When Girlfriends Chase Dreams (41 page)

The bed has been unmade for four days straight.

There have already been three nights since Conner returned that neither of us has said, “I love you,” before falling into a bad night’s sleep.

We’ve since had two brief fights about, in all honesty, I have no idea what they were about.

There’s still one set of drapes that is unfinished, with no hope in sight of there even being a reason to finish them.

Life is as low as it could be, and how many brides-to-be do you hear say that?

Some brides might be depressed at such a time because their dream wedding dress or dream wedding design or dream wedding plans are falling out of place. Not me, though. See, the most important part—the entire
reason
behind getting married—is kind of, sort of, well…missing from it all. I’ve never felt so distant from Conner. How did this all happen? I thought the worst of my troubles were ever-growing guest lists, or lawsuits from airhead wedding coordinators.

I’ve been trying to devise a plan to get things straight away again. I don’t just mean getting things in order so there can actually be a wedding. I’m over even considering the wedding and its lengthy plans. Right now my focus is Conner—trying to reach out to him, ignite those sparks again, and repair the magical relationship we once had.

For better or worse, married or not, Conner is the one with whom I want to spend the rest of my life, and right now I’m not so sure he’s feeling the same way. How can I blame him?

1247 Parker Lane, Seattle, Washington, is a mammoth hell hole of anger and finger pointing and bone-chilling silence (at least when we’re not screaming at each other). It has to stop.

Even Schnickerdoodle is lodging a complaint about hostile living conditions. He’s not his usual bouncing self, eager to go on walks. The height of his excitement regarding walks comes when he limply carries the leash in between his teeth and lazily drops it at either of our feet. He then kind of looks up in a cowering way, as if he’s saying in a very glum tone, “Which one of you will it be today?”

Conner and I need to talk, and I don’t mean hurling insults at one another or immediately breaking into a fight the moment either of us says something. We need to fix things, but how? When? What can I possibly say or do to fix this?

“Ruth?” I call out from her small back porch, which thankfully has a wide awning, shielding me from the hot July sun.

It’s such a lovely day that one of my patients, Ruth, insisted she spend some time tending to her garden. I told her that we could do that, and I’d be delighted to help her, but that we really shouldn’t be out in the heat for too long. When I lathered our arms and faces with some sunscreen, she made a light fuss about the oiliness of the cream.

“Ruth, dear,” I repeat from the porch. I’ve already told her we needed to go back inside now. I don’t want to bake the poor elderly woman’s brain with this strong heat.

She seems to be ignoring me, however, or she just doesn’t hear me. I’m pretty sure I know which one, because one time she looked up at me after I called, then quickly looked away and went back to admiring her rose bushes. Stubborn little lady.

“Ruth.” I descend the porch steps and put a hand on her shoulder. “Ruth, dear. How about we go inside now? Get out of the heat?”

She carefully pets a vibrant pink rose and says to it, “You’re a pretty one, aren’t you?”

“Come on, Ruth,” I slowly direct her towards the porch. “You’re getting very warm. Let’s get back inside, yeah?”

“Inside?” she asks, looking at me with a dazed face. “Go inside?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Inside…yes, inside…”

It’s relaxing in front of the cool breeze of an oscillating tabletop fan in the kitchen. As we sit, Ruth seems to come more to her wits. A combination of her advancing Alzheimer’s and the warm Seattle summer heat are not doing her or her memory any favors.

Now, in the comfort of the cool home and heavy in a conversation about men and marriage and love (you can guess who initiated this one), Ruth seems to be much more adjusted.

“You know, Claire,” she says in her sweet and shaky voice. “You are a much too young and pretty thing to be getting yourself mixed up in this kind of mess.” She flourishes her wrinkled hand about, just to make a point or emphasize.

“You and this Conner of yours—it’s Conner, isn’t it?”
 

I smile and tell her she’s spot-on.
 

She smiles, too, as if proud that she’s remembered this nugget of information. “You and your Conner—you’re both too young to be having squabbles like this. Life is so short, Claire. So short.”

Ruth’s face looks like it loses a little color as she looks off at the wall opposite us. Maybe she’s imagining time with her husband, Art who’s passed away. Maybe she’s contemplating their many good times, maybe even their few spats.

“I was with Art for sixty-two years,” Ruth says, her gaze still set on some point behind me. “Sixty-two wonderful years, but sixty-two short years.” Her eyes meet mine, and I can sense a slight sheen of tears coating her deep blues.

“Life and love, together, are so priceless.” She leans forward in her chair at the kitchen table and rests a palm, open and facing upward, on the clothed table.

“Claire,” Ruth says, wiggling her fingers.
 

I put my hand in hers and look at her with warm and kind eyes, understanding what she wants to tell me before she does. “Don’t lose the man you love over things that don’t matter.”

“Even though he’s been acting childish?” I ask. “I mean, going to Vegas?” I have to reiterate this point.

She cups her other aged hand over mine and rubs it softly. “I have news for you, Claire—you’re both children. How else are you supposed to act?”

We share a laugh.
 

“You’re both so young,” she says, tossing a wave. “And, let me tell you this.” She points a finger at me and says, with squinted eyes, “Art was just as childish at eighteen as he was at eighty. Men! They never grow up.”

“You’re probably right.”

“Of course I am, sweetie! I’m a granny, and we elders are always right.” She laughs at her own humor. “But you know what?” She scrunches her face up in that very cute way that only older ladies can manage. “It’s nice to be a kid sometimes, you know?”

“Life is short, live it while you can?” I say, tracing the swirly pattern printed on the tablecloth.

“You know it!” Ruth says. With a loud clap of the table, she bounds out of her seat with such spry agility that I’m taken aback and giggle for a second. “Come on! I don’t want to miss
Wheel of Fortune,
” she says, “and you’re not off to your next patient for a while, right?”

***

I consider canceling my date for cocktails with Jackie after work tonight. Ruth is right about life being short and not letting stupid arguments get in the way of true love. I knew it all before, and hearing it kind of drove the point home. Her words made me more aware of how imperative it is that I repair the damage that’s been done and try my best to keep it from happening again. I know Conner and I aren’t impervious to disagreements and bouts of silence or grudges, but this has gone on long enough. We can’t sink deeper.

But for some reason I don’t feel one hundred percent ready to go home and face him. I’m not prepared to sit him down, spill out my feelings, and tell him that I really want to fix things and move forward. I’m almost ready, so maybe once I have a drink and talk with Jackie, I’ll be good to go. A little liquid courage could help do the trick, and Jackie’s always great for lightening the mood—or getting you to feel confident about what you’re about to do. I can have one quick drink with her and chat a little, and then I’ll head home and draw up the nerve to say to Conner, “We need to talk.” Oooh, I just got a shiver up my spine. They say men really fear those four words, but I know women do just the same.

I pull my creaking car into one of the many open spots in the lot in front of Elements, a no-fanfare kind of low-slung bar in Capitol Hill, a nice halfway point in town between where Jackie and I live.

My car has been acting up again, choosing when it wants to start and when it wants to do nothing but stay put. It’s a real headache. To get to work this morning I had to try the ignition half-a-dozen times before it finally started. I haven’t told Conner about it, and luckily he hasn’t spotted me struggling behind the wheel in the drive. I don’t want to bring more trouble to the table.

I take a peek at my watch and notice that Jackie is running late. Perhaps this is just a sign that I should cancel, head home, and do what I’m so reluctant to do.

I let five minutes pass before I order myself a glass of the sweetest wine available, with two packets of Splenda added. (It’s really good, trust me. I told the bartender he should try it, but he only gave me an expression like I was crazy.)

Jackie’s still not here, and with no warning text message that she’s running late, I look at my half-drunk wine and decide to cancel our date.

“You want another one?” the bartender asks, obviously short on customers and eager to do something other than wipe down an already clean bar. His face is twisted slightly, as if he’s thinking about how bizarre the beverage concoction is that I’ve ordered.

“No thanks,” I say, lacking any semblance of vigor.

I finish texting Jackie when a familiar voice comes from behind.

I spin around on my barstool. It’s Chad.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, bewildered.

“I think the better question, is what are
you
doing here?” Chad saunters up, his plain white t-shirt stained in black, grey, and taupe paint. He takes a seat next to me. I notice his ragged jeans and fingertips are covered in the same color of paint. He must have been working on one of his art projects, the aspiring artist he is. But
what
is he doing here?

“I, uh…” I mutter, looking rather abashed. I haven’t seen or spoken to Chad since the Las Vegas incident. Who knows what Conner told him about me and our fights. Chad probably thinks I’m a bitch with a capital B. A crazy person. A very clingy or demanding or bossy wife-to-be.
 

The bartender asks if he can get Chad anything, and he replies with, “I’ll have what she’s having.” He points his thumb at me.

“Uh,” I say, putting a hand flat out on the bar, as if trying to halt the bartender. “I’m sure he’ll have something else.”

“You want a rosé with Splenda?” the bartender asks him.

“Two packets,” I say, lazily holding up two fingers.

Chad looks at me, surprise written on his face, and says, “Whatever light beer you’ve got on tap’ll work. Thanks.”

I take a swig of my wine, closing my eyes. “So,” I say, setting the glass down. “Why are you here, Chad?”

“You didn’t answer my question, Claire,” he says. He’s leaned down into the bar really low, his forearms resting on the cool surface. His hands are clasped in an almost contemplative, yet rugged way. “Come on. What’s going on?”

“Psh! As if you don’t have a clue.”

“Look, I’ll skip all the small talk. Get right to it.” He keeps his position, but turns his head to his right to look at me. His face is very serious—a look he usually doesn’t display, the kidder and laidback kind of guy he is. “Conner loves you. Very much.”

“I know.”

“You two are going through some shit right now, and that’s normal. But you have to work it out. You’re bigger than this.” He thanks the bartender for his drink and takes a sip at the frothy rim.

“I know,” I repeat.

“You know he’s terrified of losing you? Of you not wanting to go through with this wedding?”

“Me?” I say, astonished. “He thinks
I
won’t want to get married? I’m worried
he
won’t.”

After another sip of beer, Chad says, “See? You two are peas in a pod. Both worried about the other one bailing and…I expect you
do
want to get married still?”

“Of course!” I practically shout.

“See? Peas in a pod, both worried the other one won’t, but both wanting more than anything in the world to be together. Neither of you has the balls enough to apologize first.”

A playful smirk tugs at his mouth. “Come on, Claire. What are you doing here drinking? Drowning your worries and sorrows in a nasty-as-sin drink?” He scoffs. “What’s with that drink, anyway?”

I swirl the sugary concoction around the glass. “A Claire Cocktail, Conner calls it. And no, I’m not ‘drowning my sorrows’ or whatever. I was supposed to meet Jackie here.”

“Well, you have someone at home you need to talk to.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I pause. “And, while you’re here, what was with Vegas anyway?” I give him a glaring eye. “Do I have to hate you for this? I do, don’t I?” I’m only half kidding; I’m still pretty peeved about that stunt.

“Conner’s idea,” he replies gravely. “But not one I was disinclined to hop on board with.”

“Ugh. Honestly.” I drain the remainder of my drink. I wince a little as the last part goes down. It really
is
sweet, and kind of disgusting actually.

“Innocent fun. That’s all,” he says.

“Strippers, gambling…I suppose we’re broke now?” I lick my lips before applying a coat of lip balm.

“No,” Chad says, shaking his head determinedly. “Honest. Nothing like that. Well…gambling, yes. But totally in control.”
 

I raise both eyebrows.
 

“Honest! I lost a helluva bunch, but Conner actually left the tables up two hundred. Not bad, for a rookie.” He winks and takes a sip of beer. “Spent that cash on that ta—” He immediately looks guilty, like he knows he’s said something he shouldn’t have, so I cut in to spare him the fright.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I know. He got some dumb-ass tattoo.”

“Well…erm…” Chad groans, turning his glass about on its cardboard coaster.

“Whatever,” I say, wanting to officially put Vegas and whatever happened there behind me for good.

“I still think it was a horrible idea,” I say. “I mean, it was such a
Hangover
movie kind of thing. Totally pathetic. I should hate you forever, Chad. Hold a grudge against Conner for a very long time.” I flash him a small grin to let him know that I’m not serious. Well, not
entirely
serious.