The next morning is equally nice. After sleeping in, we get up, shower, and head to my favorite generic neighborhood diner for breakfast, then walk up Fifth Avenue, all the way to Bendel’s, where Josie spends a small fortune on makeup.
We leave the store, crossing Fifty-Seventh Street and passing Bergdorf’s and the Plaza, before winding our way into the park. The day is cold, but bright and sun-filled, and my heart feels lighter than it has in weeks, maybe months. I almost tell her this as we stop to sit on the bench, but get distracted as we both read the small silver plaque screwed to the back of it: FOR CAROLINE, WHO LOVED THE PARK, AND GEORGE, WHO WAS ALWAYS WITH HER.
Josie runs her hands across the words and says, “Wow. What a sweet dedication.”
I murmur my agreement as we sit, our backs to the inscription. “Do you think the kids did it for their parents?” I say, hoping that Josie and I are one day that unified, when Mom and Dad are gone and it truly is just the two of us.
“Probably,” she says, with a faint smile. “I picture a little old couple who sat right here, every morning, with their little dog and matching canes…until one night, they died in their sleep. Together…”
I nod and smile. “That’s about as happy an ending as you can get,” I say, thinking that even the happiest possible endings still ultimately end in death.
I share the observation aloud, and she looks at me and shakes her head. “God, Mere. What a downer.”
I shrug and say, “Well? It’s the truth.”
“I know, but jeez.”
We both laugh, then sit for a stretch of silence, before she shoots me a serious glance.
“So…do you want to talk about what’s going on?” she asks, her voice soft. “With Nolan?”
For the first time in a long time, I actually want to confide in my sister. So I go with it. “I don’t think I married the right person,” I say, squinting up at the cobalt, cloudless sky and wishing I’d worn my sunglasses.
I wait a beat, then meet her gaze. Her expression is more sad than judgmental, the opposite of what I expected.
“I know,” she says, nodding. “Nolan sort of told me….”
“He did?”
“Yes. Don’t be mad at him.”
I shake my head. “I’m not. What did he say?”
She swallows, staring down at her pearly pink manicure. “He’s scared you want to divorce him.”
I freeze. That word.
“Do you?” she asks, glancing up from her hands to look at me.
I slowly nod and say, “I think maybe it’s the right decision.”
“But…why?” she asks, sounding so innocently mournful. “He loves you so much.”
“First of all, I don’t know that that’s true—”
She cuts me off and says, “Oh, Mere, it is true. Don’t you see the way he looks at you? He adores you. He respects you. God…you’re so lucky.”
And just like that, I feel my sadness morph into defensiveness and resentment. “I’m not lucky,” I say. “I married someone I was never really in love with. I cried on my wedding day. That’s not lucky. That’s just…lame.” I look at my sister, unsure of whether I want her to argue or relent the point.
“But you have a good marriage,” she says. “Don’t you?”
“In some ways,” I reply. “Okay…in a lot of ways, maybe….But sometimes I want more…for both of us….I want both of us to have the real deal…what Daniel had with Sophie.”
“I know,” she says softly. “I use them as a benchmark, too.”
“You do?” I say. “I thought you used Will for that?”
She nods. “Yeah. For a while I did. I wanted Will to be my Sophie. On paper, he seemed to be….But looking back…he wasn’t.” She gives me a funny look, then says, “Speaking of…she actually wants to have dinner with us tonight.”
“Sophie?” I say, thinking I must be confused.
“Yeah. I got in touch with her the other day. On Facebook…I told her we were going to be in town and gave her my phone number. She texted last night and said she’d love to meet us for dinner….”
“She texted you last night?” I say, my voice rising. “And you’re just mentioning it to me now?”
“Yeah…I wasn’t sure I wanted to do it.”
I close my eyes, shake my head, and say her name under my breath.
“What? I thought you wanted to see her,” she says, her voice now raised and whiny. “How could you possibly be upset with me for arranging something that you and Mom wanted in the first place?”
“Well, for one,” I say, “Mom’s not here.”
“I know…but we can always see Sophie again in December…with Mom.”
“So we wait fifteen years and then see her twice in a matter of weeks?”
“Well? Why not?”
“Doesn’t that seem a bit…excessive?”
“Sorry, I didn’t check the etiquette guide on this topic….” She pulls her phone out of her purse and mumbles that she’ll just text her back that we can’t make it.
I exhale with disgust, then reach out and put my hand on her forearm. “Stop. Don’t text her that. That’s rude….I just need to think for a second….”
“About what?”