I tried to imagine what kinds of things she bought on those twenty-some-odd trips to the grocery store. I figured a lot of fresh produce, because why else would she have to go every day? Before I showed her the house, I outfitted the kitchen with everything I could think of—German knives, a stand mixer, an electric kettle, a full complement of measuring cups and spoons. Jack insisted that I do everything myself, he didn’t want to risk anyone else knowing what we had done. I had never stocked a proper kitchen, but luckily the saleswoman at Bloomingdale’s had, and was all too happy to help.
I thought about my own credit card statement, how different it was. I hadn’t been to the grocery store once. Most of my charges were from restaurants—lunches with colleagues, dinner dates with women I’d never see again, or, on the nights I didn’t want to chase or be chased, with myself alone at the bar.
My brother used to rib me about being an “incurable bachelor.” And it’s true, I had been a bit of a playboy. I had a lot of disposable income, and plenty of choices of what and whom to spend it on. Jack gave me access to all the hottest restaurants, clubs, and yes, even women, but after a while it started to feel like I was reliving the same date over and over again. My fancy suits attracted women who wanted to be dazzled, and I suppose I wore them because I feared if I didn’t dazzle, I might disappear.
But Holly was different. She wasn’t chasing anyone or anything. She knew what it was like to grow up with nothing, feel that toxic mixture of longing and shame that comes from watching other people be handed what you had to suffer for. She knew what it was like to find yourself with riches you weren’t sure you deserved, and how being surrounded by things you always thought were meant for other people—a new car, a shoe shine, a proper haircut—made you feel like an imposter in your own life. And, like me, she lived with the kind of ferocious grief that came with losing someone who fought to give you a comfortable, carefree life, but died before they could share it with you.
Holly and I were close to the same age—she was thirty-seven, I was thirty-eight. I wondered if we had met under different circumstances, without the stench of the accident between us, if maybe she might have liked me? I never talked about myself to her, of course, so she had no idea how much we had in common. Or how deeply I was drawn to her for her stoic integrity and gentle beauty. I was ready for a different kind of woman, a different kind of life—one that was not all about where to be, but how to be. Holly made me realize that. And now there was no going back.
I could never tell her how I felt, that would be wildly inappropriate.
But that didn’t stop me from wishing I could.
ANDY
Three months ago
When the courier arrived with an express letter, I knew it was bad news.
We were late on our mortgage, and I had at least a dozen unpaid bills. Tatum’s trip to urgent care after she fell off the swing and her arm swelled up like a football cost us over $400, and I hadn’t paid a nickel of it. The fall didn’t break her wrist, but it did cause serious injury to our pocketbook. We literally had nothing left.
I wondered why Libby hadn’t divorced me. Then I realized—we couldn’t afford to get divorced. Because that involves paying lawyers, and you need money for that. You also need a hell of a lot more money to maintain two residences instead of one. If we got divorced, Libby would be living in a shitty one-room apartment, and I’d be in a refrigerator box.
I signed for the letter, then looked at the return address. It didn’t have the word “collections” in it, creditors were too smart for that. They didn’t want to tip the delinquent recipient off before he signed for it and risk it coming back unopened.
I didn’t recognize the name as someone we owed money to, but that was no surprise. At this point my debts probably extended well into the sphere of strangers. I was about to open it when I saw it wasn’t addressed to me. This certified letter that I had just signed for was for Libby.
I got nervous for a whole new host of reasons. Maybe she had called a divorce lawyer after all? Her parents never offered to give us money, but they would certainly help her get out of a shitty marriage. Once divorced, she’d probably want to move back home to New York. I couldn’t afford a long custody battle, so if I wanted to see my kids, I’d have to go, too. A divorce would effectively end my career. The thought filled me with equal parts disappointment and relief.
“Is that for me?” Libby asked as she appeared out of nowhere. The woman was like a cat, I never heard her coming. Or maybe the torrent of my tormented thoughts was so loud it drowned out the sound of her approaching footsteps.