One day on the most ordinary of days, I decide to visit you. Sunny. Not too humid. The airport had been a forgettable blur and I almost fell asleep on the cab ride to your house. It has rich red bricks and a cream coloured door, I notice. So homey. I imagine the cliché white picket fence. The cheerful chime of the doorbell can be heard from outside. Footsteps. Your longs strides and the pitter-patter of tiny feet in between.
You open the door. You're not seventeen anymore, and you have two young children. Two boys, an apparent age difference between them. Oh, they're adorable. Purple and orange Popsicle stains and shy cyan eyes that try not to stare but stare anyway because they were anticipating the arrival of their mother, not some unfamiliar woman who isn't even trying to sell them something like all the other unfamiliar people do.
"Gabriella!" you exclaim. Your tone says it all. You've said my name, four syllables, but really you're telling me, 'God, I haven't seen you in years, so I'm shocked you're here, but I remember you — and us — and it would be great if you can stay and chat because this is such a movie moment, where old friends catch up while drinking coffee since that is what old people do — drink coffee and converse and reminisce.' Time has taught you things.
I'm trying to decipher your expression. Eyebrows to hairline. Waning smile. Happy, but confused. Caught off-guard. Do you have to be on-guard for me? I should have called first, I know. Done something to warn you. But I'm not that considerate anymore. I'm selfish, making this trip for me. Immediately, guilt makes a lump sprout in my throat. Now what? You've recognised me and haven't thrown me out yet, but I don't even have a plan of what to say or how to explain. So I don't.
"Troy!" I say, trying to mimic that we-should-drink-coffee tone you've mastered. And our exchange continues something like this: "How are you?" / "Great, you?" / "Never better." / "I'm glad to hear that." / "What brings you here?" / "I was in the neighbourhood." / "Ah — I see. Would you like to come in?" / "Sure, thank you." / "Oh, this is Andrew, and this is Thomas." / "They look like you." / "Yeah, I've heard." (This is when your boys shuffle off to go play with their toy cars in their rooms) / "Lovely house." / "Thank you, but it was mostly, um, my wife that designed it."
I think we've covered all the typical things two polite adults would begin an amiable conversation with. And we've made it to your living room where you offer me a seat on the modern-looking sofa. But now you've brought up the big W word that no ex-girlfriend expects until you're at least ten minutes in, even if it is a spontaneous tête-à-tête. But you're still as humble as ever. I should be thankful you're not a single father. Hearing of your struggles wouldn't be very good for the positive demeanour I've scotch-taped together for the sake of this whole trip.
Your voice rough and mature, you begin, "It's kind of funny, actually"—You laugh here. It's a little forced, so I brace myself for something that's probably not funny, but you're just trying to make it seem funny to lighten the news—"Her name's also Gabriella."
Knock-knock jokes, clumsy puppies, 12-year-old male pop singers that sound like girls. I think of things I find funny. I remember way back when, to the time where we used to share a sense of humour. Now yours is all twisted. I still don't get how you're wife's name is laughable. It's a coincidence, yes. But perhaps a sad coincidence. For me it is. For me it seems like the Gabriella you used to love wasn't enough, so you had to go find another one who also happened to be good at interior designing. I hide the bitterness under my tongue. "Oh," I manage, only to acknowledge that you've said something.
"Would, um, you like something to drink?" Your hospitality is in peak condition, Troy. I want to laugh at this awkward formality. If we'd stayed in touch, you would have known the beverage I would ask for, and this impromptu visit would have been a weekly rendezvous instead. You mention coffee and that The Other Gabriella has tea. And that there's not much juice admittedly because The Other Gabriella wants the children to start drinking more water.
I say, "Water's fine. Thank you." I keep smiling even as you turn and walk toward the kitchen because I've heard all parents grow an extra pair of eyes on their occiput. Or their senses are just heightened. Whatever. When you return, we talk. To be specific, you fill me in on the part of your life where I wasn't there, and I let lie after lie slip through my teeth like ghosts. (It's fun pretending like I have a six-figure salary.) I'm not going to be the one to mar this ideal, picture-of-perfection lifestyle you got going on here.
.
I was stupid. Naïve enough to believe our brief encounter could have been cathartic for me, anyway. So tonight, I put on my big girl pants and go to a bar.
It's unsettling at first. My personal preference is to bring the liquor home to drown in it. But obviously, I don't have a home here. I order one drink. It's easy, really. Easy enough for a drunk idiot to do it, of course. I order a few more. I slump in my seat. This is fun. So fun, in fact, that one waiter even starts to look like you.
Why, it is you. Coming over to accost me. "Troy!" I exclaim. Damn my inebriation. It masks what I wanted to imply in my tone, like you were doing just this very morning as the sun shone. I wanted to imply—Oh, screw it. I'm going to express my thoughts out loud like a normal person does. "What are you doing here? I didn't think happy, perfect housewives came to bars." Oops. You're a guy. I try summoning the word for 'male equivalent of a housewife' from my brain before I offend you. "I mean … I mean … " I flounder like this for a while, thinking: is there a male equivalent?
"Gabriella," you say sternly. But I'm ignoring you right now. Pausing time to try and think of this fucking word. When I find it, I'll explain.
Fuck, it's probably 'househusband', isn't it? But that sounds odd. So I laugh. An unstoppable, from-the-heart, sincere belly laugh that causes your brow to furrow. Oh, I forgot. We don't find the same things funny anymore. Damn. Well, boy, you're missing out. "Shhhh, Troy," I hiss when my laughter subsides. Are you even speaking at all? I don't know why I've shushed you. "I'm trying to think of a word."
"Gabriella," you repeat my name the way a concerned old friend does, "what are you doing here, drunk?" And our exchange continues something like this: "I'm at a bar. Where people drink." / "You shouldn't be." / "How would you know? You don't know me anymore." / "Taylor called me." / "When?" / "Not that long after you left." / "What'd she tell you?" / "That you'd be at a cheap bar." / "Wow, so the housewife knows where all the cheap bars are. Doesn't sound good." / "She also said what you told me were pretty much lies."
This information deserves a long gulp of beer. "Well, shit," I drawl, "that ruins my whole secret thing, you know." Maybe this would have been a better time to shush you. My index finger inches toward my lips. Your cold stare is like a cool superhero ice ray. My arm thuds on the table.
"Why couldn't you tell me the truth?" you sigh. I sigh, too, because I feel bad for you. But why are you making me feel like a loser, anyway? I don't need your pity, Mr. I'm-a-housewife-not-a-professional-basketball-player. You drum your fingers. I evade your gaze. More drumming. And then another downhearted sigh. I count the bubbles in my beer. Stop moving, dammit, I mentally scream at them.
I finally answer. "I was ashamed," I tell you. Shame does not look good on a former freaky math girl. Makes her brain look small and her pores look huge. "This wasn't supposed to be how I end up," I continue. There you go getting that look in your eyes. That 'tell me everything, I promise to listen' look. You had it when we sat in my hammock at age seventeen and I was going to tell you about that freshman honours program that I never even went to. Although I probably should have. Then at least I could have said I didn't hit rock bottom without a struggle.
Flying off the rails wasn't my best moment, and I don't want to share it with you. And I swear that depression crept out of nowhere. I combated it with denial. Yes, I tried hitting it where it hurts with an Egyptian river that's over four thousand miles long. When that didn't work I barricaded the doors, trembling under layers and layers of blankets. Loosing myself in what-ifs and how-comes. Hid like a coward and emerged a fool.
"Come on, Gabriella. I should get you out of here." You disappear before I can say anything. I frown because what you just said doesn't go with what you just did. You reappear, and I catch a glimpse of your wallet slipping back into your pocket. No, no, no. You weren't supposed to pay my tab. That makes me look more pathetic. You steady me as I get off of my chair. "I'll take you to a motel."
I ask you to tell me about something you lied about or omitted this morning since I surely couldn't have been the only one with a secret to hide. Acquiescing (presumably out of pity), you launch into a story about how you met The Other Gabriella. Oh, great, I initially think. But once I hear it, it is pretty touching. I repeat it in my mind again in hopes of not forgetting it in the morning. You said you had signed up for a volunteering gig, and on that sign-up sheet was a Gabriella M. Thinking it was me, you asked hopefully to be assigned to the same task(s) that Gabriella M. had. It hadn't in fact been me, but the other Gabriella M. was actually a nice person.
You told me The Other Gabriella's maiden name. The one that starts with M and had given you hope all those years ago. But I figure since I don't have that much room in my brain for retaining information right now, I'll leave the trivial things out. As if it is any consolation, I tell myself that the only thing The Other Gabriella has over me was lucky timing.
Because I doze off on the way to the motel, and because I am too drowsy to speak as you lead me to a room, these are the last things we said to each other that night: "Oh, Gabriella, I think you were mistaken. I am not a homemaker." / "Well, okay." / "Don't you believe me?" / "Well, only if you believe I am not a home wrecker." / "I never thought that." / "Well, good." / "Good night, Gabriella." / "Good night, Troy."
Out of habit, I may have mistakenly tacked on "Love you" to the end of that. But before I can question it, I fall asleep on scratchy motel bed sheets, lost in 'what-could-have been's.