Life After Yes (20 page)

“I think good people can lie about most anything,” I say, thinking primarily, egotistically, of myself.

“Don't get all philosophical on me,” she says, and giggles.

I find the bottle of wine in her fridge, and look through her cabinets. I grab a box of Cheerios and bring it back to the couch.

“Remember when things were simple?” Avery says, pinching a lone Cheerio between slim fingers. “Such a simple shape. So childish and wonderful, nothing complicated about it.”

“Cheerios are round with holes,” I say. “So kids don't choke.”

And here we are, drinking and pontificating the night away, in ponytails and pastel PJs, choking on reality. Just the girls. Like it used to be. My ring, boxes of wedding gifts, the only evidence that we aren't little girls anymore.

After a few more hours of hypothesizing about happiness and commitment we pluck stray Cheerios from her carpet, blow out the candles, and call it a night.

I climb into her bed, on Jonathan's side. Like I always used to do before we gave our beds up to boys. And then to men.

We say good night. And Avery turns off the light next to her bed. “You're going to tell him,” she says. “You've got to tell him. Secrets are toxic.”

“I don't want to lose him,” I say to her, and admit to myself.

“If you really love him, you'll tell him,” she says. “You'll find a way.”

Before she nods off, and surrenders to the deep snoring
I only now remember, she says: “I know you love him. And you're not a bad person.”

“Thanks,” I say into the pillow, wishing she had chosen her words a bit differently, but knowing why she hasn't. There's a big difference between not being a bad person and being a good one.

T
he next morning, I find Avery in her living room hunched over a cup of coffee watching cartoons.

“Too much wine,” she mumbles, peeling her eyes from a little girl with a round face and a bowl cut, a little girl who jabbers impressively in English and Spanish.

“Looks like I might not be the only one having a hard time growing up.”

“Dora the Explorer,” she says. “My students are obsessed. Every episode, she goes on a new exploration, to either find something or help someone.”

“Charitable tyke,” I say, watching the little girl bounce along. And then her bag begins to talk.

“That's Backpack,” Avery explains. “A gift from her mom and dad. It helps her complete all her tasks. She can find whatever she needs in there.”

“I see that,” I say, as Dora pulls a ladder from Backpack.

“And she also has Map,” Avery says. “Gives her directions to get wherever she needs to go. Jonathan thought it was so silly that I watched this, but now I can watch Dora whenever I want. I can even TiVo it.”

“That's the spirit,” I say and pause. “She's pregnant.”

For a moment, Avery's face crumbles. “Dora?”

And we laugh the way you laugh when your brain isn't working properly. “Now that would make her a stellar role model, huh? I guess she could ask Backpack to fix that too?”

Avery shrugs. And stands. “Let me make you a latte,” she says.

And so I let her.

She fumbles around her kitchen, spills milk, then wipes it up.

“Kayla's knocked up,” I say. “Or so the story goes. Apparently, she showed up at our apartment freaking out. Forgot that I was in Dallas. Sage said she was a wreck and my Boy Scout of a fiancé insisted she stay over.”

Avery's eyes sparkle as she nods, stirs my coffee, and hands me the cup. “Now
that
makes sense.”

“It does?” I ask, taking a sip.

“It does sound like Sage, right?”

“It does,” I say. An odd mixture of relief and disappointment rolls through me. “Do I really want to be with a guy who turns our apartment into a fucking bed-and-breakfast for wayward pregnant women the second I leave town?”

“She's not a wayward pregnant woman. She's your friend. Sage is a caring soul. And yes, speaking from experience, you are lucky to be with someone who's a good person. Someone who's not only good to you, but good to your friends.”

I nod. Because this is all true.

“If he's such a good person, why do I feel nauseous?” I ask, staring down into my latte. “What if it's his baby?”

Avery grabs my shoulders, looks me in the eyes. “We are both nauseous because we drank a senseless amount of wine last night. And it is
not
his baby. You know that, Quinn.”

“It's not?” I ask.

“There's no way,” she says, shaking her head.

And I nod because I want to believe her. “There's no way.”

“Has it occurred to you that you might be nauseous because of Phelps?”

I nod. “Maybe. It's just that for a moment I thought I wasn't the only one who messed up.”

“Everyone messes up,” she says, placing her hand on my arm. “You just seem to be particularly good at it.”

“Thanks.”

“Nobody's perfect,” she says.

“Not even you?”

“Not even me,” she says, smiling. “I'm obsessed with fairy tales. But they don't exist. I watch cartoons. I have a wedding dress in my closet that I will never wear and I don't want to return it. No, I want to be able to look at it. Just seeing it makes me believe. So, no, not perfect.”

There are tears in her eyes now. “It's okay to believe. I wish I could believe a little more,” I say.

“Well, it's good you talked to him,” Avery says, guzzling latte, eyes following that bouncing little girl once more.

And I nod. But I didn't speak to him. Just read his words and Kayla's, woven together, corroborating today's truth, on my sweet little BlackBerry.

“How's the latte?” she asks. “I have more sugar if you want it.”

“It's perfect,” I say to her, lying a bit. It's too sweet.

And it hits me: I never make coffee for other people.

“When you and Jonathan traveled, who held the tickets?” I ask.

Confusion contorts her face. “Why?”

“Just curious,” I say, swallowing her latte.

“I did,” she says, confirming my hunch. “Always.”

I nod. This makes sense. The one who holds the tickets is the caretaker, the protector, the adult.

“Who holds the tickets when you travel?” she asks.

“He does,” I say. “Always.”

I have an idea. A good one. A fantastic one.

“Get dressed,” I say. “We're going out.”

And like a little girl, she listens.

Before we leave, I open her closet door and grab the vast garment bag.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“I'm being a friend.”

 

We walk into the small salon. Avery trails behind me, but I'm all business. I walk to the front and say, “We need to make a return.”

The petite saleslady looks past me at Avery. At diminutive, ashen Avery. “I'm sorry. This dress has been altered. We can't take it back. It's our policy.”

I think of Fisher. His wisdom about names. I look at the saleswoman's name tag. Jasmine. And suddenly I morph from best friend to litigator. “Jasmine, ostensibly you are in the wedding business, and that means that you are well-acquainted with the sad statistics that some unions are not meant to be?”

Stunned, Jasmine nods. “Sure.”

“Well, every now and then an individual, a smart individual, has the insight to end things even before they begin. And we should applaud that. Not make it more difficult by instituting inflexible policies about dress returns.”

“Well. If I let everyone return—”

I cut her off. “Jasmine, don't get all Kantian on me. Not everyone returns her dress. No, most people cling tight to that dress just like they cling tight to the belief in happily-ever-after.”

“My, my. A negotiator and a philosopher?” a voice says.

“Liv,” the saleswoman says. “I'm sorry. I didn't see you there.”

I turn. A young woman stands there, clutching a stack of dresses.

“My God, are you returning all of those? You're killing my point,” I say.

“No,” Liv says, smiling. “I'm selling them. I designed them.”

“Oh,” I say. Avery lingers by my side.

“Let me guess. You're a lawyer?” Liv says.

“Guilty as charged,” I say. “It does come in handy sometimes. Like, hopefully
now
.”

“I was a lawyer back in the day. Jumped ship to, well, live,” she says, and giggles. And then she turns to the saleswoman. “Let this poor girl return her dress and I will give you a discount on these delicious confections.”

Jasmine nods, takes the dresses from Liv, and one by one holds them up. She smiles. “You have yourself a deal.”

Avery and I watch her study each dress. The final dress is a simple sheath. On the back, I see a tiny splash of color.

Liv takes the dress from the clerk and explains, “I like to let the bride add a little something to the dress. Here there's a sunflower. But it could be anything. I don't think wedding
gowns should be fungible. I think they should be playful and unique.”

I smile. “Can I hold it?”

Liv hands it to me. Avery's eyes light up.

“It just so happens I'm getting married,” I say.

“And
soon
,” Avery adds.

“Try it,” Liv says.

“I think I will,” I say, and slip into the tiny dressing room. I step in. It fits perfectly. I look in the mirror. And smile. A giddy, goofy, girly, nonlawyer smile.

I step out of the room. And I'm met with three more smiles.

I turn and look at myself in the bigger mirror. “I like it because I'm wearing a wedding dress, but I don't look like a bride. I look like
me
.”

Maybe finding a dress
is
like finding a groom. You don't do it overnight. And it doesn't happen when you are looking. It happens when you are living.

“Exactly,” Liv says. “And if you need this soon, I can remove the sunflower and add whatever it is you want to add.”

Avery runs in place. “This is so exciting. What would you add?”

This is an easy one. I run back into the dressing room and find my phone. I dial Sage.

“Bug,” he answers. “I'm so sorry. Nothing—”

“I believe you,” I say. “I need you to do me a favor.”

“Anything.”

“Do you still have that fishing fly from our first night? The Parachute Adams?”

“Of course I do,” he says.

“Will you bring it to me?”

He doesn't ask why. Just takes down the address of the small bridal salon. And, like a good boy, he arrives and waits outside. While Liv pins the hem of my gown, Avery steps outside to get the fly from him.

She walks back in, clutching it. “Perfect,” she says. “This is perfect.”

I take the fly from her, turn it over in my hand, study it. The imperfect white wings. The brown hackle. The sharp and delicate hook. Outside, I can see Sage pacing. I see his sandy blond hair and smile. And then I hand the fly to Liv. “This is what I want. This is my thing.”

She smiles. “You've got it, counselor.”

 

Outside, Avery hugs me hard. “Thank you, Quinn. Thank you for this day.” And then she hops in a cab. Before it pulls away, I see her, her little-girl nose pressed up against the glass, watching us. Still eager to believe.

I grab Sage's hand. “I found my dress,” I say. “You're going to love it.”

“Not as much as I love something else,” he says. And looks up. His eyes are red, still wet. “I've been calling you.”

“I know.”

“And e-mailing,” he says.

I nod.

He hugs me, suffocating me with his strong arms, burying his head in my chest. “I was so scared,” he says.

“So was I.”

We don't talk much. But begin walking. Toward home.

And I have so much to tell him. About things he doesn't know: a heart attack and a betrayal. About my new theory that monogamy is a sport that takes practice, but that I'm
willing to work at it. That he's worth it, that we are. And I want to tell him that even the very moment I saw them together, I wanted to forgive him. That in that moment, I glimpsed myself in him. That for a split second, the imperfections he typically camouflages so expertly were right there, ruefully raw and exposed. That in that moment, I saw the fear I'd been fighting gloss his eyes too. And maybe this is self-serving and narcissistic, but all this made me love him more desperately than ever.

But I don't say these things.

Instead, we walk and walk. Hands linked. Silent.

“Avery called her wedding off,” I do say as we walk into our apartment. For it's easier to talk about other peoples' pain than your own. “This whole time Jonathan had these trust funds and didn't tell her. He's been lying for years.”

“Wow,” Sage says. “Never did like the guy, but still. She must be devastated. That girl was born to nurture.”

Yes, an old-school latte-making, ticket-holding goddess.

“Born to nurture,” I say, nodding. “Unlike me, right?”

And just like that, we're back. Being the people we are, bickering about the people we'll never be.

“You only need one nurturer in a relationship,” Sage says, smiling, pulling two mugs from the cabinet. “I think I've got that part covered.”

We make a wordless pact to enjoy the silence of a new day. He pours me a cup of coffee. And, though bitter, I drink it down.

“Bacon?” he asks.

“Nurture away,” I say.

And as I'm mustering the courage to say things, precarious things, impossible things, my BlackBerry buzzes and I reach for it.

Sage looks away from the sizzling bacon when I start to cry.

“Fisher died,” I say.

And I'm not sure whether these words make immediate sense to him, but Sage abandons the crackling pan and hugs me. He does what he can to comfort me. Which, frankly, is not much.

But I do what I'm supposed to do. Something I'm not very good at: I let him try.

He rubs my back in small circles and feeds me bits of bacon. And when my tears run dry, he points to a beautiful vase of flowers. Like him, they've been wilting, waiting for me to come home.

“They're beautiful,” I say, robotically, wondering how many bouquets Fisher gave his wife over the years. Whether she was optimistic or naïve and loved them, tried to keep them alive. Or whether she did what was expected of her, what she was supposed to do, and said those two words in-grained in us so early on:
Thank you.

“God, Kayla must be scared,” I say. “I don't know what I'd do if it were me.”

“Sure you do,” Sage says confidently, gripping my hand be
tween both of his, tracing the diamond he gave me. “You'd have our gorgeous little baby.”

I smile. Because in this moment, this delicate moment, the image of a baby, our baby, brings joy. Happiness.

This is how happiness comes—in small moments, in fierce flashes. It's not a state of being, not remotely permanent.

“We're going to have kids one day,” I say. “Can you believe it?”

“Yes,” he says, grinning. “I sure can.”