“Lauren,” he said, and sighed.
His ex-wife. Now I really was reeling. I had known she was younger, but Jack hadn’t exactly let on that the woman he had been married to was practically a goddess. I was pretty sure every beautiful blonde born in the ’80s was named Lauren. I thought of all the Laurens in Caroline’s class.Caroline’s class. I glimpsed myself in the mirror over the chest and suddenly saw myself again as I had for all those years. The lines around my mouth and eyes, the bit of gray starting to peek through at my part line where it needed to be colored. The way the tops of my arms weren’t as defined and shapely as they’d once been.
This girl standing in there with Jack was young enough to be my daughter. It didn’t matter how much I loved him or how much I fought for him or how much he acted like he loved me. He was a man. His future with her would be the breathtaking, uphill climb where you’re full of excitement and anticipation. His life with me would be the screaming and terror on the way back down.
I was trying to figure out if I could sneak out the front door without them noticing me. They were so caught up in the melodrama happening in the living room, I could probably be stabbed to death upstairs, and no one would even hear my screams.
I turned and started toward the door, but when Jack said, “Lauren, I have given you everything you want. Just sign the papers,” I stopped.
Sign the papers. The papers?
“But that’s just it, Jack. I don’t want your money. I want you. I want the way you always took my hand when we walked and the way you held me close to you at night. I want the way you would look at me across a crowded room and I would know that I was yours. I want to make you poached eggs in the morning and read the paper together. I want—”
As if something from outside of me had taken over, I found myself in the doorway. Lauren’s back was to me, but Jack was facing me, and when I cut her off, saying, “You aren’t divorced?” they both turned to look at me.
“Who are you?” Lauren asked, as Jack was saying, “Ansley, it isn’t like that.”
“It isn’t like what?” Lauren asked.
All these thoughts were streaming through my mind, fighting to get out. But all I could do was repeat, “You aren’t divorced?” I could feel the blush in my face, and I knew I was practically purple by that point.
Before Jack could answer, Lauren said, “Wait a minute. This isAnsley?”
I wanted to defend myself in some way, maybe defend Jack. I wanted to say,You should see me when I’m dressed with my makeup on. I didn’t, of course. I just stood there, mouth agape, like an idiot, trying to make sense of the fact that Jack was still married and that, even more shocking, he was married to this beautiful blond giraffe.
I couldn’t stay here. I couldn’t hear any more, couldn’t process any more.
I turned to walk away, with Jack calling “Ansley!” behind me.
I heard Lauren say, “Jack, let her go.”
And in that moment, as my feet hit the wooden front porch, the glass-paned storm door slamming behind me, I had the sinking feeling that since he was still married to her, it was possible that Jack could do exactly that.
TWENTY-TWO
emerson: wife material
The first few moments after waking up are always the best of the day. In the silence, the mind heavy with sleep, we can forget everything. We can forget that we helped end our grandmother’s life or that our father is dead. We can forget that our mom’s fiancé is our sisters’ dad and that our entire lives have changed in an instant. We can forget we are fighting with our mother or that we had a moment with our barista the day before that was way too intense for an engaged girl.
I didn’t often wake up in the morning with my head still on Mark’s chest, but this morning, I did. I must have slept really hard, and he must have, too. It was quite the feat that we got to sleep together at all, but since I wasn’t speaking to my mother, it didn’t make much sense to go home. Since Mark’s mother was sleeping in the room next door, I was going to have to climb out the window later. But it was really no big deal. I had perfected climbing out this window about a decade earlier.
“Only eighteen days until you’re mine, all mine,” Mark said.
I smiled and stretched, savoring the sight of the sliver of sun that peeked through the crack in the curtains. “Yay!” I said as quietly and enthusiastically as possible.
I didn’t want to bring up bad things this early in the morning, but I also couldn’t stand the thought of being apart from Mark the day after we got married. Filming started the day after that, so I had to go back to LA to get my ducks in a row.
“Will you please, please, come to LA for a few weeks? Please?”
He kissed my head. “Only if you promise me we can take a proper honeymoon as soon as you’re finished filming.”
I kissed him on the lips. “I positively promise.”
He kissed me again, this time deeper, and I giggled. “Shhhh,” he said. “You have to be really, really quiet.”
“I can do that,” I whispered back.
It was a perfect morning in every way—except, of course, that Mom and I weren’t speaking. But I was an excellent compartmentalizer and kept pushing that thought away as soon as it came.
