Can I See You Again? (28 page)

Crickets. That's about all I heard the last few days at my very quiet office. The phone only ringing when Randi called to berate me.
Again.
And today's e-mails consisted of nothing more than a dozen clients withdrawing their applications. Such a slow day, I pitched my water bottle cap at Andrew's head when I caught him nodding off.

Totally disheartened and bored, feeling hopelessly sorry for myself, I spent the afternoon Web-surfing time-shares in Puerto Vallarta and ordering new wineglasses from Crate and Barrel, and bought myself a turquoise bolero. Not sure why.

Although my mind is cluttered with guilt and regret—not to mention, I rolled over Martin's tail with my office chair—add financial stress to my mix, fearing that if today's any indication of my business future, I'll be living off canned beans by month's end.

All the more reason I'm looking forward to tonight's Q&A.

There's a bounce in my step as I walk into the library a couple of hours later. Knowing the crowd won't spill out into the hall like last time, I'm still eager to be welcomed by Gwen and the
gang. After the past couple of days, I could use the love and their comic relief. Andrew's right. I do need them. Tonight more than ever. I've got two bottles of Chardonnay tucked into my bag.

And this time I don't stroll the long way, passing Kid Town. I don't want to see Nixon tonight. Well, I do, but only if he can have an acute case of amnesia, forgetting all that I said and did to hurt him.

But when I turn the corner toward my usual conference room, the light is off. The door is locked. The blinds drawn.

“No one left a message?” I ask the librarian as she assigns me the door key.

She shakes her head. “Sorry.”

“They must be running late.” I force a smile, then glance at my watch, ignoring the voice in my head that says,
They're never late.

Twenty minutes later, I still sit alone.
You did this. You deserve this. And no, don't smash a bottle of wine over the table and guzzle it down.
I bury my head in my hands.

“Let me ask you something.”

Nixon stands at the door dressed in a black suit and light yellow tie.

My heart beats wildly against my chest, wishing I could read his emotion. So much for my inherent ability to read people. Is he angry? Sad?
Nothing?

“How long?” he says.

Now I know what he's thinking. “A couple of weeks.”

“You were engaged before the wedding, then?”

“Yes. I . . . I didn't know how to tell you. I—”

“He's your guy?” Nixon picks at the edge of the doorjamb.

“What do you mean?”

“When you have a bad dream, a shit day, the lights go out and the entire house is dark, can't see one foot in front of the other, Sean is the first person you think of? He's your guy?”

“Sean and I are familiar, comfortable.”

“Ah, yes, convenience. The cornerstone of every relationship. Didn't Shakespeare write that?”

“We have history,” I protest.

“You're overlooking his uncertainty and all the pain he caused you these past few weeks because you two have backstory?”

“Yes, fine. Sean and I have a lot to sort through. But there's something to be said for history.”

“Yeah, it's called settling. I heard it on a radio show once.” He starts to walk away.

“Nixon, wait.” I stand up and reach for his wrist. “I'm sorry. I tried to tell you, but I didn't know what to say. You're the one who said these past few weeks—”

“It's no big deal. No reason for you to share your personal life with me. Who am I, anyway? Just a guy you made a deal with, nothing more. You held up your end of the bargain. So did I.”

“Look, you have to know the time we spent together, the wedding, camping, and . . . well, everything, it meant a lot to me. All of it.”

“Nah, forget it. You don't need to explain. For a second I forgot my place in your life.”

“C'mon, Nixon, that's not fair. I didn't mean to hurt anyone. All I wanted, this whole time was for my book . . .” I stop, realizing how shallow I sound.

“Oh, that's right, your precious bestseller. Jesus, Bree. It isn't Jo. It isn't this book. It isn't your parents. It's you. You control your life. No one else.”

“Well, you'll be happy to hear I screwed up. Everything I've worked so hard for—Jo, Jo's house, my book—it's all gone. All of it.”

“That's my goddamn point. Why put yourself through this? Why put me through this?”

“Oh, I'm so sorry I've made your life miserable. I'm sorry spending fake time with me really sucked.” I pause. I shouldn't yell at Nixon. He's helped me. “Because she's all I've got. And I want her to forgive me. Forgive me for taking my parents away from us. For being responsible for all that we lost.”

“You weren't behind the wheel. Accidents happen at all times of the day or night. It's not your fault.”

“This isn't a joke to me.”

“This isn't a joke to
me
.” His tone is bitter. Hurt. “Why do you think I turned down eleven dates?”

“Because you're self-centered and arrogant.” I know this isn't true, but I'm mad. Mad at myself. Right or wrong, I'm mad at him.

“Yep, you're right.” He raps his fist on the doorjamb. “You know, for an expert, you certainly miss a lot of signs. Tell me, Bree.” He shuffles half a step closer and the tiniest whiff of his toothpaste floats off his lips. “What exactly do you think I've been doing the last few weeks?”

“Doing what you're told.” I snap.

“Yeah, well, you didn't tell me to care.”

The smell of wet grass floats through my car windows as I drive along the rolling hills of Mount Hope Cemetery the following morning. Dotted with headstones, shade trees, and concrete benches, the graveyard is a sad but beautiful sight.

I marvel at the growth of the trees, the annexed parcels, and the vast number of graves as I follow the curves to my parents' shared plot.

Gosh, where have the years gone? Fifteen years have passed and Jo still resents me just as on the day we buried my parents.

Fifteen years.

It doesn't seem that long ago when Dad stood at the kitchen counter and poured Cheerios into his bowl as I munched on cinnamon-sugar toast.

Mom stumbled into the kitchen, cinched her robe, and yawned. “Morning. Happy anniversary.” She kissed Dad's cheek.

“Do you remember how I met your mom?”

He'd told me every year on their anniversary.

“Tell us again,” Mom had said.

“Well, your mom worked at Vons as a checker, two streets away from my first apartment. Holy hell, she had the most startling blue eyes. Still does.” He winked at her. “They're the exact color of the Extra peppermint gum label.”

“He should know. He bought a pack every day for six months.”

“The only way I could see her and talk to her.” He laughed. “Wrappers covered my backseat.” But eventually the store manager questioned why I bought so much gum and threatened to kick me out. So, with time running out, I mustered up the nerve and asked your mom out for dinner. And you know what she said?”

“What?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“I don't like gum.” Dad laughed and pointed his index finger at me. “But she smiled when she said it. You could've shot me dead at that very moment and I would've died a happy man.” He slid toward Mom and pulled her close. “Happy anniversary, honey.”

Their last.

“Sorry I haven't visited in a while,” I say, now seated beside their headstone. “I know it's no excuse, but I've been busy. Busy enough to have worked myself into a mess and lost focus on what mattered. Now I don't know what to do. Jo's mad at me. I've hurt Nixon, who's this guy you don't know but would really love. Especially you, Mom. You'd appreciate his rugged sweetness.” I pick a blade of grass and run my fingers along the waxy surface. “Besides them, I've disappointed my colleagues. I've blown my chances at a bestseller . . .” I turn and face their names and say after a long sigh, “Worst of all, I've lost Jo's house. G-pa's house.
Your
house. I'm sorry. So very sorry. I guess it's fitting that a good portion of America hates me. I kinda hate me, too.”

I watch a funeral procession wend its way toward a few
rows of white chairs and an aboveground coffin. A couple dozen people step out from their cars, hugging and consoling one another as they drift toward the service, their voices carried toward me by the breeze. It's an awful day for them. No other way to describe it. Simply an awful day. Someone, loved by someone else, is now gone. The survivors left to grieve. Tonight will be their longest.

A young girl—six or seven years old maybe?—dressed in a lavender-colored dress, white stockings, and sandals, walks behind the group. She carries a clear Plexiglas box topped with a silk blue bow. A handful of monarch butterflies flutter inside. Heading toward her chair, nearest the end, the sweet girl is focused on her job, concentrating on the winged insects.

What is she thinking? Does she understand the reason for the butterflies? Does she grasp the fact that whomever these people have gathered to mourn is gone? Or does she just think the monarchs' spots are pretty?

The day we buried my parents, I had a hard time making sense of why life just
carried on
. The world didn't pause, not even for a moment. Cars still zoomed past on the freeway. Cemetery workers repaired a sprinkler line on the far side of the hill. People ate lunch. Paid bills. Watched TV. Laughed at jokes. Life didn't stop.

Worse yet, people gathered at Jo's house after the service and offered condolences. Dad's coworkers, Mom's friends,
strangers
would squeeze my shoulder or grasp my hand and tell me how sorry they were. Then, after appeasing their conscience, they'd move on to other friends and start talking about last night's doubleheader or snicker at a stupid joke. My parents all but forgotten.

I talked to no one. Smiled at no one. I didn't care that our neighbor brought a vegetable lasagna or Jo's bridge club friend left a tray of peanut butter cookies. I didn't care that so-and-so
thought my parents were wonderful people. That didn't bring Mom and Dad back. Cookies didn't bring them back. I
knew
they were wonderful people and I wanted them here, with me.

I'm not sure what I expected, but watching the guests help themselves to another deviled egg or second glass of wine infuriated me. I wanted to scream
Get off my dad's recliner. Pick that bread crumb off my mom's rug. Get out of my house.

I stand and face my parents' headstone.

What would they say to me now? What advice would they give me? Would they be disappointed in me, too?

Cries from the girl catch my attention. She's tripped and fallen face-first into the grass.

The box's quick-release lid popped off.

The butterflies are flying away.

An older man, likely her grandfather, rushes to her side and helps the sweet child to stand up. He brushes grass off her knee-stained stockings.

“I wasn't supposed to let them go yet,” she wails. “Mommy's gonna be mad at me.”

Mommy? Is that who passed?

My heart aches for the girl.
No, please, no. It isn't your fault. Say something. Tell her, she's not to blame. Don't let her assume the same burden I have.

“Come here now, sweetie.” He clutches the girl close. “Your mom's not going to be mad. She could never be mad at you.”

“But they flew away already.”

“Good.” He tucks her hair behind her ears. “They'll reach your mom that much sooner. She'll like that.”

The little one buries her head in the man's neck as they sit down.

One of the butterflies lands on the edge of my parents' headstone. It flaps its wings but remains fixed in place. I stare at the orange-and-black-winged insect, lined with tiny white
dots. It's beautiful, really. Aimless and free. I reach for it just as it flies away.

It sails through the air and I hope the butterfly finds my parents.

I miss them so much.

Through tears, I trace along the curves and swirls of their names embossed on the headstone, following through the year they were born and the year they died.

Though I'm saddened and lonesome, this time, the feel of the letters underneath my fingertip brings me clarity.

Mom's determination and Dad's integrity lift me like the butterfly gliding through the air.

My scar reacts to my feelings.

It's not your fault.

And for the first time in years, I know exactly what to do.

Sitting in my Prius, I call Randi and leave the message that I am sorry for the hole that I got us into and have a plan to dig us out.

My next call is to Candace.

“I can't imagine why you're phoning me, Bree.” Her tone is sharper than an assassin's blade. “Haven't you done quite enough?”

I could've bled to death from her razor-edged tone, but I lifted my chin, straightened my back, and said, “Yes, I'm sorry. Very sorry. But we signed a contract. A five-week installment and I have one more interview to give. Meet me at my office, tomorrow morning.”

It's either the grace of God or generosity from the karma gurus that got her to agree.

The last thing I had to do was find Sean, and it didn't take long.

I find my fiancé lying on my couch scrolling through his phone. A Post-it pad and pencil lie beside a note he's scribbled and stuck on the edge of my coffee table.

“Hey, there you are.” He tucks his phone into his pocket
and sits up. “I've been here for over an hour. I began to worry about you.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Thought I'd surprise my fiancée. Where were you?”

“Visited my parents.”

“Really? How come?”

For some reason this irritates me. Or maybe I'm already irritated. Why do I have to have a reason to visit my parents' grave? Isn't the fact that it's a
grave
a justification in and of itself? “Just needed some clarity.”

“Well, I hope you found it. Want to grab dinner tonight?“

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because we need to talk.”

Martin barks off in the distance.

“Where's Martin?”

“In his kennel.”

Sean left him in the small kennel I set up in my bedroom and stuffed with one of Jo's T-shirts so that he would recognize her scent. Martin starts to bark when he hears my voice. “Why didn't you let him out?”

“Was I supposed to?”

This inflames me even more. What kind of man ignores a dog? They're
man's
best friend, for Christ's sake.

I hurry into my bedroom. Kneeling beside his kennel, I free him from his cage. “Sorry, little buddy. I should've let you out sooner.”

He hops into my lap and jumps toward my chin with kisses.

“I've missed you, too.”

“Dang, Martin gets all the attention.” Sean jokes from my door's threshold.

Martin springs from my lap and growls at Sean. The hair on his little back rises like a mountain ridge.

Sean poses his stance like he's about to attack. He jerks toward Martin.

The little fella whines and runs with his tail between his legs around Sean and out the door.

“Stupid dog,” he laughs.

“He's not a stupid dog.” I chase after him, finding him hiding underneath the coffee table.

The air conditioner kicks on. Sean's note flaps in the breeze.
God, I hate those damn stickies.

After I fill Martin's food and water bowls, he calms down and starts to eat.

I meet Sean in the living room.

“I almost forgot.” He pulls my engagement ring from his pocket and slides it on my finger. “Now that this interview stuff is over, you can wear this all the time.”

I stare at the large diamond overwhelming my small finger and think of the misery that consumed me after that night at Antonio's. And how the hours and days passed with such puzzlement and pain, as if my heart forced itself to beat.

Then Nixon came along.

And made everything right.

But aside from how I may or may not feel about that man, this isn't about him.

It's about Sean.

It's about me.

I glance at the ring again, the stone's brilliance blinding me with clarity.
This
isn't right.

“You hurt me, Sean. Really hurt me. And when we were apart, I missed you.”

“I missed you, too.” Snagging my belt loop, he pulls me closer.

“No.” I inch away.

“What's wrong, Bree?”

“I don't want to be married to a man who isn't sure. I don't
want to marry because it's safe. I don't want to marry a man out of convenience.”

“Where is this coming from? You said you've forgiven me.”

“I may be able to forgive what you did, but I can't forgive the way you made me feel.”

“What are you saying?”

I slip the engagement ring off and set it on the table. I tear off a Post-it and scribble
You're a lawyer, figure it out
and stick it on his forehead.

And with that, I close the story of us. I know without a doubt, Sean's and my history has become just that,
history
.