“What kind of people are they?” Libby asked. If I hadn’t known her for fifteen years, that might have seemed a vague question. But I knew exactly what she was after. Are they fancy? Are they connected? Could it be useful to know them? This was LA, after all. And I was in the movie business.
“I have no idea,” I answered truthfully. “He wore a suit.” Of course that could have meant any number of things. Lawyer? Already have one. Agent? Have one of those, too. From across the street, I couldn’t tell if it was a nice suit or just some Men’s Wearhouse two-for-one. Maybe he worked at a shoe store.
“Well, if they can afford that house at what they were asking, they must be doing pretty well.” And she could have stopped there, but she couldn’t help herself. “Better than we are.”
And there was the bitch slap. She was right, of course. We could not afford that house. But luckily our house was just fine. Our marriage . . . not so much.
I’ve often thought about the life cycle of a marriage. The fairy tales I read to my daughters, they all end with the wedding. The courtship is long and tortuous, filled with obstacles and evil stepsisters trying to keep prince and princess apart. And then it’s “happily ever after.” Fairy tales aren’t interested in what comes next. Do they assume it’s smooth sailing “till death do they part”？ Or do they know marriage is an order of magnitude more difficult and simply not suitable material for fairy tales?
I remembered when I couldn’t get enough of my wife. I loved slipping into familiar conversations, a familiar bed, familiar sex. I loved her laugh. I loved that she used it freely and often. Most of all, I loved her optimism. I was in this highly speculative career of writing movies, and she thought it was so cool, and knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I would make us rich. We were not rich. And she quickly learned there is nothing cool about not knowing when your next paycheck is coming.
But things changed when I stopped making money. The stench of failure followed me everywhere I went, burrowed its way into every good morning, every good night, every what’s new? As disappointed as my wife was in me, I was way more disappointed in myself. I walked around with an ominous feeling that something was about to break. One of us was going to say or do something that pushed the other over the edge. I tried to distract myself by making step stools and perfect miter joints, but I knew I couldn’t hide forever. Eventually I would have to face my failing marriage, and accept that our best days were probably behind us.
I thought about Belle and Cinderella, sailing off into the sunset with their handsome princes. If this was happily ever after, somebody should tell the evil stepsisters they got the last laugh.
HOLLY
Three months ago
I don’t text and drive, but once I park, I sit in the car and check my phone. It’s stupid, really. I don’t know what I’m hoping happened in the handful of minutes since I left point A and arrived at point B, but I always check before I get out. Except for that one time my boss emailed me to ask if I could come in an hour early to rebill some clients, I never got time-sensitive emails. I didn’t care if there was a sale at Wayfair, and it’s not like they email you if you win the lottery. Plus I don’t play the lottery. Like I said—stupid.
We had a spot in the garage under our building, but my husband had lent it to a neighbor whose sister was visiting from San Diego （In her brand-new Camaro! How could we say no?）， so we parked on the street. Today was hot, so I kept the engine running. The Cherokee was old, but the air-conditioning still kicked butt, and I wanted to enjoy every last second of it. We had an AC unit in the apartment, but we tried not to run it all day because it was costing us a fortune—and it wasn’t even summer yet.
My husband walked around the front of the car and tapped on my window （c’mon!）， and I held up my index finger （one sec!）。 He opened the door for me, as if it would will me out of my seat. He still wore his hair high and tight from his military days. He used to get it cut every other week. I told him, What a waste of money. It’s the easiest haircut in the world. Let me do it! So he bought me clippers. He taught me how to bend back his ears to get the tiny hairs between his temple and his jawbone. It was probably the only place on his body that I hadn’t already explored. I suddenly felt jealous of his past barbers, that they had been there first.
“That damn phone is going to be the death of you,” he teased as he swiped it from my hand.
“Hey! I was reading an email from Savannah’s school!”