These Are the Moments (23 page)

Chapter 60

Then

The AC clicked on.

This was the coldest his bedroom had ever felt to her. Even buried beneath the thick comforter, she couldn’t seem to get warm.

Through the doorway, she watched Simon float in and out of her line of vision. He hadn’t spoken to her in twelve minutes.

Thirteen, now.

Wendy stretched the blanket around her face, letting it swallow her whole. She wondered if she would always be silently sitting here, waiting for him to say something she knew that he wouldn’t.

Couldn’t.

She’d halfway dozed off when she felt his body sink down beside her.

“So,” he said, “what do we do?”

It was a simple enough question, with an overly complex answer.

The past couple of months had been both perfect and imperfect, in their own right. The fighting didn’t exist anymore, but the barrenness left in its place was even more startling. Wendy wasn’t over everything. Letting Simon back hadn’t changed that.

“I don’t know,” she answered, letting the blanket settle at her shoulders.

“You still hate me.”

He said this with an unmovable composure, as if he were talking about someone outside of them.

“I don’t
hate
you,” she said.

“You haven’t forgiven me.”

She didn’t argue.

“I can handle this,” he said, cupping the back of her neck. “I just need you to be completely honest with me.”

“Totally honest?” she asked him.

“Brutally open, if you can manage,” he said, his eyes unflinching. It was like he was trying to reach into her head with just the sheer force of them.

If Wendy were honest, she would say the things you are never supposed to say out loud. She would say things that hurt both of them, things she couldn’t unsay. There were thoughts wedged in the darkness, ones she never confronted directly; because if she did, she didn’t know how she’d get over them. How
they
would get over them.

“Just say it,” he whispered. “You don’t have to be strong for me.”

The tips of his fingers brushing the edge of her hairline. Simon could say and hear the worst things that people could dare to say and hear, but it had never been from her. And truthfully? That’s what scared Wendy the most.

“I don’t trust you,” she began, easing her way in, “but I want to.”

“Don’t sugarcoat it,” he corrected.

“Okay, okay,” she said. “I don’t trust you. You say things to me that not only cut; they rip. You leave and you act like it doesn’t matter. So much of my life has revolved around you leaving and showing up. You do whatever you want, and once you’re gone, I can’t get you back. Your feelings are a faucet. Mine are a geyser.”

He touched her while she talked, comforting her, even though he was the one she was hurting. If it did hurt him, he made no show of it. He just combed his fingers through her hair, listening.

“Keep going,” he said.

“I’m scared that I don’t . . . that I
can’t
love you like I used to,” she admitted. “I’m scared that all I’m fighting for is the residue of feelings. I’m scared that this is just the beginning of another end.”

She peered up at him for a reaction. His face, stoic and unchanged, softened beneath her gaze. Then he leaned in and kissed her lips, pulling them between his own, telling her everything she needed to know.

“Sometimes,” she whispered, “I don’t even know if I like who you are anymore.”

There was a trail of silence between them, an expectant hum of nothing and waiting.

“Okay,” he finally said, “I’m in.”

“What?”

He traced his thumbs around the shape of her face. “I told you that I’m all in. You are what I want. And maybe that’s not mutual right now, but the fact that you’re here shows me it could be. As long as that’s true, I’ll do everything I can to prove myself. You’ve held us together for years. It’s my turn now.”

Wendy relaxed into him, feeling like she’d just harvested her own heart.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“No,” he said. He leaned back onto the bed, and guided her down with him. “I’m sorry. For all of it. If I could change what happened, if I could make it right . . . well, I’m going to try. I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

Wendy closed her eyes.

I’m not going anywhere
.

She almost believed him.

Chapter 61

Now

She couldn’t believe it.

Bridal Shower Day.

“
Did you grab the camera?” Mom’s voice echoed from downstairs.

“Yes,” Wendy called back.

She was in the middle of wrapping the gift, a painting she’d done to commemorate the proposal scene: the bell tower in a swirl of confetti. She scribbled a sappy letter to go along with it, framed the painting and added a tag that said,
for your future home.

“You got the gift?” Mom’s voice again.

“Yes.”

Wendy grabbed her purse, the gift and the fakest smile she could manage. Big, full-toothed and outstretched, just enough to crack the skin of her lips. All set.

“You okay?” Mom asked in the car.

Mom knew the fake smile. She could always tell. “Good. Just a little stressed.”

“About the shower?”

“And the art show. And the promotion.”

Good job,
Wendy told herself.
That was convincing.

“Yeah,” Mom said, hands at a perfect ten and two. “You’re stretching yourself a little thin right now, don’t you think?”

“I don’t really have a choice.”

The half of Mom’s face visible to Wendy smiled. “You know how proud I am of you, right?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t feel like you have to make any big decision right now. On anything.”

Anything.

Mom always knew.

Mrs. Claire Delano’s house was DIY’d to the last touch, as only Vivian’s mother could. She’d made her own garland out of felt to hang above the present table. The party favors, individually wrapped chocolates in the shape of sand dollars, sat in neat rows by the front door. Everything was beach themed, including the cake, whose icing was fashioned into rolling waves.

“Wendy, thank God,” Mrs. Claire said, her hands patting down her perfectly pressed skirt. “Can you keep an eye on the ice for me? And the present table? I don’t want it to get too piled up. And, oh, make sure that the guests don’t mingle in the hallway. We need to try to funnel everybody into the living room and the kitchen. Got it? Great; thanks!”

Then Mrs. Claire flitted away as quickly as she’d appeared.

Vivian walked down the stairs, wearing a white linen dress and pink stained lips. “You’re here! You’re here!”

“It would seem so,” Wendy said. “You look beautiful.”

“Here, take this,” Vivian said, shoving a small, wrapped gift into Wendy’s hands.

“It’s your bridal shower, Viv. We’re supposed to be giving you the presents.”

Vivian tapped her pink heel on the wood floor. “Open it.”

Inside, a thin, gold bracelet coiled over a pad of cotton. Wendy lifted it to her eyes, and read the writing on the gold bar: “MOH.”

Vivian smiled. “Just in case you forget.”

“Thank you,” Wendy said, thinking she’d never actually wear it. “It’s very sweet.”

Minutes later, Reese showed up with two dark circles under her eyes and nearly tripped over the umbrella stand.

Wendy pulled her toward the coat room. “What’s going on? You alright?”

“I’m peachy,” Reese said, with feigned happiness. “Mimosa?”

They hadn’t spoken much since Reese’s birthday. It felt like they hadn’t had a real conversation in months. Reese didn’t ever like to look or act like something was wrong. She could be bleeding out of her head and still manage to call for another round.

“You look like a corpse right now, and you want to get mimosas?”

Reese grinned, and even though it was fake, you’d need a magnifying glass to see the difference. “This is Vivian’s day.”

“Just tell me. Is it Ben? Are y’all fighting again?”

Reese jerked her head back. “Well, we’re not not fighting.”

If Wendy were honest with Reese, she’d tell her how much Ben sucked. She’d tried to before, but every time, Reese just shrugged and ignored her. You can only help those who actually want it.

“We should talk,” Wendy said.

“Mimosas, mimosas, mimosas,” Reese chanted.

Wendy straightened her shoulders. She’d take care of it later.

Everything seemed to be going well. Wendy refilled the ice, monitored the present table and made small talk with Vivian’s relatives. As Wendy moved toward the coat room, Helen Guidry walked through the door.

So damn close.

Mrs. Helen, seeming out of her element in this crowd, made a beeline for Wendy.

“Good morning, Wendy; you look lovely,” she said demurely, holding her purse in front of her as a shield.

They hugged, making a purse sandwich. “It’s good to see you.”

“How’s the art gallery going? I heard that you’ve been very successful there.”

Oh yeah,
Wendy thought.
I’m sure you did.

“Yes, thank you,” Wendy said, tucking a hair behind her ear. Lightbulb. “Actually . . . I was just offered a full show. It’s next Saturday.”

This Mrs. Helen did not know. “Really? Isn’t that something? Is it open to the public? I would love to come.”

She wouldn’t come.

“Absolutely; it starts at 8.”

“Thank you. Congratulations, again. We’ll try to make it.”

We.

Wendy went to check the ice. It didn’t need refilling. She felt flushed, surrounded by all these people.
Why was Mrs. Helen here at all?
She and Owen were pretty close. But still.

How could Vivian not tell her? How could she ambush her like that?

We’ll try to make it.

Wendy went to check the present table. Half full. Evenly distributed. The crowd flow was good, too. No obtrusive gathering. She didn’t need to do anything at all.

“Having fun?”

Vivian nudged beside Wendy, a glass of champagne in tow. There was something about seeing Vivian right then that made the situation seem even worse. Instead of a golfball, it was a balloon. Instead of a butter knife, it was a machete.

“Big fun.”

Vivian tried to meet Wendy’s gaze. “Something wrong?”

“Helen Guidry’s here.”

“Oh, she made it?” Vivian said looking around, a dumb, hopeful look on her face. “She’s so sweet. Owen and I just had dinner with her and Simon a few weeks ago. She makes the best pot roast.”

And that right there said everything that Wendy needed to know. It explained the weirdness over brunch. It explained Vivian, to a fault. At the end of the day, Wendy could pick out her wedding dress, could pick up their friendship after Vivian abandoned it, and Vivian? She did what she wanted, when and how she wanted it.

The fact was that Vivian was part of that world now. Simon’s world. And she just couldn’t stomach it.

“I think . . . I think I need to leave,” Wendy said, her feet already pointed at the door.

“Leave? Why?”

“You didn’t think it would be, I don’t know, the least bit generous to let me know you invited Mrs. Helen? You didn’t think that was something I might want to know?”

“No,” Vivian said, total shock spreading across her face. “I hadn’t thought of it.”

“Of course not. Because every single thought you have is of yourself.”

Hurt. Hurt all over Vivian’s doe face. “That’s not true.”

“It is, Vivian. And I don’t know how I’m just seeing this now,” Wendy said, piecing it together. “When you left for Austin, I never heard from you. You never even bothered to call me back. And when you came to college, I ignored that. I told myself you were young. Immature. And now, it’s your wedding. And Simon’s in it. And you haven’t once bothered to ask me how I feel about that. Hell, you don’t even warn me that
his mother
is invited to your bridal shower.

“I’m not asking for much. I’m just asking you to be there for me. The way I’m there for you. But you never have been and I’m an idiot to think you’d be there now.”

Wendy didn’t want to stick around for a rebuttal, not that Vivian would give her one.

She texted Mom and told her she’d send Dad back for her later.

As she drove toward home, Wendy went over it in her mind.

I’m just asking you to be there for me. The way I’m there for you.

And as the words settled around her, she couldn’t decide if they were really meant for Vivian, or another target entirely.

Chapter 62

Then

“
Simon?”

It was 3:30 in the morning on a Wednesday. Simon’s laptop sat open on the kitchen table, notebooks flipped open beside an empty coffee cup. In the kitchen, Simon stood over the sink, his fist foamy as he cleaned a dirty plate.

“Hey, you,” he said, his eyes red and half-closed.

“Almost done?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Three more chapters to go. Needed a break.”

“It’s three in the morning. You’re washing dishes.”

“Yes,” he sighed.

This was becoming a trend. He’d fall asleep beside her, and halfway into the night, she’d wake up alone. Lately, he hadn’t even been going to sleep with her at all. When she told him she was thinking about staying at her own place, he insisted she stay.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to go home,” he’d say. “I’ll be in soon.”

But he never was.

This was Simon’s fifth year, and graduation was months away. He spent his nights working on his senior project and his days interviewing for jobs. He’d narrowed it down to two: one in New Orleans and one out of state.

“The New Orleans job pays really well,” he said, “but it’s a lot of traveling. The one out of state is a job where I could advance pretty quickly. What should I do?”

She knew which one she wanted. “I don’t know,” she said. “Whatever you decide, we’ll work it out.”

“Yes, but what do you think I should do?”

“It’s not about me.”

He looked at her, purposefully. “It has everything to do with you. This affects both of us now.”

Jobs. Real life. Growing up.

She had a full year before she had to worry about all that stuff, and yet, it felt like she was already there.

Wendy wrapped herself up in his sweatshirt. “Come to bed.”

“How adult of you.”

“Seriously, Simon,” she said, making her way over to him and wrapping her arms around his stomach. “You need rest. Or an oil can.”

“You know me,” he said, sticking the plate in the dishwasher. “I don’t rest.”

“Are you a human?”

“Possibly.”

“Humans sleep. Sometimes, they even snore.”

“I don’t snore.”

“You totally snore.”

He turned his head toward her and kissed her. “Get some sleep. I’ll be there soon.”

There was a sinking feeling in her stomach. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

“Thirty minutes or I spike your coffee with sleeping pills.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

She squeezed him tight as he dried off his hands. As she made her way to his room, she watched him slide a hand through his hair and force his eyes open. For a split second, she imagined her life, years down the road. Maybe they had kids. Maybe they had a dog. He’d own his own business, and she’d own her gallery, but still, she’d go to bed alone, night after night.

Was this how life was?

The room was cold, much colder than the rest of the apartment. So she dove into the bed, rolling herself into the thick of the comforter. She closed her eyes, but going to sleep didn’t seem right. It was still his house, his bed, his world. And if she stayed awake, if she waited for him, then she was afraid she’d never stop.