Chapter One
“This place is a shithole,” Roop sighed, looking around, hands on her hips.
“Yeah, well,” I said helplessly, shrugging with an armful of my clothes.
Feeling them slither and slide to the floor. Sighing heavily to have to pick them back up. Yeah, of course, this was a shithole compared to the house I’d had with Jon. Well… ‘had’ was perhaps a strong word. It was his family home. But I’d been putting the work into it.
One of the things I admired about Jon was how he made a point about things. He’d made a point to reclaim the old family home on Main Street. Furthermore, he was going to work from the front foyer, like his great-grandfather had. He’d shown me an old newsprint photo of the house, and I began recreating that. Clearing the lawn and replanting all the white cottage roses that had lined the front of the house and the stone walkway. Stripping the floors and walls and making those right again. Replacing screens and shutters, even helping the roofers. Sourcing the ‘right’ furniture, especially for his office. The only thing I’d left was the porch door. I was so in love with the layers of falling-away and desiccated paint on it. Generations of different choices. It didn’t face the street, so it didn’t ‘ruin’ the facade, and I loved looking at it.
But I hadn’t been the one to cancel the wedding. He had. And how was I supposed to stay there? It seemed as though he just wanted things to continue as they had. But how could they? To me, he’d done something momentous. He said I wasn’t ‘ready yet’ so I left. To me, there didn’t seem to be any other choice. He couldn’t even articulate what would make me ‘ready’ to marry him, so clearly he wasn’t either.
Luckily, my old boss hadn’t been lying when he said I could come back any time. It had been two years, and when I hesitantly emailed him, he welcomed me back. So I moved about an hour south to be back in the heart of downtown and go back to work.
I’d had to shop fast and hard, so of course what I’d gotten wasn’t perfect– certainly no old-time manse on the ‘right’ side of town, but that couldn’t matter, so it didn’t.
Broken linoleum, clouded windows, bubbling paint over bubbling paint. Layers of yellow grease on all the white but somehow still mismatched appliances. Who cared? This wasn’t the forever place, this was just the right-now place. And it was good enough. And there was something to be said about the fact that it was mine.
It was unsettling and overwhelming to be working again. Not out-and-out bad, exactly. Just many things happening all at once. My old boss, Timothy, had always cultivated a sort of frenetic energy in the office. Which I liked– I was a tightly wound and enthusiastic person myself. It made me feel like a bouncy ball amongst bouncy balls– colliding and spinning off in a new direction without fear of injury or upset.
Jon and I had dated for one year before he asked me to live with him. And then he made it pretty clear he wanted me in Newton– his town. No longer downtown. I worked under Timothy for a while longer. But Jon hated my traveling back and forth so often. So I did small projects around Newton. Doing things for his friends, or colleagues or on behalf of one of his clubs. Redoing a single room, landscaping one household, and redesigning a country club dining room. Sort of piecemeal and quietly. Working out of Jon’s office when I wasn’t on-site someplace.
He didn’t like me doing projects back-to-back. He said my focus ought to be on the house and the wedding, in that order. He liked routine. Always wanting to wake up early. Go to the gym together. He’d go to the office, I’d go back to the house and work on it. We’d meet at his office for lunch, invariably going to the bistro down the street. Break again and then meet up for dinner at his apartment. Once I’d finished the kitchen in his house, we began having dinner there. For a while, I had pre-made things or ordered in, but he said he preferred home cooking. And technically I had the time to do it. And I liked to cook for him. As fewer jobs trickled in, he started eating lunch at the house too. So we’d wake up, go to the gym, and have breakfast at home. He’d go to the office. Come back for lunch, come back for dinner. Every Wednesday we had a date night. Either the dinner club on the south end of Newton or at the club. He entertained clients. Once I finished the dining room, we began having a Friday dinner every other week and a Sunday brunch on alternating weeks. He got me cooking classes. I found the correct tablecloths and napkins for the dining room. I made good friends with the florist in Newton and the print shop. Jon liked menus and table cards and invitations. He hated lilies but liked white bouquets. Besides, I was consulting with them nearly every week about the wedding as well.
He kept inviting over women in the neighborhood who did charity things or who had groups and activities. As though revealing cheap gems by whipping them out of a handkerchief would make them seem more valuable. Nothing struck me with any kind of particular interest or desire. I understood what he wanted. He himself was a joiner– on several boards, in clubs, having memberships, town politics. I just wasn’t though. Feeling no real camaraderie or desire to spend time with others. I liked being by myself, or with him. Or Roop– my one real friend. But groups exhausted me and drained me. I was always so focused on sitting upright and making the right face and not saying the wrong words that nothing felt productive or real.
We were about four months out from the wedding or a little more. I was considering sending out Save-the-Dates soon. We were at the club Wednesday night for dinner. He’d had a late squash game, so I met him there.
“I like that dress,” he said approvingly. “I like you in light colors.”
“I know,” I said, sipping water.
Trying both to get rid of that last little stubborn half-inch on my hips. And also because he liked to drink after a game. I’d drive us home and then bring him back in the morning to retrieve his car. He likely could drive– he never drank more than one of anything. But he was precise and safe and law-abiding, and I liked that about him. Loved that responsibility. Lacking it in my own life and history and finding it appealing and comforting in him.
I asked something about table arrangements or something. How close he wanted someone to the head table.
“I’ve been thinking we ought to push the wedding back,” he said easily, reaching across the table to cut my chicken. Like what he’d said wasn’t important, or was simple.
“Push it back?” I asked.
“Yes. Push it back. I think that’s the best decision right now is to delay,” he said. Putting my knife back down, rotating my plate so that the protein and vegetables were closest to me.
“Why would we ‘delay’? Do you know what a hassle you’re creating for me? And how upset you’re making me?” I asked.
“How is it a hassle? Our wedding is going to be the thing. Believe me, caterers and all that will be more than accommodating just to keep business with us. So you make a few phone calls and say that we’re resetting a date. It’s hardly a hassle, darling,” he said.
“This is coming out of left field for me though,” I hissed.
He glanced around the dining room. Seeing if anyone had heard the tone change at our table. But it was Wednesday– the room was hardly full. The other diners were firmly in cocktail mode and wouldn’t be paying us any mind regardless. It wasn’t as though I’d raised my voice. I didn’t, not with Jon. He had told me that raised voices reminded him too much of his arguing parents. I could understand that, so I spoke softly. His parents put me on edge as well, and I’d hardly like to be like them. They were well into their seventies and somehow still had great vigor when it came to reaming each other out.
“How could it be, darling?” he asked, voice gentle. “You’re so clearly not ready to be married. Eat. I don’t want complaining and midnight snacks later.”
I bit my lip.
“Lipstick,” he said, gesturing to his teeth. I sucked my own and re-presented my mouth and he nodded.
“I still don’t really–” I began saying, nearly at whisper-level.
“That’s what I mean. I think we ought to shoot for next year,” he said.
I blinked at him. He nodded at my plate. I started eating, not tasting anything. I hated how the club did chicken breast. Dry and rubbery, trying to cover it up with a rotating choice of various cream sauces. That I always ordered without. They always broke or were just too heavy. And messy. I watched him carefully, alternating between his water and whiskey glass. Spearing up green beans. And suddenly changing the subject to next Sunday brunch. Then the fact that he had a late meeting tomorrow. Then that he wanted to take me a few towns over to an antique mall a client had suggested. Because they had glassware, and I’d been looking for plates for the dining room wall. I kept blinking and eating.
Chapter Two
The next day, I began making the few phone calls I’d have to get the delay in motion. The reception was at the club. The ceremony at the Church right at the other end of Main Street. We weren’t doing a traditional honeymoon– he was expecting to work right afterward, and we’d travel in the summer. So we were having brunch at the house the day after. Wedding on Saturday, brunch on Sunday. The only things that had been very definitely set were the catering companies for Saturday and Sunday, the church, and the club. Nothing else was really set in stone.
I called the church first because I didn’t like the secretary. I hadn’t even met the pastor. But I knew this would be the most unpleasant phone call. Could practically watch the delicately raised eyebrow of the secretary, hear her tonelessly purposeful, “oh?” when I said that dates would have to be changed.
I introduced myself. Began saying that the wedding had to be delayed due to unforeseen schedule complications. Moved my mouth away from the intake of the phone when she said, “oh?” and sighed.
“How far are you pushing back? When were you thinking of? Not to say that it will be difficult. Especially if you’re pushing it quite far into the future…” she said.
“Don’t,” I said suddenly. Surprising myself. Like I’d been awoken by a very loud sound. “Don’t put down any date at all.”
Roop came over to the house most Mondays and Thursdays. Toting us great whipped cream and chocolate-covered coffees. Whistling over whatever new thing I’d completed, whatever purchase I’d placed. I knew she didn’t care a lick about any of those things– even though she had a very good eye. Especially for color. I used her opinion all the time for that. She was an illustrator and particularly adept at balance as well. But she always made an effort to care about what I cared about. Just like I’d always listen to her discussing comic books, even though I didn’t care or know anything about them. I liked listening to her talk regardless. Because she was smart and interesting.
She came humming up the steps, pushing open the door. I remembered having to learn to leave the door open here. People blew in and out of the house all day. It would only get worse once he was working here. Our grocery store still did delivery, as did the florist. They would come in through the front door and go right into the kitchen to put things into the refrigerator or sink.
“Hate the new welcome mat!” she sang as she came in.
I was still gently setting the phone back into its cradle in the kitchen. She joined me in the kitchen, setting down our coffee and her back on the island, and fell onto a stool, still complaining about my ‘cheesy’ and ‘corny’ mat.
It was just brown with white flowers– white flowers being the general theme in the household.
I turned to her, watching her face instantly get worried.
“What?” she asked hesitantly.
“I think I have to leave,” I said slowly.
“Leave the house? Want to take a romp?” she asked.
“Leave… permanently,” I said, running my fingers over the engraved cutting board on the island, with his surname on it. I would have taken his name.
She rested her chin on her raised palms.
I’d met Roop through work, just as I had started dating Jon, coincidentally. We’d all known each other for a little over five years. I’d hired her to do murals for a project at work. And somehow we’d just never been able to disconnect after that. Talking every day. She never settled anywhere for long, but she’d been living and working on her book in a farmhouse about a town over. If the unincorporated wilderness could be called a town. I loved her ramshackle place. Loved her easels in every room.
She was different from me. When something went right, or wrong, or totally sideways, she went still. I went into overdrive and couldn’t stop moving forward. If we were caught in an avalanche, I’d dig myself dead, traveling upside down, rather than just taking the time to see which way gravity pulled my tears. She would be the one who got herself out. I’d be the one who killed myself with my inability to think or be quiet. She lived like she drew. Notating lovely near-unseen veins or petals or moments. Lovingly sketching those moments of privacy, no one seemed to notice about other humans. She was still now. I’d watch her go unmoving and quiet, and see people spill things to her that they wouldn’t to another living soul. And she did so now. Waiting to see what I’d say next.
“He’s um… He wants to postpone the wedding,” I said. Hearing myself be cautious.
“Did he say why? Wait… Are you pregnant?” she asked, sounding vaguely panicked.
“No! No, not pregnant,” I said.
“Then…?”
“Um…” I started rotating the coffee cup on the kitchen island, avoiding her eyes. “He said I wasn’t… ready… to get married.”
“Well, what the fuck does that mean?” she asked in frustration.
“Be god-damned if I know,” I said, finally raising my voice. Finally beginning to feel something besides tremulous shock.
“He’s heading toward his fiftieth birthday,” she groused. “How much longer is he going to wait? What the fuck does ‘ready’ mean? Did he say how you’d go about proving you were ready?”
“No, he fucking did not!” I said, gaining speed.
“So you’re leaving?” she asked.
“I think I’m fucking leaving,” I answered.
“Think?” she asked.
“I’m fucking leaving,” I said.
After the decision had been made, it actually hadn’t been that hard– at least to begin with. Roop and I took our coffee upstairs to the bedroom and I started packing. I didn’t have much here though. Just clothes, makeup, and jewelry. All of my books and art supplies were in storage. So much of my wardrobe and old collections had been done away with before I moved in with Jon. And I’d never had much to begin with. I’d never lived in any kind of permanence the way he did.
She made a graceful exit out the back door as he came in the front for his lunch. I’d made him a sandwich and left it on the kitchen counter with his smoothie and water.
“Ought not to skip lunch, Anna,” he said, brows lowered, nagging tone.
“I’m busy today, darling,” I said.
“Don’t eat garbage later,” he said, inspecting his food. “You’ll make yourself sick on chips or candy if you don't eat something nutritious.”
“I’m moving out,” I said.
I hadn’t intended to announce it like that. I’d meant to sit with him tonight. Maybe after dinner. Make him a hot toddy and sit in the den together. I loved that part of our evening together.
We’d read across from each other. I splayed out on the couch, him in his armchair. Both of us with our reading material braced on our knees. With chamomile tea for me and coffee for him. I felt most safe and protected in that moment. Seeing his moveless shadow flickering on the wall when we had the fire going. Smelling his cologne and listening to his even breath, nearly in time with the flutter of his pages. He’d eventually look up and smile at me.
“I want you in bed, darling,” he’d say. Bookmarking his page and unfolding his legs. And I’d get to lead us up the stairs and pull back blankets and toss pillows. He’d put my water glass on my night table and then roll me into bed. So I wanted to tell him then. In those quiet moments instead. I wanted to give him the opportunity to convince me to not leave. Maybe there was something he hadn’t told me. Some explanation that would clear up all this sudden betrayal. And then I could go back to happiness. Erase the shame of making all those phone calls and go back to planning. Even if planning for a further future. If he just had some way of making it make sense to me.
The reason why I loved him is that he took care of me. Continually taking things off my plate and worries from my mind. Making decisions and driving when we were together and creating routine and reason and meaning day-to-day. I didn’t want to lose that. Not that stability or calmness. He picked up my prescriptions and kept us on a set schedule and chose where we’d go on vacation.
He raised an eyebrow at me and set down his glass.
“Oh?” he said, an echo from my morning that made me shiver and bite my tongue.
“If you don’t think I’m ready now, I don’t see a time when I ever will be,” I said.
“Are you throwing a tantrum?” he asked. Swiveling on the stool to face me. Reaching out to take my hand. And I let him.
“No. I’m asking for clarification,” I said. Keeping my voice even. Wondering where he got the impression that I was ‘throwing a tantrum.’
“The stage you’re at right now,” he began saying, and I scoffed. Over his choice of words, the oddly professional way he put it. “I don’t foresee you being happy with what I thought was an understood arrangement between us.”
I sat opposite him, taking a sip of his water.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“You seem unambitious, unhappy, and unfocused here. You’re not engaged with anything. I can see you're passionate about the house but what else? And is the house just a replacement hobby since you’re not working? And if that’s the case, why not find a new one? You were athletic, and you liked working out. You could golf or play tennis or anything else that’s available around here, but you don’t. You won’t spend time with our neighbors or my colleagues. You don’t seem to enjoy any of our social engagements–”
“‘Our’ social engagements are just a task list for me,” I said. “It’s me in the kitchen for three hours, shuttling plates back and forth for another two, and the whole thing is exhausting and boring. I’m happy and doing the things I love for me. I’m a little confused why you don’t see how content I am.”
“Are you?” he asked. “You’re saying you’re moving out. How content could you possibly be?”
“Because I was up until I realized we understand each other not at all!” I said. I still kept my voice down. “Until you suddenly whipped out a ‘delay’ over dinner, I thought we were wildly in love and happily settling down and making the best decision of our lives.”
“And now it sounds as though you’re on the verge of an incredibly bad and impulsive decision,” he said calmly. “Do you not love me anymore?”
“I love you wholly. Like blood flow. I don’t want to be without you. But why was your decision to delay less bad and impulsive than mine to leave?” I asked.
“Because nothing feels right,” he sighed.
I nodded, pursing my lips.
“I’ll be at Roop’s,” I said.