I looked at her, startled. Her head was tilted, her eyebrows knitted—her insincere concerned face. I secretly called it the “fish face” because the expression was always accompanied by a badly disguised effort to ferret out some morsel of information to pass along to the masses. I saw Claire Barnes in Stop & Shop today, and you’ll never believe what she told me… as though delivering their fresh catch of the day.
“Oh, I’m doing well,” I replied, treading carefully. “You know, it will never be easy, but I have a strong support system. So that’s been great.” Drew rested his hand on my shoulder.
“Well, that’s important,” she replied with a knowing smile. “And Drew here, I’m sure he helps, too.”
“Oh, well, Drew has been a friend since we were kids. He’s been fantastically supportive,” I said.
“Oh! So… you’re just friends, then?” She pointed at us, waving her finger back and forth, curiosity disguised as concern.
“We were very close friends growing up,” I said. “And not that it’s anyone else’s business, but yes, we have become an item.”
“Oh, well, are you—” Melinda began, her concerned fa?ade all but dropped in the excitement of such a juicy confirmation.
I cut her off, holding up my hand. “Melinda, thank you so much for asking about me. But at this point, I think I’ve said all I care to say. I’d also prefer it not become gossip fodder, if you can help yourself.”
She took a step back. “Claire, I completely understand.” She put her hand on my arm. “If you guys need anything at all, let me know.” She hastily went inside to greet other, but surely less interesting, guests.
Drew turned to look at me in amazement. “Seriously? I think I was wrong. Maybe we do need allies.”
“Welcome to the suburbs.” I laughed. “You thought the city was tough? You have no idea. To be fair, she’s the worst one. Everyone else will be more subtle. And probably genuinely care less.”
“She makes me so sad,” he commented.
I looked up in questioning surprise. Melinda made me a lot of things, but never, ever sad.
“Think about it,” he said. “To care that much about someone else’s life, your own life has to be pretty unfulfilling.”
My mind flashed to Melinda’s half-drunken attempts to seduce Greg two years ago. What must her marriage be like? Steve always seemed so… dull. Drew, an outsider, had shone new light on the whole party with one simple observation. I reached up, not caring who saw, and kissed him. “I love you, Drew Elliot.”
The night before, I had lectured him. “Please, no PDA, okay?”
He replied with his usual sarcasm. “Someday, though, right? Someday, we can make out in the middle of a church barbeque? I’ve always wanted to. Please?”
I smacked him with my magazine. “You are never serious.”
“You’re serious enough for both of us,” he had replied.
He kissed me back, eyes widened in surprise. “You said no PDA,” he whispered.
“That was before. For some reason, I don’t really care that much anymore.”
Chapter 30
A few weeks later, we had our first real fight. The house. The house was the thorn in our sides, the pea under the mattress. Drew protested very little in life, his easygoing side a nice complement to my detail-oriented type-A. I found, through time, that when he did stake a claim, I should take it seriously. I tried to abide by my own self-imposed rule; however, we struggled with the house. We painted the bedroom, bought a new bed, and rearranged the furniture. Nothing in the bedroom resembled the room I had shared with Greg. But Drew couldn’t get past it. He wanted me to sell the house. He wanted us to move and find a new house to make our own. He felt like Greg’s replacement, the new daddy, in the same house, filling the same role.
“Lots of people get married twice. And then, the second husband is always second. It’s in the name!” I protested. “I can’t help that. We’re not even married yet…” I skirted another issue. “… but I feel like I already have to defend having a first husband to you.”
“I’ve never asked you to defend having a first husband. That’s ridiculous. But I feel like I’m renting space in Greg’s life. Can’t you see that? I don’t question your love for me. Asking you to move is not like asking you who you loved more. I need us to start fresh, so I can feel like this is my place in life.”
“It’s just a house. You’re making too much of this,” I insisted. “This is your place in life. If you want it to be.”
He threw up his hands and stomped outside.
Having quasi-lived together for seven months, I knew we were both coming to a head with our purgatory life. He still maintained his brownstone in Harlem, but he stayed with us most of the time, commuting in when necessary. The arrangement worked, albeit for the short term. Admittedly, I saw his point. My hesitation stemmed from my love for my house—the big yard, the barn, the privacy, the house’s age. I knew we could find something that I would love again, particularly with Drew’s income, but my house was my home. Stubbornly, unfairly, I held onto it.