“Don’t worry about me—I can handle him,” Jules says. “I took care of two kids with swine flu last winter while Ben was at his annual stockholders’ meeting. This is nothing!”
I cringe at the visual of Jules getting puked on and running cold baths. “Believe me, I am very aware that you can tackle any situation with the proficiency of a drill sergeant, but you’re right. I can’t avoid him any longer, especially because he lives here—at least he used to.” I choke back the bile in my throat as I think about the cold sheets on his side of the bed. “And there are things to divide up—although I don’t even know where we’ll begin. I mean, what’s the etiquette for dealing with those?” I sweep my hand toward the wedding gifts that are piled beneath a quilt in the corner. Jules had thrown the blanket over them after I’d kicked one of the boxes the night before, the sound of whatever was inside breaking, me praying it was the stupid bread maker Max had insisted we register for. When we’d taken the trip to Crate & Barrel, he’d silently shuffled beside me, nodding absentmindedly as I scanned various items. But then, like an elderly person who nods off after a meal and abruptly wakes up, he’d stopped in the middle of the aisle and pointed, offering a strong opinion about the need for us to be able to make homemade bread. “Like, when are we ever going to use that? I can’t even remember the last time I had a piece of toast!” I’d screamed at Jules late last night, right before she took the wine from my hand and guided me over to the couch to go to sleep.
But what I couldn’t bring myself to say to my best friends now, even though I knew they’d understand, was I couldn’t care less about who got custody of the Vitamix blender or the surround sound system. I needed more answers from Max. I needed to know why. Why he waited so long to leave. Why I wasn’t enough for him.
“I need to go upstairs and call him.” I hold my hand up to halt their protests.
Jules stands and starts to speak, but I cut her off, already knowing what she’s about to say. “I’ll be fine—I promise,” I lie as I look at the circular metal staircase that leads to the master bedroom. I can do this. One foot in front of the other.
“Okay, we’ll be right here,” she says, giving my arm a squeeze and glancing at Liam as if she thinks he can talk some sense into me.
“Kate.” Liam stands and envelops me in a hug, his chest warm against my cheek. “He has no idea what he’s giving up,” he whispers fiercely in my ear.
“Thanks,” I say, leaning in closer, the quickened pace of his heartbeat reinforcing his words.
I start to pull back, but he tightens his grip. “We love you exactly the way you are—just remember that. If he doesn’t, then he doesn’t deserve you.”
I smile up at him. “I don’t know what I’d do without you guys.”
When I walk into our bedroom and see the neatly made bed, a memory comes flooding back. The morning after Max first slept over at the apartment in Venice Beach I lived in before I bought the condo, I’d walked out of the bathroom and found him pulling the sheet taut, then carefully tucking it under each corner, then smoothing the top. After watching him for several minutes, I said, “Hey there, Hospital Corners, you for real? Don’t tell me you know how to separate the whites too?”
On the morning we left for Hawaii, did he know it was the last time he’d be making our bed?
I sit on the edge of the bed and pull up Max’s name on my phone. He answers on the first ring, as if he has been waiting for my call. “Kate.”
“Hi,” I say, my voice catching in my throat.
“Are you okay?”
“Just tell me why you threw away everything we had,” I launch in, the edge in my voice harsher than I want it to be. “I deserve to know.”
The four beats between my question and his response feel like hours. The only sound is our neighbor’s dog, a Jack Russell terrier named Benji, barking urgently in the background. Always a big fan of Max’s, I imagine he’s yelling, Be careful! This is a loaded question!
I suck in my breath, my eyes moving back and forth over several framed pictures of us on the dresser that are angled in two perfectly straight lines, finally landing on the one in the center, our engagement photo that was taken on the beach in Malibu last summer. Finally, the words tumble from his mouth—he’s so sorry, he didn’t mean to hurt me, he hopes I can forgive him. He tells me he hadn’t been happy for some time, but didn’t know how to tell me—describing the last few months as a roller coaster that he didn’t feel he could stop. He says something about how he’s doing us both a favor, even if I can’t see that right now. Then he tells me I deserve better. “And there’s something else you need to know. Something I want you to hear from me,” he says.
“There’s more? Lucky me,” I say sarcastically.
“Yes . . .” He trails off.