Then, as we all stood on the porch, they turned and saw us.
CHAPTER 13
Frankie
If I could only explain to Jillian, if I could only get five minutes with her to properly apologize and show her it would never happen again!
As my parents walked up to the coffee shop, trailed by an assortment of servants, I watched with horror as Christabelle stepped in front of them.
“Welcome!” she caroled. “You two are looking soo good, neither of you look a day over 36! I’m so happy to see you both!”
I was struck silent with abject shame and humiliation.
I had blown up my marriage, caused pain to my wife, and fucked up my lifeover a woman who wanted me for my money.
All those flirty texts, the talk about how she had never forgotten me. . .all lies.
And I remembered the unpleasant scene when we’d broken up.
“Look, Frankie, you’re a nice guy. A sweet guy. But really I’m more the tall, dark, and handsome type. The kind of guy who could crush a mailbox with his bare hands.”
“Why would I want to crush a mailbox with my bare hands?” I asked, but she was gone, leaving me with a broken heart.
Or what I thought was a broken heart.
It was nothing to the pulse-pounding panic I felt now knowing Jillian was angry at me and had not forgiven me.
My parents had recently been in the news too. The purchase of their third yacht had been featured on some stupid lifestyle TV show.
And, coincidentally enough, I had heard from Christabelle for the first time in ten years after that.
Idiot. I had been a stupid, self-absorbed, cocky idiot.
God, the absolute last thing I would ever want, was my parents to know what was happening and how I had screwed up.
“Look, Claudette, a talking crab,” my father said, and by his tone it was not a welcome development.
My mother’s nose turned up as if she had smelled something foul.
“Step aside, crab person,” she said imperiously.
But Christabelle wasn’t to be dissuaded so easily.
“Oh, you probably just don’t recognize me in this stupid costume,” she said, peeling it off her. “Look, it’s me. Christabelle. Don’t you remember me?”
When they both said nothing, Christabelle added “I used to date your son? Frankie?”
“I cannot recall,” Dad said, waving his hand impatiently. “He dated so many forgettable women in college. I really cannot be bothered to remember them all.”
“Now, excuse us,” Mom said cuttingly, “Move aside, crab person. We would like to see our darling daughter-in-law.”
Christabelle’s jaw dropped and I saw that she had made a severe miscalculation, which was that my parents would somehow have nostalgia for the time we were together.
But she could not have been more wrong.
My parents moved around Christabelle impatiently and held both arms out to Jillian. My father’s craggy old face was lit up like a Christmas tree, and he was already reaching into hispockets for the little velvet boxes that held the type of presents he always bought for Jillian.
“It’s only thethirdbiggest emerald in the world,” he said, almost apologetically. “But my dear it had such a shine! It reminded me so much of your eyes and had such a unique cut, that I had to get it.”
