Kendall smirks. “He is shit, though.”
Shaking my head, I pull her back in for another hug. “He is,” I admit. “But good or bad, he is your father, and you’ll have to deal with him at some point. I’m not saying now, because that’s bad form on his part, but eventually, Kendall, you will have to look at him, and despite everything he’s said and done to you, you’ll have to forgive him. Not for him. For you. For you, honey.” I sigh. If only I could take that advice. Only minutes ago, I was basking in the glow of the possibility with Aidan, and once again Paul has dragged me back down to planet Earth. Reality.
“Maybe on my deathbed. Or his,” Kendall replies, pulling out of my grasp. She sits on my bed hard, bouncing, her hands tucked under her thighs. The eyes on the Mickey Mouse shirt move up and down as she bobs, and the pit returns to my stomach.
Swallowing hard, I tell her, “Go get dressed. We can stop by the coffee shop for tea and pastries before we go to the hardware store. That sound okay?”
Kendall wipes under her eyes. “Thanks, Mom. I’m sorry I had to tell you that. I didn’t want him to spring it on you. Better from me than him.”
“When did you get so old and wise?” I ask, smiling sadly. Approaching her, I tuck her hair behind her ears like I did a million times when she was a wild toddler. “I’m okay, honey. I promise. My stomach wasn’t feeling good all night. I think it’s why I slept so poorly.”
“My therapist says it’s part of the process. Putting my feelings aside to think about what others might be feeling. And since there’s no way I’m putting myself into his smelly shoes, I’d rather put myself into yours. I’m sorry, Mom. I was so wrapped up in what I saw.” She looks off and enters the dark place I hate with a violent passion. “And how that made me feel, that I didn’t stop to think how awful it would feel to actually be married to a man who did that.”
There are moments when your children speak, and you realize a level of maturity developed that wasn’t there only days, perhaps moments, before. This is one of those moments, and I’m not prepared for it. Not prepared for it because Kendall is moving through the grief process more eloquently than I am. Sure, it was my marriage, but for all intents and purposes, she lost the father she thought she had. “I love you, baby. Thank you for that,” I say, kissing the top of her head. “I’m doing great. Don’t worry about me, okay? I’m so over it. The past is the past.”
She hops off my bed and skips out of my room, lighter than when she entered. My heart is a little darker for it, but that’s okay. I’ll take it if it means she doesn’t have to carry it. I allow myself to cry in the shower, the hot water splashing around me to hide the emotions I’m trying to bottle up. Pamela didn’t just take my husband, she stole the happiness I thought I had. I take my time cleaning my body. With every glide of the razor on my legs, I find new resolve. A steely mission to not let their marriage affect my life.
I paste the smile on my face, the one that tells everyone I’m okay, when I meet Kendall in the kitchen. Then again when I order our drinks at the café, and still when I’m at the hardware store. I pretend to be okay while I laugh and paint the float with my daughter. I tell her how beautiful she looks as I zip up her cheerleading uniform in the locker room and watch her boardthe parade float. I smile and wave to her and her friends, my grin wide and encouraging.
When Kendall sets off, the float disappearing into the distance to the sound of the marching band, the charade ends. I know Kendall is safe with her friends and heading to Jenny’s directly following the conclusion of the parade. I retreat to Magnolia’s Steals, and surrounded by thousands of stories from the past, both happy and sad, I fall apart completely.
FIVE
Aidan
Magnolia didn’t respondto my texts asking if we were still on for tonight, but that didn’t stop me from driving to her store. When I arrive at Magnolia’s Steals, I hear the stereo blasting before I enter the lilac-hued two-story house. The “closed” sign is in the window, but the door is unlocked. I enter as quietly as possible, closing and locking the door behind me. The scent of wood polish and lavender hit me at once. It’s a scent that I’ll associate with Magnolia from this moment forward. It’s not strong, it’s a perfect blend.
As I take in my surroundings, my heart begins pounding out a staccato. Following the loud music brings me to a back room, hidden by a narrow staircase. The door is closed. My hand on the knob, turning it, I gently push the door open. She’s sitting with her back to me, her head on the desk in front of her, a small jewelry box of some sort in front of her.
I call her name once, and she turns to my voice, her face red and swollen. “Aidan. What are you doing here?” She looks downat her watch and then at the clock on the opposite side of the room.
“What’s the matter?” I ask, trepidation laced in my question. Dealing with emotions is not my specialty, nor something I’d choose to deal with if given the options between tear gas, bullets, and emotion. “Are you okay?” It’s a stupid question given her appearance, but one I have to entertain because as the only other human in the room, it’s my job.
She reaches over and turns off the radio. “What does it look like?” She spins on the stool to face me. “I’ll never be okay,” she says. Rubbing her eyes, she shakes her head. “I can’t believe you’re here. I’d forgotten completely. I was here by happenstance. I couldn’t be at home in case Kendall went back there. I’m a mess today, so I’m hiding.”
Tentatively, I approach, my heart in my fucking throat. I extend the bottle of wine. “Will this help the mess at all?”
She scoffs. “It’s a good start. Grab that gadget over there. It’s an old corkscrew.” I let my gaze pan over the table filled with shit I have no clue about and find the only curly thing she could mean. I hand it to her. “You can leave now. You don’t want to be with me tonight. It’s going to be sloppy and crude. Thanks for this,” Magnolia says, shaking the bottle of wine, her hand wrapped around the neck. “You saved me a trip down to the general store, where I would have made a fool of myself. Again. The town gossips would have loved that.”
Sighing, I take a step back. “How sloppy? I’m into sloppy,” I admit. “But if we’re talking about crying while fucking, I may have to bow out gracefully. Hard pass.”
She laughs loudly and then pops the cork. “Maybe you need to stay for a bit. You make me laugh.”
That’s a nice ego boost even if it seems like she’s putting me in the friend zone. “I’ll stay as long as you want me to stay. You are my plans for tonight, Magnolia.”
She rubs her lips together and shakes her head. “I look like shit. Just my luck.”
Raising one brow, I comment, “You’ve looked better, but it’s obvious you’re upset. Do you want to tell me who to kill now or later?”
“You’d kill for me? Awwwww, you’re such a good fake boyfriend,” she replies, standing to open a free-standing cabinet in the corner. She takes out two wineglasses that remind me of a stained-glass window. She blows on them and rubs the rim against her shorts, one on each side. “These are expensive. Let’s not break them, okay? Also, I might take you up on that whole killing idea. I need a little more time to ponder it.” She pours the wine sloppily, trying to fill them quickly.
“That serious, huh?” I ask, accepting the glass of wine she thrusts into my hand. “This place is amazing, by the way. I’ve never been inside. I’ve only seen the extravagant window displays. You do a really good job.” Every season is a display more extravagant than the next. They remind me of the intricate displays you see in NYC during Christmas—the attention to detail is absurd, and people come from all over the state to crowd around and catch a glimpse of whatever the creation of the season happens to be. When she first told me this place was hers, I felt stupid I didn’t make the connection, and then I was impressed because of the displays.
She smirks, sipping from her glass. “The Christmas one last year,” she says, glancing to the side. “It will be hard to beat.”
“Yeah, the Christmas tree made from old wrought iron cooking utensils,” I say, hoping the change in subject will sway her mood. “What do you have in mind for the next holiday?”
She sits back down on the stool, shaking her head. “I have no earthly idea.”
