See, I’m not the type of girl men want to marry. I’m the kind of girl men think they want to marry—at first they see a pretty face, nice apartment, good clothes. But then they get to know me—the real me. And even though I never relinquished my optimism, even though I kept up my monthly visits to European Wax Center and my thrice-weekly runs along the West Side Highway in an effort to shed the stubborn baby fat; still, if you had told me a year ago that in 365 days a quality man would ask me to be his wife, I wouldn’t have believed you.
But six months ago, I met Burke Michaels. Handsome Burke, with his jet-black hair and dimpled smile. From that very first day I knew something was different. A week in, I made the mistake of telling Andie he was the man I was going to marry. She looked almost angry when she responded that it was psychotic to consider the notion of marriage with someone you’ve only known for a week, and I knew I’d hit a nerve. Andie and Spencer have been dating since college and they’re not engaged yet—they don’t even talk about it yet. Andie says it doesn’t bother her, but I don’t believe that. I don’t believe you can spend eight years with someone and be okay with an ambiguous future.
Burke and I, we knew from the beginning. We didn’t get into specifics, but the shared understanding that we would always be together was there, like the sun in the morning or the moon at night. It’s a peaceful, uncomplicated feeling when you know that what you have with someone is a forever kind of thing.
I help Burke rinse the dishes, then shower and change for brunch. Even on a day as happy as today, I’m dreading seeing Nancy. I think of that night on Nantucket two summers ago, the way she whispered to my father on the porch while I eavesdropped.
I worry about Skye, I really do. She’s a beautiful girl, but with her … problem … it just seems to be setting her back. I worry about her meeting someone.…
My problem. My fucking problem.
It’s not Nancy’s fault that I dislike her, not if I’m being honest with myself. I can see that now that I’m in a solid place in my life. I have the perspective and the maturity to admit that she never stood a chance with me, not after what I’d been through. It didn’t matter that people said she was bringing color and oxygen back into my father’s being, not when I could still vividly picture my parents dancing to Van Morrison in the kitchen, laughing and kissing like teenagers. Not when the mother I’d lost was a mother like mine. A force as palpable and vital as my own heartbeat, an entire world in a single being. You can’t replace a person like that.
I pull my long blond hair back into a low ponytail. I swipe mascara on my lashes, and Burke comes up behind me, circling his arms around my waist. I press my cheek against his chest and listen to the steady beat of his heart, grateful for its kindness, its openness. Finally, I’ve found someone who sees beyond my problem, someone who loves me in spite of it. And not just anyone—I’ve found tall, dark, and movie-handsome Burke Michaels, a man with a clear conscience and a good job and eyes so blue you can spot them a mile away. I’m suddenly almost excited for brunch at Buvette, fueled by the thought of waving my new ring in Nancy’s face. My dad never even gave Nancy an engagement ring （It was the second marriage for both of us; we thought understated was more appropriate, I can hear him reasoning）。
I finger the earrings I’ve chosen for the occasion—my mother’s emerald studs, the ones my father gave her the night before their wedding. A pang of sadness rushes through me, and I miss her more than I can stand.
“I wish your mom could be here for this,” Burke says from behind me, reading my mind. He props his chin on my shoulder so that our eyes meet in the bathroom mirror.
“I was just thinking that. I wish your parents could be here, too.”
“Me, too, Goose.”
I smile at our reflection, the diamond sparkling on my left ring finger. Despite our missing pieces, it is truly a perfect sight. A dream come true. I’ll never be able to understand how I got so lucky.
Chapter Two
Burke Michaels’s Diary
SEPTEMBER 8, 2018
Dear Dr. K,
Her hair is yellow and thick, nothing like my wife’s. Isn’t that awful, that when I first notice an attractive woman, I instantly compare her to my wife? I used to think I was a good person, the kind of man who wouldn’t be struck dumb by the tumble of blond hair down a creamy, anonymous back.
But shit goes out the window, I’ve learned. It goes out the window fast.
This journal was my wife’s idea, by the way. Well, technically it was yours, Dr. K （why I’m shelling out an arm and a leg for couples therapy when money is our central issue, don’t ask）。 I’m supposed to be writing down my thoughts daily, not to show you or Heather, but just for myself. To get to know ourselves better as individuals, independent from our marriage, as you explained it, Dr. K.
You said that for this journal project thing we could write each entry to you, like a letter of sorts, if that would be helpful. And I do think that will be helpful for me, from a structural standpoint, so that’s what I’m going to do, just so you know. Not that you’re ever going to read this.
Back to the blonde. Here’s what happened: I was standing behind her in the hotel lobby this morning, feeling jittery and impatient to check in even though I wasn’t in a rush whatsoever. I’m taking a weekend in Montauk. Hotel room for one at Gurney’s Resort. I told Heather I had a networking opportunity in the city with some old Credit Suisse colleagues and she didn’t question it, bless her faithful heart. “Just make time to journal your daily thoughts like Dr. K said” was her only response. After twenty-five years of marriage I’m so used to taking orders from Heather that the urge to follow them is drilled into my subconscious. And so here we are. My daily thoughts.
Why am I in Montauk? Good question. The truth is I’m having the worst month of my life, and I needed to get away. Three kids, one in college and one soon to be, a mortgage, and a wife I used to be crazy about. I feel sad when I look at Heather now, because mostly all I see is the absence of what I used to love.
There’s also the astronomical cost of my eldest daughter Hope’s dental implants （she claims she hadn’t been drinking when she fell down a flight of stairs at a frat party and knocked out several of her top teeth last spring）。 And then, to top it all off, there’s the fact that I was recently fired from my job of over two decades at PK Adamson. I’m sorry, let me rephrase: I was recently let go from my job of over two decades at PK Adamson. According to my ex-boss, Herb, there’s a crucial difference, and one that earned me two weeks’ severance. Two whole weeks’ severance! After twenty fucking years. Can you believe that, Dr. K?
I hope you know I’m being sarcastic. It’s not easy to convey sarcasm in a journal. Anyway, yes, I was recently “let go,” although I suppose it’s not all that recent since I’ve technically been unemployed since April. And if you think I’ve been sitting on my ass for the last four months, you’re wrong. I’ve applied to jobs at every other wealth management firm under the sun, but no one will hire me, not when they see what’s on my record. In 1999, when my old ex-boss offered me the data-entry-specialist position at PK Adamson, he said, “If I don’t give you a shot, I know no one else will.” And he was right. He’s still right. Because in certain situations, time doesn’t ease the grip of the past.