Breakfast again. This time, Mary and Charles are sitting next to me, munching dry toast (Mary), or wolfing down eggs and bacon (Charles). It's Sunday morning, week four.
I play with my spoon. Charles's bacon smells good, but I know the kind of look I'll get if I make myself some, that It's going to be on your hips forever, you cow, kind of look that women give other women who dare to eat what the others deny themselves. So I stick to cereal.
Mary and Charles don't eat in silence. Even when not speaking, they make noise, as if they need to fill up the gaps in the conversation with something. Every now and then, Mary will make a nonverbal sound or other, proving that she is, in fact, still there, and Charles clearly disregards the preference society has for people who chew with their mouths closed. There is no peace at the Musgrove breakfast table.
Today, though, they do have a topic of conversation. And it centers, as all things have done for the past month, around Ahmir Wentworth, ideal catch #1.
"No, no, no, it's not Louisa, Charles. It's obvious he has a thing for Henrietta," Mary is smiling triumphantly, chewing her toast with an air of self-satisfaction way out of proportion with her involvement in this.
"Hen? But she has Chris, for God's sake! And Ahmir wouldn't step in when two people are perfect for each other like that, he's too—"
"Perfect? You think Chris Hayter is perfect for Hen? A mechanic?"
"I don't care what his job is. He's a good guy, he loves my sister, and he's successful at what he does. You wouldn't believe the profit there is in cars these days. And what's more, she loves him, too. Ahmir's just been a distraction, that's all."
"Well, she should stay distracted, then. Ahmir's worth ten of Chris. Chris isn't even in the same social group as her."
"If he's dating her, I beg to differ. And anyway, why are you being so elitist about this?"
"Elitist? I'm just looking out for Hen. You do know the divorce rate in the middle class, don't you?"
"Oh, stop. Ahmir and Lou are obviously fond of each other. She's the one he sits next to, she's the one who makes him laugh. I know he likes Hen, but she's not Lou, Mary," there's a silence, punctuated by a small noise from Mary and her aggressive bite into a bit of whole grain semolina. Charles turns to me, and says, "What do you think, Anne? You're with them more often than we are."
"Which one is he in love with?" Mary asks eagerly, hoping for a good dose of nepotism. I look at them, stricken silent. This is one question I don't want to answer.
"I—I really can't—I don't know," I finish lamely, scooping Cheerios into my mouth to cover my completely inadequate answer.
It's not enough to distract them, and they would press me, but the sound of two people talking outside makes Mary's head swivel around violently. Hen and Lou's faces are just visible through the kitchen window, and they seem to be deep in conversation. Before I can say anything to stop her, Mary rushes to the window over the sink, obviously hoping to catch a few words of the girls' private discussion. When that proves fruitless, and Lou and Hen head off to whatever their destination is, Mary's voice calls them back.
"Hello! Where are you two headed?" The girls stop in their tracks for a moment, then pivot to face the window. Hen looks at a loss for an explanation, but Lou calls back, "We're going for a walk, Mary."
"Oh, great! I was just saying I'd like to go for a walk today."
Liar.
"Oh…" Lou trails off, clearly not expecting Mary to want to come along. "Well, it's a long walk, Mary, and we wouldn't want you to get tired halfway through—"
"Aren't you sick, Mary?" Hen asks, trying to salvage the situation.
"Of course not, I'm fine! Why does everyone assume I can't do anything? I'd love to go on a long walk with you."
"This is a very long walk," Lou insists, and if Mary had any sense or grace, I think bitterly, she'd damn well take the hint.
Uncharitable. Stop.
"Come in for a few minutes, and we'll get ready and join you, won't we?" She turns away from the window, leaving Lou and Hen to exchange a few choice, hushed words before trudging inside like condemned prisoners.
"You do know I was going to play golf with Ahmir today?" Charles says indignantly. The girls look at him hopefully, though the hope has less to do with the promise of Ahmir's company than it does with the possibility of Mary releasing her social chokehold.
But Mary's decided she wants to walk, and so she puts her hands on her slim hips and gives her husband a mild stare that promises a much more vehement reaction if he dares to argue with her. "You can play later. This way we'll all get to spend time together. Right?"
She manages to instill those words with as much guile as possible, while still being completely unshakeable in her convictions. If she were sloppy, she'd pout. But she's not sloppy; she has this down to an artform. We all stand in the kitchen, watching her work and trying to come up with polite and compelling reasons not to follow what she wants to the T.
She wins. We all knew she would.
"Wonderful day, don't you think?" Mary stretches her arms open to the sky as if she wants to soak up as much sun as possible, regardless of the three or four layers of one-hundred-dollar SPF 30 cream covering every inch of her visible skin. She's so exuberant that I can't help but smile. It's not often she gets to be the dictator of social events, and everything is working out the way she wants it to.
Well, not necessarily. I steal another glance at Ahmir and Lou walking side by side up at the front. It should be obvious by now that Lou and Ahmir are more of a viable couple than Hen and Ahmir are. And it's looking more and more like they will be one as well.
I try hard not to dwell on it, or think badly of it. He has every right to move on with his life, to date whoever he wants. But that doesn't stop the heaviness pressing on my shoulders, making my spine bend, pulling my face down with it. It doesn't stop the fact that I'm still in love with him.
And nor should it, because it has nothing to do with me. His new life has nothing to do with me at all. He happened to meet Lou here, but that doesn't mean it was any kind of revenge to me. That's the kind of thinking that Mary would use, but not everything is about me. Remember that, you. Whatever happens in his life from now on is his business. I didn't have to like it, and I didn't have to get over him, but I'd have to accept it.
If only I could be sure that he likes her. I've seen him in love before, and it was completely different from this sort of lazy, charming companionship. More intense, more joyful, more—and anyway, they hadn't kissed yet. At least in public. And they didn't go anywhere together without Hen or Charles or Mr Musgrove. They hadn't been on a real date yet. Which could mean they're taking it slow, or that something else is going on.
Or that I'm fishing for hope where there isn't any. It would be better for everyone to just forget it all. To stop obsessing. To go to Bath with Dad and Elizabeth and get a job and forget him. To try to forget him.
But I'm not going to leave yet. I'm holding on, stupidly, masochistically, to some shred of hope that things will change, and I'll get to apologize, and we'll get to try again. Pluss, being around him again makes me feel happier than I have in a long time. It hardly matters that we don't speak to each other directly, or look at each other at the same time. Hearing the way his voice rumbles in his chest, seeing the way the light shines off his face, getting a glimpse of the way his muscles in his back join together under his shirt, watching the way he watches things, feeling the happiness that comes from being so close to someone so alive, makes me want to frisk like a puppy or tell jokes in silly voices or run for no reason: things I haven't done since the first time. No matter how much it hurts me that he's moving on, or moved on, I still have that.
The walking party has divided into two very separate groups. The three of them, Hen and Lou and Ahmir, up front, leading the way to what I think is a very definite location. Following about twenty yards are the three of us, Mary and Charles and I. The two of them are walking in front of me, hands linked, fingers interlocked, which, I think, is the sense of Mary's joy as well. I follow a little behind them, not in the mood for an expedition, tired from lack of sleep, and trying not to be jealous of my sister. Not that I'm jealous of her in Charles' respect, but I feel twinges of envy at her having someone when I don't. To be able to and completely justified in walking hand in hand with someone. I'm jealous of that.
Jesus, you're moody today. I roll my eyes at my own stupidity, feeling foolish at feeling sorry for myself on such a nice day. You're like a thirteen-year-old girl at a dance, sobbing on the staircase and ruining the fun for everyone else.
Lou was right, the walkis very long, and soon I can feel my muscles starting to protest their involvement in this little scheme. I haven't really exercised in a long time, and it's quickly becoming obvious. Dammit.
We turn corner after corner, and soon we're cutting across a park in a decidedly more middle class area of town. I can feel Mary's delight slipping a little, and I realize why Lou and Hen didn't want Mary coming in the first place. We're going to Chris's house.
Mary realizes this, too, just behind a little stand of young trees, and she stops abruptly. Without even realizing her actions, so do Hen and Lou and Ahmir.
"Oh look, there's Chris Hayter's house," says Lou, completely aware of how false she sounds. "We should go visit him." She starts to the house with Hen in tow, Ahmir lingering uncertainly, clearly aware that his presence in Chris's house is problematic.
"I don't think you should go," Mary calls, a little shrilly. Both the girls turn, Lou with a stubborn look on her face that doesn't bode well, Hen with an uncertain one.
"Why not, Mary?" Charles asks, dropping her hand. He's looking a little stern, as if he's dreading having to repeat this morning's conversation and fully committed to avoiding it at all costs.
"I—I just don't think we should go in," Mary finishes weakly.
"You don't have to," Lou shoots back.
"I don't think any of us should go in. It's not—I don't want any of us to go there." She can't finish her thought without being elitist, but it's so obvious what she means that she says anyway, "I don't think you should spend your time with that man, Hen. Come on, we're going back." She holds her hand out imperiously to Hen, who, after a moment of hesitation leaves Lou and takes it.
"Mary—" I start, shocked at her lack of grace.
"I think we should all go back home now."
"You're being ridiculous!" Charles booms, upset that someone he was so happy with ten minutes ago has now ruined their moment. "It's insanely rude of you to be this shallow."
I look at Ahmir, and while he doesn't react or say anything, I can tell he's less than impressed, and it mortifies me beyond belief.
Lou rushes after Mary and a faltering Hen, grabbing Hen's free left hand, pulling her roughly away from Mary, bringing her to Charles. "Why don't you bring her to meet Chris? The rest of us can stay here for the time being. And I'm sure Ahmir can protect us from any peasant uprising that might happen in the next half hour or so."
I wanted to cheer, and alternately die of mortification. In the end, I turn away from the group, my back to Hen and Charles, disappearing behind the trees. I don't want to see everyone exchanging glances and being awkwardly impolite to each other.
There's a gazebo in the center of the park. I walk toward it, and soon enough, Mary is walking next to me. Not what I'd been hoping for, but I suppose it's better than being left alone with my thoughts at the moment.
"You'd think I'd committed a capital offence," Mary grumbles, glancing over her shoulder at where I assume Ahmir and Lou are glaring darkly at our retreating figures. I don't look back with her. "I just want to be sure that Hen isn't getting into something she'll regret. I mean…he isn't like us. He could be using her, and he won't fit in with everyone else she knows. That's something to think about, I think."
I glance at her from the corner of my eyes. It is possible that she really is thinking about Hen's well-being. It's very possible, in fact.
"It's not your decision to make, Mary. Chris is a good guy, and she's happy with him. Besides, it's not like he's homeless or impoverished. He does pretty well for himself."
"Things like this rarely work out. He'll resent her for her money, of she'll be upset that he can't get along with her friends. I'm not crazy to want her to go out with some nice boy she meets at college. Someone more like us."
"Chris is a good man who loves her. You should meet him officially. You'd understand then. And it's true he does have his insecurities, but I think they're going to be worked out today. And I think you could stand to be a little less self-righteous about it. It's not your life. Let her live it the way she wants to, and stay out of it." I say it quietly, knowing if I raise my voice the entire conversation will go to hell in about 2.5 seconds.
"I'm not being self-righteous, Anne! I'm being a good sister-in-law, and it's incredibly mean of you to insult me for trying to help."
"I'm not insulting you, Mary, I'm trying to get you to understand that there are things that are, and should be, outside your influence. It's good that you care about Hen and her choice of boyfriend, but the concern would probably be better focused on how he treats her and how they get along together than how much money he has. We've known our share of rich bastards, right?"
She wants to argue more, but I think I've silenced her for a little longer. We reach the gazebo, and I sit on the steps, my beaten red sneakers duck-toed on the cement ground-level step. She sits next to me, groaning as her supposedly creaky joints act up.
"Well, I still don't understand why every treated me like I'm public enemy number one. It's not like I was saying it just to be mean."
"That probably made it worse. You said it because you meant it. It makes you honest, but it doesn't always make you popular."
"So I should just lie about how I feel?"
"No, of course not. But—you have—you've got the same opinions about things that you did ten years ago. I don't feel like you've stopped to really think in all that time, not really, not about what you feel and why you feel it. So when you come up with something like that, it's not you talking, it's the you from ten years ago, the fifteen-year-old you. I think you should let yourself grow up a little."
"And do what? Sit around like you all day and not talk? Just stare into space, thinking? I have things to do, Anne, unlike you, and places to be and people to talk to you, unlike you. I have a kid to raise and a family to run—"
"And a slew of convenient excuses."
"You know what, I think I'd better sit where you are, the sun's getting in my eyes." She's challenging me, and I don't feel like fighting with her. Plus, I'm frustrated with her, and I'd honestly rather not speak to her for one more moment. I get up quickly, letting her slide to where I am, and stalk off to find a corner of the park not infected with anger or stupidity.
The one I find is not one in which I am particularly welcome. There is a little sitting area near the playground, almost hidden by huge old pine trees. I almost walk right into the middle of Ahmir and Lou's conversation, but catch myself in time, hoping that they don't notice me, hoping that I walking quietly, even as furious as I am.
There's no need to worry. They're sitting on a bench, legs crossed, a series of pine cones in between them, and they're talking loudly enough for me to hear everything. I shouldn't stay, I shouldn't listen. But I can't help it. Or, rather, I don't want to correct my mistake. I don't want to give them privacy. I want to know what they say to each other when they're alone. I want to torture myself a little bit more.
"…Well, she does make me angry sometimes, though. Like today. I had to bully her to come here and work things out with Chris."
"You think she'd have gone back with Mary if you hadn't stopped her?"
"Yeah. It's sad, really. She's so intelligent, but she wants to be liked all the time, so she gives in to easily. I'll never be like that."
"Stubborn?"
"Anne says I'm made of obstinateness and water."
"Obstinateness. Good word."
"I know. But it's true. Once I've made up my mind, you can't change it. Not me."
"So Mary's shrieking couldn't affect you?"
"Nope, the words bounce right off. Like in the Phantom Tollbooth." He chuckles, and there's the faint click of a pinecone hitting the bricks.
"I like Mary fine, actually," Lou says after a little pause. "She likes us a lot, and I know she wants us to be best girlfriends or whatever, but she annoys me sometimes with her bullshit. She's not all bad, but Hen and I both wish Charles was with Anne instead. I know Mummy and Dad wish so too."
No. Oh, no.
"Anne?" The question is immediate. "Charles used to be with Anne?"
"No, no, they were never together. Not like a couple. No, Charles met Anne in college before she dropped out, and they were really good friends. That's how we met her. And he was insane about her for a long time, asked her out a couple times, told her how he felt. She was always decent about it, but she never even gave him a chance. Wouldn't go out with him. Turned him down flat. Their friendship got weird, and he had already met Mary. Hen and I think it was on the rebound that everything happened."
"Everything?"
Stop, oh please stop. I want to plug up my ears, but I know what's coming, and I'm unreasonable angry at Lou for bringing it up in the first place.
"Oh, you don't know. Shit. Well, Mary got pregnant. That's why they're together. He didn't have to marry her, but he thought it was the right thing to do, and they seem happy together, you know, when she's not breaking glass with her vocal chords. He loves her, which is crazy, but good, I guess, since they're married," the laugh creeps into her voice. "You know, it's a nice touch when you love the person you're married to."
"Do you know why Anne said no to him?"
"No, that's the weird thing. I mean, it's not like she had someone else on the burner or something. I've never heard of her going out with anyone, or having a boyfriend. Hen thinks it's because she didn't see him like that, and didn't want to encourage anything that might end badly and ruin the friendship. Mummy thinks it's because Anne's friend Rochelle didn't like Charles and told her not to give him a chance."
"And what do you think?" In spite of myself, I lean in. I want to know what other people think of me.
"I don't really know. We all know Rochelle, and she's nice, but crazy controlling. She could talk Anne into not dating him. But it's not like Anne and Charles are a match made in heaven anyway. She's not the average-joe kind of girl. And I don't think Rochelle would drive away every single boyfriend or prospect Anne could have. I don't know. I think Anne's capable of making decisions for herself, even if she doesn't always seem like it. I know she seems meek and everything, and she is, but when I'm not mad at her for buckling under, I can see that she's just working a different side of it. Like Mary. Mary needs someone to take her down a peg, but no one could. No one until Anne, and all she does is wait for the right time, say one or two choice words, and boom. She's too cool to be celibate for five years. I dunno."
I don't stay to listen to what Ahmir has to say. I turn on my heel and take the long way to the playground, where I sit next to the slide and lean my head back against the uber-safe, soulless blue plastic, and try to think about nothing at all, breathing deeply to calm my quickly beating heart.
When Hen and Charles return to us, a good forty minutes later, they bring Chris with them, his fingers interwoven with Hen's, and a big smile on his handsome face. Lou and Ahmir are the first to greet them, and I see, for a second, the couples as they will be. Hen and Chris, Lou and Ahmir. Charles and Mary.
We head back the way we came, the happy younger couples up front, talking animatedly, becoming friends all over again. I walk in the middle this time, between them and Mary and Charles. They're talking in quieter voices than the others, but I know they're hashing out their disagreement, and I know they'll be holding hands at the end of the walk.
I don't know why it bothers me that Lou talked about my history with Charles, or why it would bother me to see Mary and Charles hold hands again. It's not like I'm in love with Charles, or that I could have been. It's not like I regret turning him down. It's more like that was my last real possibility, and now I see myself as Lou sees me: the spinster sister, inexplicably lonely, lonely by choice. And a fear grips me, that I'll be alone like this forever. For a second, longer than any hour I've ever lived, time stretches out for me, and I see me life, just like this, a life of which I've already lived a quarter, and accomplished nothing, and for a heart-pounding moment, the fear of death that I used to feel after my mother died returns. Only I never imagined the absolute desolation of dying alone. And now I do, it's hard to think of anything else. I take deep breaths, smoothing my hands down the front of my jeans, trying to get my heart to slow down and my eyes to stop watering.
The obvious answer to my fear is to find someone else. I need to let myself move on, find someone different. And it won't be the same, not the way it was with us, but that's the point. It's supposed to be different the second time around. After all, how many people really marry the first person they fall in love with? It's not that there's no one else out there, I reason, it's just that you haven't let yourself look.
It doesn't make me feel any better.
A car pulls up next to the big group, and the passenger window rolls down to reveal Adam's smiling face. "Cap! Whatcha doing?"
"On a walk, man," Ahmir says, grinning from ear, walking across the little strip of grass between sidewalk and street to shake Adam's hand and smile at his sister behind the wheel.
"Long way from the Musgrove's. Anyone want a ride? We've only got enough room for one, since we just went shopping and Nadya decided she wants to single-handedly keep the American economy afloat—"
Nadya says a few choice words to him that I can't hear, but her brother chuckles.
"Anyone want a ride?" Ahmir looks at his group, who shake their heads happily. Then he looks at me, and something in his face changes. I realize belatedly that I must still have tears in my eyes, or a remnant of the terror, and I don't try to change it. Ahmir leans down to say something quietly to Adam, who turns in my direction and says, "How about you, Anne? You look a little tired, and you're not crazy like everyone else. Want a ride?"
I could say no. But I don't. Instead, I smile and nod. "That would be good, thanks."
"Well, hop in then. I hope you don't mind sharing space with the Crate & Barrel warehouse." I chuckle in spite of myself and make my way to the car door, only to see that it's already opened. Ahmir stands in front of me, not looking at me, holding the door handle. I smile for just a second, glad of the gesture. I have to admit, I like it when people hold open doors for me. "Thank you." I turn to climb in, and feel a shock down my spine when I feel a hand at the small of my back as get it. As soon as I'm situated, I look up at him, catching his eyes for a second before he shuts the door decisively and turns away. His left hand, the one that found its old place at the base of my spine, is shoved into his pocket, along with its brother. The group waves us off, and I turn away from him as we pull away from the curb. That was the first time we've touched in five years, and I wonder if it felt as electrifying for him as it did for me.
The Crofts resume their companionable conversation, and I make efforts to contribute. We talk about the weather, soccer, cartoon stickers—the little things that can fill up ten minutes. I find myself wondering, for a brief anti-feminist moment, why Adam isn't driving the car. Charles always drive when he and Mary go anywhere. I don't remember any time when my dad ever let my mother or me drive. But Adam sits in the passenger seat, totally relaxed, and seemingly completely sure in his masculinity as his wife maneuvers the streets and pulls into my driveway.
That's nice, I think lazily as I get out of the car and say my goodbyes. That's the kind of relationship I want, the kind of marriage I want. I want someone who won't get insane over the small things, who'll let me be a partner in crime, who won't try to be right, or strong, or perfect all the time. I want someone who won't care if I drive the car or earn more money or like violent movies. I want someone who won't care if I don't do any of those things. I want a friend, and a lover, and a compatriot, for lack of a better word. I hadn't thought it was possible, really. Not after seeing my parents. But it is possible. Nadya and Adam prove it. It is possible to be all of those things, and to have all those things in someone else. I just had to find it.
Again.
A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Galatea for her excellent pep-talks and her marvelous copy-and-paste skills. Begging tends to work. I know this isn't in time for Christmas, but Happy New Year instead! And, as always, read and review.