The Life You've Imagined (27 page)

Chapter 39

Amy

I
should have picked somewhere else for this, because the beach should be romantic and beautiful, and I fear that now I’ve ruined it for myself forever.

Paul scowls at his feet. His khaki pants are rolled up to his knees and his feet have sunk into the sand. I’ve been pacing next to him, leaving footprints on the cool, firm sand continuously soaked by the waves. We’re on the private strip of beach behind my apartment, and I just demanded he marry me.

“We talked about this. I told you it doesn’t feel like the right time.”

“I don’t have all the time in the world.”

“I don’t like being pressured.”

“It’s not my fault I’m thirty-five.”

“What does age have to do with it?”

I grab chunks of my hair and groan. Men. They must be this blind on purpose; there’s no other explanation. “I want a baby, dammit!”

He startles and finally stops looking at his feet.

“Don’t look so shocked. We’ve been talking about starting a family, both of us have.”

“Yes, but . . .”

“When did you think that was going to happen? When I’m forty? Do you even know what the statistics are for birth defects after my age, if I can even get pregnant at all?”

He puts his hands up like I’ve pulled a gun on him, and he takes a step back. “Holy shit, Amy, I’m not prepared for this, either.”

“You said you’d marry me and I don’t understand what changed. You can’t even use the economy as an excuse; the council approved your project and Anna isn’t trying to stop it now. You promised.”

“I know.”

“So, are you a liar?”

He flinches. “I’m not. Things change!”

“What changed? I didn’t change!”

“I’m just feeling a lot of pressure right now and I can’t take wedding pressure. I don’t want to talk about invitations, I don’t want to pick a first dance song, I don’t want to be a big spectacle.”

“So fine! We elope!” As I say this, though, my heart drops. I did so want a wedding.

“My parents would never forgive me. Neither would you,” he says.

“You think I’m going to forgive you for jilting me?”

“Oh, God, I’m not jilting you; I’m just postponing.”

“No! We are not postponing. We have to send our invitations. I have the pattern picked out and the wording. If you want to marry me, do it now. Otherwise,” I suck in a deep breath and ball up my fists, “forget it.”

“Amy?”

“You heard me. I will not be jerked around like this. I am not going to be hanging on the line like some fish and you’re debating whether to throw me back.”

“That’s not what I mean—”

“You loved me in June enough to commit to me forever. If you don’t feel that way now, then we’re done.”

He shakes his head and picks up his shoes from the sand, walking slowly away from me. He pauses to look back at me, and I can’t tell from this distance, but his face might be wet. If he’s crying, why won’t he come back? I watch him walk all the way to the wooden staircase and disappear over the top of the dune.

It isn’t until my feet touch the sidewalk at the top of the steps that I realize I left my sandals on the beach. I look across the parking lot, half expecting to see his car still there, that he’s upstairs in the apartment, waiting for me with an apology.

No car.

It takes effort to get up my apartment steps. I have to pull with my arms along the railing because I doubt my legs will get me up the stairs alone. I cross into the apartment and Frodo begins his happy, bouncing “You’re home” dance. Almost right away, though, he sits down in front of me. I crouch down and wrap my arms around him, burying my face in his furry neck, which he tolerates. My engagement ring glints in the early evening sun.

It’s really too late for invitations anyway. I’d sent out the “Save the Date” card, and by now everyone who got one is already wondering why the invitation hasn’t arrived. Half of Haven probably already realizes the wedding is off.

Pitiful of me, really, to keep walking around talking about the wedding. Then, I always did have a healthy denial muscle, the same one that let me think I was just big-boned, it was hereditary, and I was in fairly good health for all those years. That being a nice person would get me far in life, and I’d find a mature guy who didn’t care about looks.

Dunce cap for Amy Rickart.

I release Frodo at last and notice that my phone is blinking for a voice mail. Maybe he called when I was coming up the steps?

“Amy? It’s Aunt Agatha. Your dress is in. I know you’ll want to come in for the fitting soon so I can get it altered, and your bridesmaids should have their final fittings soon, too. The big day is coming up quick. Just call the shop when you’re ready and we’ll set a time.”

I delete the message and realize I’m hungry. I hadn’t eaten dinner when I got home from work and decided I couldn’t go one more moment without knowing whether I was getting married or not.

I pull myself up off the floor and rummage in the fridge. Lentils, bean sprouts, hummus. A pasty piece of baked chicken from yesterday. I try the freezer. Some Lean Cuisines with their pieces of rubbery meat the size of a playing card and bland, limp vegetables.

I’m ravenous. I need something with some substance.

In the back of the freezer is some ice cream, which I bought for Paul and forgot to mention to him. Cookies and cream, his favorite.

I grab it out of the freezer, and speaking of Paul, he left a beer or three here.

The carton is cold in my lap so I put a pillow underneath it. I throw a bride magazine on the floor, startling Frodo, and open up an issue of
Glamour
. A greeting card falls out, the front showing a soaking-wet Chihuahua glaring at the camera with the thought bubble reading, “I’ve had better moments.”

In spite of myself, I chuckle and reread Ed’s card, which I found slipped under my door the day after he flirted with me.

Amy,

I’m really sorry to come off like a typical scuzzy guy just trying to get in your pants. I won’t lie, you’re a very pretty girl but more importantly, you’re very nice and you set off my “flirt” mode. I should have known better, though. Hey, isn’t that an ’80s song?

Anyway, you do inspire me, at the risk of sounding like a cheesy ballad. I never mentioned this before, but I wasn’t always fat. I used to be in pretty good shape, actually. Then I quit smoking and got a desk job and one thing after another happened. I figured this was just what happened to people when they got older, you know? I only walk at all because of Lucky.

Then I saw you and remembered you from high school and thought, damn, what’s my excuse?

So anyway, I have lost a couple pounds. I’ll change my jogging schedule, though, so I don’t bump into you anymore. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable and frankly I can’t help but flirt with you a little. Forgive me my male weakness!

I hope this note doesn’t cause you trouble. I saw you into your apartment that one day, remember? I’m not stalking you or anything, promise.

Anyway, my high-powered binoculars are broken. (Kidding! Really!)

Your friend,

Ed

I spoon in the ice cream and roll my eyes back with pleasure at its creamy sweetness. After so long without it, it’s like a dream of perfection in sweet, frozen form.

It would be simpler if I had a crush on Ed like he does on me. Then I could call him up and we’d get together and talk about how we met, and it would be just like a movie starring Reese Witherspoon. People tell me I look like her, now that I’m thin.

But, sweet as this note is, it just reminds me of Paul, and how he lit up when I first met him, and how happy he was when I came into the room, and how he used to hold my hand every chance he got, and just how much he admired me. And that wasn’t all; I admire him, too, so smart and determined even though he doesn’t have the support from his family that his brother does. He can be really funny when he’s relaxed, and he rolls with everything. Long walk on the beach? Sure, babe. A chick flick? Whatever you want, babe. Try some sushi? Yeah, why not, babe?

Until recently.

I look down in the carton and a wave of disgust at how much I’ve eaten threatens to ruin the experience. I set the sweating, damp carton on top of another bride magazine—are they multiplying in here? How many did I buy?—and take a long swig out of the beer bottle, channel-flipping to find something to watch, anything that has nothing to do with love.

Chapter 40

Cami

I
lock the front door and deadbolt it, too. Then I wedge a chair under the doorknob, just like they do in the movies. I lock the back door and make sure the windows are shut, though that means it will soon be the temperature of a kiln in here.

My dad is off camping with Sherry, but I’m taking no chances, considering.

Two things bother me about his room.

Now that I’ve cleaned up and painted most of the house, his room sticks out like a festering boil. The door won’t even stay closed; it keeps swinging open, exposing itself to the rest of the house.

Also, he forbade me from going in there, and since I discovered that hollow spot in the wall, I now know there’s a reason. For once it’s not just a random demand for the sake of being a bully.

So I’ve now got my spackle and my saw and trowel. I figure now I’ve got plenty of time to open this wall up, check it out, and seal it back shut before he’s the wiser.

The piece of the wall caves in easily with one punch of my trowel’s handle end. The anemic light from the closet bulb at first reveals nothing, and I curse myself for thinking like some kind of Cold War–era spy. But then, just below the hole I’ve made, I can see the edge of a rolled up document, held together by a rubber band. I snake my fingers into the hole and fish out some yellowed papers. They smell of mildew and have black flecks along their edges. This has been in here a long time, whatever it is.

“Camille Ann Drayton!” booms a voice from the porch, and I scream before I can check myself.

The key rattles in the front door, but the chair and deadbolt are holding him back. I shove the papers down the back of my pants and fluff my large shirt over them, checking with my hands to feel if they might be visible.

There’s a cracking sound from out front. The deadbolt has torn from the doorframe.

“Cami! What the fuck is going on here?”

The chair’s legs scrape against the front hall linoleum.

I rearrange his hanging clothing in front of the hole I’ve made, and kick at my supplies, trying to get them under the bed. There’s stuff already under there, though, and they won’t fit. I would try shoving them into the closet, but I don’t want to turn my back.

I kick a filthy pile of laundry over them.

The chair gives way and crashes to the floor, the door banging into it once, twice, as he shoves his way through.

Even if I try to leave the room, he’ll see where I’ve been.

I stand, clasping my hands loosely at my waist, like a kid about to sing for the choir. My blood pounds in my ears.

He appears in the doorway, face contorted and florid. This is the worst of him, I know. I haven’t seen this in a very long time.

“You’re back early—”

“Surprised you, didn’t I?” He grins wide. The alcohol stench rolls off of him. He starts to walk around his bed. I consider leaping over it and making for the door. But the room is small; his reach is long. And running might set him off. Activate his predator instinct. “That asshole campground ranger said we were making too much noise, and I told him what for and he threw my ass out, if you can believe that bullshit. And I’m a taxpayer and everything.”

“Where’s Sherry?”

His eyes narrow and his face clouds over.

“She was embarrassed to be seen with me. Can you imagine? A whore who dances for money, embarrassed to be seen with an upstanding businessman? A regular pillar of the community.”

He has a hard time saying “community.” Too many repetitive syllables. Now he’s angry with both of us, maybe all women.

He steps toward me again, and then stops, looks down. I follow his gaze. He’s kicked the pile of laundry under which I’d stuffed my supplies. He glares up at me through the hair that’s fallen across his forehead. “What did I tell you,” he begins slowly, in a low voice, “
about coming in here
?” The last is said at almost a scream.

He lunges for my face. I duck, but he catches a handful of my hair. He twists his hand into it and pulls me out of the room. I reach up to try and dislodge his hand, but the hair is woven into his fingers. He pulls me across the junk on the floor, and I can’t keep my footing. He bangs me into the hallway wall as he yanks me out toward the living room. As we reach the end of the hall, he pulls me up to my full height and slams me into the wall, his face so close to mine I can trace the red cracks in the whites of his eyes. With his other hand, he seizes my chin, holding my face right in front of his.