I hate the name Ben.
“Yeah. He’s a lawyer. He works mostly on pro bono cases for the city,” Coralie says, sliding a forkful of food into her mouth; she looks like she’s going to be sick.
“So cool! He does a lot of charity work, then?” Tina coos.
Coralie nods.
So this Ben jerk is a goddamn saint by the sound of things. He’s stable, does good works in the community, and helps others in need. He already makes me want to punch something. I never want to meet him.
“Do you think you’ll end up marrying him?” Tina asks.
Coralie drops her fork onto her plate, and it makes a loud crashing sound. Gumbo spills everywhere, all over the tablecloth. “Shit, I’m so sorry. Friday, sit down. It’s okay, I’ll clean it up.”
Friday’s already on her feet and grabbing a wet cloth from the sink, though. “All good, child. You stay sittin’, now. Answer Miss Tina’s question. It was a good one.”
“Of course she’s not,” I say. “She’s not going to marry Ben.”
Everyone turns and looks at me. Shane’s eyebrows are migrating up his forehead, and Friday looks stunned. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so assertive in my statement, but it’s the truth. Coralie’s hands tighten around the white napkin she’s holding onto, and I can see the horror in her eyes.
“Why wouldn’t I be marrying Ben?”
“Because. You told me twelve years ago you were never getting married. You seemed fairly adamant at the time.”
“That was twelve years ago, Callan. I could have changed my mind by now, surely?”
I shake my head. “Not possible. Sorry.”
“Bullshit. Why is it not possible? I used to hate mayonnaise. Now I can’t eat fries without it.”
“That’s hardly the same thing and you know it.” I can feel my temperature rising, approaching boiling point. There’s just no way she would…
Coralie pushes back her chair, clearing her throat as she stands from the table. “I’m not good enough for anyone to marry?” she says. “I’m too damaged? Too crazy? I’m dragging too much baggage around with me? That it, Callan?”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying. Not even close.”
“Then what? You can’t possibly know the depths of my relationship with my boyfriend, of whether I’d marry him.”
I lean across the table, “Oh, but I do. I know. I know perfectly well. You might say yes if he asked you. You might even make it to the fucking church on your wedding day. But you know as well as I do that the moment you started to walk down that aisle, you’d see that it was wrong. That you shouldn’t do it. Because there’s only one man on the face of this planet you should ever be getting married to, and it’s sure as shit not Ben the Good Samaritan. It’s me.”
Breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe, god damn it.
I gently set my spoon down in my bowl, my ears burning like they’re on fire. I can feel my veins and capillaries expanding, opening wider for the rush of blood that’s muscling its way through my arms and my legs, my torso and my head. Fuck, I feel like…I haven’t felt like this in years. Not since I was a teenager, still wrestling with my hormones and my runaway emotions.
Shane, Tina, and Friday…all three of them sit in absolute silence, staring down into their food. Coralie looms over me on the other side of the table. She seems to have grown a foot in the last few seconds. She’s deadly still, frozen like a menacing marble statue of Boudicca I saw once at the London Museum, her eyes screaming fire and brimstone. Her hands shake by her sides.
“You…you do not get to speak to me like that, Callan. You do…not….get to talk to me about marriage. You shouldn’t even be here. Why did you come back? Why? To torment me? To break my heart? Because let me tell you…” She snatches up her bag and fights to get the straps over her shoulder. “I can’t be any more tormented. And my heart can’t get any more broken. Both tasks are already complete.”
I can’t watch her go. I am so done with watching her storming out of my life. I stare at a painting on the wall, clenching down on my jaw as she whispers an apology into Friday’s ear and kisses her on the cheek. I continue to stare at the painting as she mumbles a very weak goodbye to Shane and Tina, and I’m still staring at the painting as she rushes out of the room, the front door to the house slamming five seconds later.
The painting is of Algie, a small, yappy dog Friday used to own, presumably long dead by now. He looks like he’s laughing at me from the oil and canvas portrait; the little shit always did like Coralie better than he liked me.
Shane clears his throat, spooning more gumbo into his mouth. “Well,” he says around his stew. “I’ll admit, that honestly went better than I thought it would.”
CHAPTER TEN
CORALIE
Happy Birthday, Weirdo
THEN