Great Big Beautiful Life(117)

The terror of what happens if you ask for something someone’s not able to give you.

And it seems so asinine, because she doesn’t have the love she longs for now anyway. She’s lonely. This house is bursting with loneliness, and she’s so used to hiding away in it that she won’t even let herself imagine things being different.

“Telling him would only make things worse,” she whimpers. “Jodi’s already furious with me, but I thought at least you would understand.”

“I understand the story you’re telling,” I choke out, the fire dying down inside me. “But the truth is, you’re just scared.” I turn to go.

“Alice,” Margaret says. “If you leave now, there’s no going back, so think about this.”

I pause for just a second at the mouth of the hallway. She looks so small and frail it breaks my heart. “See?” I tell her. “Our choices do matter.” And then I leave.





34




The whole drive back to the bungalow, I’m fighting tears, trying to make some kind of plan and coming up against all the same walls every time.

I can’t tell Hayden the truth.

I can’t lie to him.

My phone is full of messages from my friends, checking how the pitch went, asking for updates. I silence it and drive to the beach. Don’t even get out of my car, just sit there with the front bumper pressed up against a dune, sobbing.

I’m not even totally sure why I’m so emotional.

I’m sad about losing the job, sure.

I’m heartbroken for Margaret. For the decision she made, and the love behind it, and how all that love congealed into a hard shell around her, keeping everyone out.

And I’m devastated for Hayden. For me.

When I’m all cried out, I drive home. I leave my laptop bag in the car and go inside, immediately start packing my stuff, ignoring the crying jags that start and stop at random.

I can figure out flights later. I just know I’m not staying here.

Around two o’clock there’s a knock on the door. I go to open it, and the pain I feel at finding Hayden on my doorstep, another bottle of champagne in hand, is physical, a perforated edge down the middle of my heart. “I know we said you’d buy the champagne tonight,” he begins.

“I’m not taking the job,” I choke out before he can go any further.

His mouth drops open. “What?”

I swallow the jagged tangle in my throat. “I’m not taking it.”

“I don’t understand,” he says.

“You should,” I say. “You passed on it too.”

Slowly, his face slackens. “Wait, are you mad about that?”

“You’re the one who wanted me to ‘know I earned it,’?” I say, paraphrasing him, like it matters at all. Like any of this matters. I’m not angry with him, but I’m angry, and it’s seeping into everything else, poisoning it. “And then you just withdraw yourself at the last minute. So which is it, do I deserve it, or did you think I didn’t have a chance?”

He gapes at me. “Fuck, Alice. Of course I thought you had a chance. I also thought you’d do a better job than I would, and—and I didn’t want this dumb shit to come between us.”

“You didn’t trust me not to resent you,” I clarify.

His mouth jams shut. “I didn’t want to put you in the position where you had to even consider it. And I didn’t want the job that badly.”

“And now I don’t want it either,” I say, tears burning in the back of my nose. Not now, not at the cost of the truth. Not at the cost of him. “Is that so hard to understand?”

“Yes,” he says, vehement. “This is your dream job.”

“Exactly! It was just a dream,” I force out. “The reality isn’t what I thought.”

“You’re lying to me, Alice.” His voice strains with hurt. “What’s going on?”

I shake my head, backing away from him as he moves closer, guarding that distance between us like it can do anything to protect my breaking heart. “I can’t,” I grind out.

“Alice, what is this?” he pleads. “Tell me. Tell me what’s going on. If I did something to hurt you, then tell me how to fix it, and I’ll do it, okay? Anything.”

I jerk back from him as he reaches for me, trembling from the effort of not breaking into sobs. “I can’t,” I say more harshly. “Ask Margaret.”

“I don’t want to ask Margaret,” he fires back. “Margaret’s not important. You are.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, and then again, like I’m a skipping record, “I’m sorry. I can’t give you any more than that. I can’t—I can’t make this make sense for you.”

Not just because of the NDA, but because of Margaret. Because, no matter how furious I am with her, this is her story to tell. That’s what I promised her before I knew the truth, and it’s still what I believe.

“All you have to do is be honest,” he says helplessly. “Just talk to me.”

“Please don’t ask me again,” I whimper. “I don’t have anything to say.”

He stares at me, his disbelief curdling into a frustrated resignation. “So that’s it?”