The Burning Side(71)

After the officiant pronounces them and everyone cheers, I exhale relief that it’s over, this display of a beauty that I had and lost.

I make a beeline for the reception tent, where I loosen my tie and grab a glass of prosecco. The crowd is lively and big, and Otto is already being passed around like an excited puppy. Josie is the first one on the dance floor, and I decide to go for a slice of Deb’s pie.

Apparently, my standing alone with a plate of pie is an invitation for a string of invasive remarks.

Good to see it’s amicable with you two.

So how are the kids handling everything?

Wonder where the happy couple is honeymooning.

Well, is it amicable at least?

Whitney Houston wants to dance with somebody, and Bruno Mars is too hot, and people can’t help but comment on other people. I wonder how April is faring as we traverse opposite sides of the tent. I catch her eye over the sea of wedding people, but this is when Sadie yanks on my hand to go dance. So I let myself get whisked away by questions I much prefer to the earlier ones: Can I stand on your feet? And, How did Cupid learn to shuffle, anyway? And, Can we get more of Gramma Deb’s pie?

I can practically hear the speculations from the edge of the dance floor. Their crackling fear that whatever happened with us could happen with them, or their smugness that it hasn’t.

When we finish the Cupid Shuffle, I tell Sadie yes. Let’s get more pie.





APRIL


August 22, 2022

AT THE ELEVENTH HOUR, I sign the petition. It wouldn’t stop anything if I didn’t; it would only make this a contested divorce. If I wanted to stop this, I would have to do that with Leo. And I can’t force him to trust me, just like I couldn’t force him to look at me, stay with me, talk to me, spend one godforsaken evening at home with me.

I email my lawyer. I slide my wedding ring off my finger and place it in a ring box. Snap the box shut. Leo and I will both find rentals in Argyle, both raise our kids, and both watch the tan lines on our ring fingers begin to fade. Both, separately.

He trembled when he slid this ring onto my finger as friends and family looked on. I remember the color in his cheeks, the intimacies he whispered as his hand later moved up my thigh for the garter. Maybe he will do that all again with someone else. Maybe his dad will be at his next wedding and our children will be in it. And I will be across town, a memory of his.

It occurs to me that we never finished Jonathan’s book.

I grab it, compelled by something akin to denial.

I’ll go over there; I really shouldn’t.

I don’t text him in advance; I really should.

In the car, I check my face and put my key into the ignition, my foot on the gas, and I drive down 407 to the empty field where our house once stood. Soon, there will be a For Sale sign. Four acres, ready for an architect.

When Leo wrests open the door of his trailer, I stand before him again with a book in my hand. “I thought maybe…” I look down at Identity, the colorful mask with its black teardrop. He opens the door wider, in shorts and bare feet. The windows are open and the twinkle lights on.

“Are you busy?” I ask.

“Not really.”

I hold up the book. “Want to finish it?”

“Sure.”

We sit in the little living area, where Leo says, “Oh, the Realtor wanted to know whether she should text us together or separately.”

I shrug.

“I’ll tell her separately.”

He texts her, and then we settle in to finish the prisoner’s journey.

After twenty minutes of wondering whether I should still enjoy the flourishes of Leo’s voice, it’s my turn to read when a sex scene jumps out of nowhere. My lungs grab for air. Leo lowers his copy of the book and studies me, and I feel myself redden. There’s no divorce handbook that warned me not to read a novel with my almost-ex-husband.

Leo shuts his book. “Popcorn?”

Thank God. “Yes.”

He gets up, stubbing his toe on the leg of the table.

“You okay?”

He grimaces and limps it off. “Yeah.”

The trailer gets quiet as Leo coats a pan with oil, finds the butter and salt.

After a minute at the stove, he says, “I want to know how many times.”

I frown. “What?”

“With Cody.”

I cough in surprise, and kernels start to pop like gunfire.

I look down and say, “Only the time you saw.”

He shakes salt onto the popcorn. There has been a shift in him since Rico, a willingness for questions. I’ve wanted to tell him it was only that once, but I didn’t think it would matter to him. He never seemed to want to know anything about it beyond what he saw.

He looks at me and says, “Bygones.” But his turbulent eyes say anger, and desire, and that all things gone by remain.

“Yeah right.”

“What?”

“You don’t believe in bygones. You’re a historian.”

“Well, we can’t do anything about it now.”

“Can we not?”

“What would you have us do?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “You could forgive me.”

“But I can’t trust you. Think about what it would be like with us, really. I would always wonder where you are and who you’re with and what you’re doing and if the new underwear in your drawer is for me or someone else. We can’t live like that. Our kids would pick up on it, and we would all be miserable.”