“Any speaking engagements this summer, hon?” I asked, knowing he loved to talk about his pet project. It worked. He brightened right up.
About two years ago, Brad decided that being a talk therapist wasn’t enough. He decided to write a self-help book about living your best life, which he entitled Living Your Best Life. Not the most original title, and, if I’m being honest, not the most original content, either. Breathe. Live mindfully. Eat healthfully. Take walks. Keep a gratitude journal. Nothing you couldn’t find in the 3.52 billion hits Google brought up when I’d checked the phrase. But he liked it, so he went with it.
When every agent and publisher rejected or ignored it, Brad went the route of self-publishing, sat back and waited for Oprah to call. She did not. He finagled a spot on NECN (one of the producers and I had gone to high school together, and I asked if she could put him in touch with the person who booked guests). The Cape Cod Times had graciously done a feature on his book and him. Alas, sales were almost nonexistent. It wasn’t exactly a surprise—he knew nothing about indie publishing, after all—but I tried to be encouraging. I even bought a few copies from time to time and gave them to my pregnant ladies as gifts. Brad would mention an “uptick in sales,” and I never had the heart to tell him that it was me.
Tonight, the question got his nose out of the wine list. “Thanks for asking,” he said with more enthusiasm than he’d shown all day. “I’m working on a new marketing plan. I think it’ll get some solid national attention, and I’m planning a blogging tour. Maybe even some signings.” He lifted his eyebrows.
“That’s great, hon,” I said, though he’d said this three or four times in the past. This spring, for example, he’d started an Instagram account and taken a lot of pictures of himself on the beach or kayaking or staring over the ocean, hair ruffling, #LivingYourBestLife #BuyTheBook #ChangeYourLife #amreading #amliving #bestlife. No pictures of Dylan or me, but he said he wanted to respect our privacy, and this was only for the book.
I ordered the seafood puttanesca, and Brad went with the pasta. “No steak?” I asked, because he usually ordered red meat when we were out.
“I’m thinking of going vegetarian,” he said. “Better for me. My thoughts are clearer, and I have more energy.”
I smiled. “Says the king of bacon cheeseburgers. Didn’t you eat two the other night?”
He rolled his eyes. “Maybe I did, Lillie. Typical of you to keep score.”
“I just . . . Never mind.” He’d been prickly lately, probably because of Dylan.
“Dylan got his roommate, did he tell you?” I said, and no, our son had not, so I filled Brad in. The kid was from Maine, had four sisters, seemed perfectly nice and was also a football player. I told him about the classes Dylan was taking—mostly core requirements, but he’d also chosen Fiction in the Twentieth Century, which made me happy, since I loved to read. I told Brad about my newest client, who was expecting twins.
Our food came, and I inhaled the sauce before tasting it. “God, they should make this smell into perfume,” I said. “People would chase me down in the streets just to sniff me.”
No reaction. Not the greatest date night we’d ever had. I wanted him in a better mood before I told him about the big trip. He seemed both a little bored and a little irritated, which in turn irritated me. I was doing 90 percent of the work here, after all. “Tell me more about the marketing plan,” I said.
He considered his words carefully, tilting his head to one side. “It’s so important, living your authentic life,” he said. “Sometimes, it can take years to even find your truth, you know? People are so burdened by society’s expectations and dated norms.”
“Mm,” I said, taking another bite of food. “I get it.” I didn’t, but I liked that he was talking with such animation.
“We all need a continued sense of purpose and passion. Joy, even. How many times this week have you felt joy, Lillie?”
“Oh. Um . . . I don’t know. I feel joy right now, being here with you, eating this good food.” I smiled.
His face showed his disappointment. I wasn’t sure why, but it was the wrong answer.
When the waitress came to ask if we wanted dessert, Brad said no. “I’ll have the coconut cake,” I said, because speaking of joy . . . “We’ll split it,” I added, since we always did. One of our marital habits—Brad always pretended he didn’t want dessert, then shared mine. Denial.
“No, no. All for you,” Brad said, and for a second, I could’ve sworn he glanced at my midsection. He himself was lean. I was not.
Brad was nursing a second glass of malbec. That was funny . . . I’d never seen him order red wine, not even with steak. He said it gave him headaches, but here he was, sniffing it like he was a bloodhound, swirling it, savoring it. Before I said something snarky, I decided this was the moment.
“Honey, I have something to tell you,” I said. I took a breath and tried to get into the romantic mood. The candlelight made Brad look even more handsome. His blond hair, still fairly full, that WASPy, almost delicate bone structure. His amazing cerulean eyes. He looked younger, the gift of candlelight. I hoped I looked equally beautiful. “It’s pretty exciting.”
“Really? I have something to tell you, too,” he said. “Also exciting. But go ahead.”
I paused for dramatic effect. “We’re going to Europe! I booked us a trip!”
Brad’s face didn’t change. He didn’t smile. He barely blinked.
“Oh,” he said. “Uh . . . when?”
“October seventeenth. Venice, then a train ride up into the Alps for a few days, and then . . . wait for it . . . Paris! Surprise!”
Brad didn’t say anything.
“Honey?” I asked.
“Yes. Um . . . well.”
Not the reaction I was hoping for. Brad loved traveling. “Aren’t you excited?” I asked. “You don’t seem excited.”
He drained his wine. “Actually, Lillie, I . . . uh . . . I was thinking it’s time we . . . divorced.”
“Here’s your coconut cake,” said the waitress, a pretty girl with dark hair. “Two forks, just in case.”
“Thank you!” I said. “Dig in, honey, before I lay waste to this whole thing.”
“This is hard for me,” he said. “It wasn’t an easy decision, but I’m sure.”
“About what?” God. The cake melted in your mouth. Melted.
“Did you hear me? What I just said?”
“Did you hear me? We’re going to Europe!”
He looked away sharply. “No. We’re not. I want a divorce, Lillie. That’s why I took you here. To discuss our future at this natural split in the path.”
I snorted. “Oh, please. We’re not getting divorced.” God, this cake was so good.
“I’m serious. Please listen and don’t infantilize me, Lillie.”
“Brad. Honey. Is this because Dylan’s graduating? It’s normal to feel blue. But we’re happy. Not like everyone else.” There had been a rash of divorces among our crowd lately, and suddenly my skin felt a little too tight. “We’ve been talking about how fun being empty nesters will be.” Hadn’t we? No, we had. Just not recently.
“I’ve met someone.”
“You know, this trip is going to be perfect,” I said. “Change of scenery, new places, new food, different languages all around us. You can practice your French! Our son is going to college in Montana, and we’ve both been melancholy. I’ve looked at so many pictures of Venice, I already feel better.”
Wait . . . what was that he’d just said? It wasn’t about Europe. I felt a flush starting in my chest, creeping up my neck.
I took a sip of water. Glanced around the restaurant. There was our pretty waitress, listing off the specials at another table. A gorgeous young couple had just walked in, holding hands. Newlyweds, I thought, judging by the way they gazed at each other. Yep. He’d just picked up her hand and kissed the ring finger, where a gold band gleamed. Sweet.
“Lillie?” Brad said.
“We’re going to Europe,” I said again, more loudly this time. “We deserve it.”