could take it all back.
That was me these days—internal turmoil ping-ponging me all over the place. My careful emotional balance was shot to all hell, along with the white-knuckle grip I’d had over my life.
Oliver’s beach house in Wayford was the perfect setting for the wedding. January was radiant, even more than you would expect a bride-to-be, and the whole family was together.
I spent half an hour catching up with Will and Lennox on college and their life and got to meet their significant others.
“No plus one, Auntie June?” Lennox whispered while his boyfriend was deep in conversation with Will and his fiancée. He’d added theauntieplayfully. My nineteen-year-old nephew seemed concerned about me.
“I’ll get me one of those for the next wedding.” I jutted my chin toward Will and Stephanie, who were probably going to be next.
Lennox laughed. “I’m sure he or she will be worth the wait. You won’t settle for less than perfection.”
Now it was my turn to laugh. And I did. But the last part hurt. Angelo had said the exact same thing. He didn’t know that, to me, he was imperfectly perfect.
“You look so beautiful,” I told my sister, smoothing a hand over her dress. To my horror, I had tears in my eyes.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. Just … great!” I tried to smile.
“June …”
“I dropped the ball, January.”
