Then she came back here, to close up the beach house to sell, and all those plans went to hell. One look at her old summer fling, Emerson, and she turned her life inside out.
We’re not close enough to confide in each other, so she never told me her reasons; the first I heard of it was an emailed engagement announcement. I couldn’t believe it. She was throwing her life away on some hot, reckless guy who had broken her heart once over, and sooner or later, would do it all again. But none of my arguments could change her mind. Juliet has always been stubborn, I guess, and on this, she wouldn’t be moved.
She was right, of course, I saw that at the wedding, but somehow, it seemed too late to tell her so. We haven’t talked in months, and I see her photos online now: every update is like a glimpse of some alternate reality from a girl I barely know. They’re living in a small apartment in the city; Emerson’s trying to open a restaurant, and Juliet takes photography classes and does the books for small businesses on the side. It’s cluttered and bright, the snapshots of the world they’re building together; nothing like the life she planned, no comparison to my house, and friends, and glittering future—at least that’s what I told myself, clicking through the photos on the dark, lonely nights.
But she has love. The kind you’ve never felt before. The kind you never will.
The love you don’t deserve.
I run on, circling the neighborhood and looping back down the road towards the house. I push myself harder, faster, punishing my body until blood pounds in my ears and every limb is screaming out with surrender. I reach the house and stumble to a stop, bending double, gasping on the front lawn.
My friends ask me how I stay in such great shape. They talk about my figure with envy, and I laugh it off, like it’s nothing at all, but the truth is, I kill myself to keep those extra five pounds off my hips. It’s work, all of it. Like the hours I spend in the salon, getting my buttery highlights touched up every month. The time at my makeup mirror, putting my face on every morning before I leave the house. The hours I spend shopping, building the wardrobe that will make women look at me with envy and my partner look at me with pride.
What else could you have done with all that time? The minutes and hours and days you’ve wasted putting on the perfect smile, pretending to be something you’re not?
I shiver, wishing the whispers would stay back, pushed out of my mind like I’ve kept them all these years. I’m used to the doubts, but lately they’ve been rising, a crescendo that has become impossible to ignore, even before Alexander raised his hand and broke the gates wide open, shattering my glassy denial for good.
Garrett has already left for work, so I head back upstairs and retrieve my cellphone, checking for any messages again. Alexander has called, three times now, but I’ve left his voicemails untouched. I scroll through my new texts first. My father has tried calling half a dozen times, and there’s a long list of messages about lunch plans and all the appointments I’ve cancelled, friends demanding to know where I am and why I’ve disappeared.
Spa retreat! I text them all. Massages and manicures, bliss!
I look around the old beach house and try to imagine their faces if they knew where I really was. No, I don’t have to imagine: it’s the look I’ve worn on my face anytime Beachwood Bay gets mentioned by Juliet or our father. I would always change the subject, abrupt, not even wanting to think about this place for a second.Even standing here now, a part of me is working overtime to block out the memories: focus on the here and now instead of the bleak shadows lurking behind every door.
But I have other, darker shadows to face right now. Alexander. I can’t avoid him forever.
I brace myself and play the voicemails.
“Hey, baby,” the first one begins, from two days ago. I feel a shiver. His voice sounds so casual and affectionate, as if nothing has changed. “The maid said you didn’t come home last night, I wanted to check you’re OK. You did a great job at the dinner, I was thinking we could take the weekend and go to New York, just the two of us? Spend some quality time together. We’ll talk about it tonight. Love you.”
I let out a breath. This is his version of an apology: offering a luxurious weekend away, as if a couple of nights at the Plaza could wipe out the crack of his hand against my face.
But why would he think any differently? This is what he did last time: whisked me away for three days to Miami; five-star hotel, all the perks. I forgave him once, of course he thinks I’ll do it again.
I skip to the next message, from yesterday.
“Carina, baby, this is getting out of hand,’” his voice comes, not so sugary this time. “Where are you? We have plans with the Janssens Friday night, I need you there. Will you just come home so we can talk about it like reasonable adults?”
Beep.
Finally, a message from just an hour ago, while I was out running.
“This is ridiculous, you’re acting like a child. We have six o’ clock reservations, you better not let me down. Wear the blue dress, and for God’s sake, don’t sulk. This is an important deal for me.”
I lower the phone, my hand shaking. That’s what he cares about: the Janssen deal. Not me, or our relationship, but the commission up for grabs for schmoozing some big-shot, his perfect fiancée at his side.
He won’t fight for me, he doesn’t even care. He’ll be on to the next girl before my bags are packed. I wouldn’t be surprised if he already is; some girl in the city, sleek and uncomplicated, happy to step into my place beside him and play hostess to the Janssens and their kind. She’ll be the one tending to his schedule now, managing his temper, turning her head away from all his petty irritations, just to get through another day.