The Marriage Pact (1) (28 page)

As
expected, Jake did not answer his phone the next day, or the day after. Marci
could barely concentrate on her interview for the copywriting job on Monday.

The
interviews were held at a large hotel downtown—thankfully
not
the Hyatt
Regency—and seemed very rigorous to her inexperienced eye. About twenty other
applicants were there for the 2:00 slot, from what she could see. They were
called one by one to meet with a recruiter individually, who asked all the
standard interview questions Marci had heard a million times as a temp. She
found she was only minimally nervous. After her weekend fiasco, the job felt
less like something she was desperate to get, and more like a distraction from
her personal life.

At
3:30, the entire group sat together for a proofreading test. Marci finished
quickly, looked over her work, and then stared at the clock for a couple of minutes
before turning in her paper. She didn’t want to seem arrogant by turning it in
too quickly, but proofreading numbers, invoices, and correspondence had been
the bulk of her various jobs for the last decade. A couple of the younger
candidates cast envious or glaring looks her way as she shouldered her
messenger bag and left the room.

As
she got in her car, she immediately wanted to call Jake to tell him how it
went, and then remembered he wasn’t taking her calls. She debated heading south
toward his apartment—she still had a key, of course—to force him to talk to
her, but thought better of it and went to Suzanne’s instead.

The
next few days she waited and waited. No word from the recruiters; no word from
Jake.

By
Thursday morning, she was going stir crazy enough that she got in her car and
just drove. She followed one two-lane road and then another, turning north
whenever she had the option, singing along maniacally with the radio and only
occasionally breaking into tears. She ended up in the tourist trap town of
Dahlonega, where she remembered coming with her parents as a little kid.

Marci
wandered aimlessly around the quaint little town square, decked out entirely
with pine garlands, red velveteen bows, and twinkling lights. She felt out of
place. She had no camera, stroller, shopping bags, or sense of purpose. She
pretended to be interested in a couple of antiques shops, and then stopped in
Ye Olde Fudge Market and bought a quarter pound of peanut butter fudge and
bottle of milk on impulse. She got back in the car and bit into the fudge—it
was glorious—and remembered what her therapist had said to her a few years back
about using food to cope with unpleasant feelings.

“You
can’t block out the world with empty calories,” he scolded, a bespectacled apparition
in her passenger seat, wearing his signature argyle sweater vest and chinos.

“Fuck
you, Dr. Whitmore,” she said back to him, and took another, deliberate bite of
the fudge. The apparition disappeared in a huff, as though even her own
imagination had deemed her hopeless.

When
she had made her way through a good bit of the fudge, her stomach began to
protest the massive quantity of sugar, and she admitted defeat. She threw the
last chunk away, along with the plastic milk bottle. She felt dizzy, but steadied
herself and got back in the car, heading home.

When
she got to Suzanne’s about three and a half 80s CDs later, Rebecca was standing
on the doorstep with a large box in her arms. “Oh, hey, Marce. I was just about
to dig out my phone and call you. I thought you’d be home today.”

Of
course you did.

“What’s
all this, Rebecca?” Marci asked, though she already knew.

“I’m
so sorry. I absolutely
hate
that he asked me to do this,” Rebecca
simpered, though it was clear from her tone and energy that there was nothing
she “absolutely hated” about this. “Two of my best friends, heartbroken, and I
just can’t stand being caught in the middle.”

“So
Jake sent you with my stuff from his apartment?” This was obvious, of course,
and she could clearly see her favorite flannel pajamas sticking up in one
corner of the box. But it was as though saying the words might somehow allow
her brain to absorb the reality of this.
He had sent her stuff with Rebecca
.
Of all people
.

“Yeah,
I mean, he couldn’t figure out what to do—he is a
total
mess right
now—and I reminded him that I work nearby. I knew you would both want to save
the awkwardness. I mean, I was over there last night anyway...”

Marci
was grateful to have her key in the door by the time this final dig struck
home. If her hands had been free, she might have punched Rebecca outright. She
opened the door and Rebecca followed her in, putting the box on the coffee
table without waiting for instruction. “I wasn’t over there, you know, in
that
way, of course,” she was continuing gleefully. “I mean, what kind of tramp
would I be? You guys just broke up...”

“Some
kind of tramp,” Marci muttered, but Rebecca did not seem to hear her.

 “I
just went by to see whether I could help at all. Jacob is such a wreck right
now. Do you know he had not showered or changed in days? Well, I insisted, of
course, and I made him eat something. I know that’s what you would’ve wanted me
to do. You’re so lucky to have Suzanne here with you; poor Jacob only has
little old me. But anyway,” she placed a solicitous hand on Marci’s arm, “how
are
you?”

“Not
great,” Marci said through gritted teeth. She hated how Rebecca had always
called him Jacob as though she had a different relationship with him than the
rest of the world.

“Oh,
I know. It’s just awful. You poor girl. And how humiliated you must feel—a
broken engagement! It’s like a soap opera, but right here in our little group
of friends. Well, don’t worry, no matter what anyone says about you, I’ll
defend you. What are friends for?”

Marci
could think of no good answer to this question at the moment, which was fine,
because Rebecca was already on to the topic of a girls’ night out they had
planned for the following week and wondering whether Jake’s sister Leah should
still be included, “what with all the awkwardness and everything.”

It
was all what she should have expected from Rebecca—snide, gloating—and yet, the
reality of her words cut Marci deeply. Until just now, she had not thought of
the situation with Jake as a “broken engagement,” nor had she thought about
what that would mean for their families and friends.

The
invitations were not going out. The country club would not be reserved, despite
the fact that Kitty had already told everyone she knew. They were going to hate
her, probably, as was Leah, whom she had always adored and admired. She might
never see Jake’s niece and nephews again. She had Christmas presents for
Jasmine and the twins in her closet right now—what should she do with them?

And
at the heart of it, the core problem: their little group of friends, together
for more than a decade, would never be the same. She had torn it all apart with
her selfishness.

Marci
stared at the floor while Rebecca chattered on about nothing, taking the rare
opportunity to bask in the glow of her passive victory. Marci knew it wouldn’t
be long before Rebecca made a move for Jake herself. And unlike Suzanne and
Marci, who tolerated Rebecca despite her annoying competitiveness, Jake and
Beth had never been able to see that side of her, and had both constantly
chastised the other two for being hard on her.

Jake
was hurt and vulnerable. Rebecca was beautiful and had adored him like a puppy
for years. If Rebecca played her cards right, she probably had a shot.

And
maybe that’s the best thing for him. You broke his heart; maybe Rebecca will
appreciate him. It’s time to get down off your high horse and realize you’re
not so much better than her, or anyone else.

“So
what do you think?” Rebecca was saying, and Marci looked up blankly.

“About
next Wednesday? Should I ask Leah not to come? Don’t worry, I can take care of
it; I need to call her anyway. I know she’ll understand about the, um, special
circumstances.”

“No,
no,” Marci said, finally gathering her wits about her. “Don’t say anything to
her. I’ve been meaning to tell you, actually, um...that I’m not able to go that
night anyway. Something for Nicole...it’s a...thing. So see? No problem.” Leah
probably wouldn’t come to girls’ night anyway, after everything that had
happened, but Marci wanted to give Rebecca no reason to interfere. She hoped
like hell Rebecca didn’t press her on what “something for Nicole” might be,
because she had no idea. Nicole was back in DC, and couldn’t travel until after
the baby, so there were very few plausible stories.

Rebecca,
however, clapped her hands at the resolution to the imaginary problem. “Ah,
well, that’s settled. But we’ll miss you!” She jutted out her bottom lip in a show
of sadness that Marci would not be present, and then abruptly announced she was
leaving. “Please call me if you need
anything
. I’m totally here for both
of you, whatever you need.”

“Thanks,”
Marci said, as sincerely as she could, and closed the door behind Rebecca.

The
box on the coffee table was a monument to her failure as a fiancée, girlfriend,
and friend. She wanted to unpack it before she fell apart. Beneath her pajamas
were underwear, toothbrush, a stack of CDs, and a few books. When she lifted out
some pieces of mail she’d taken to Jake’s a couple of weeks ago, her heart
stopped as something fluttered to the floor. Their bar napkin, the faded
promise they had made all those years ago, had been returned to her wedged
between a cell phone bill and her new library card.

Marci
unloaded everything on Suzanne a couple of hours later, from the havoc she had
wreaked in the social structure to the idea that maybe Rebecca was a better fit
for Jake than Marci was. They were sitting in the Mexican restaurant down the
street from their apartment, drowning their sorrows in chips, tequila, and many
renditions of “Feliz Navidad.” Suzanne took a long swig of her margarita on the
rocks before responding.

“Marcella
Thompson. I have known you since the sixth grade, and that is far and away the
stupidest
thing I have ever heard come out of your mouth. Honestly, I don’t know what to
tell you about all the broken engagement garbage, except that if that’s what
this is, everyone will survive it. Even his parents, even Jake, even you. And I
can’t tell you what Jake will do or who he will end up with,” she held out her
margarita class dramatically, “but if Rebecca Williamson is better for him than
you are, then I will eat my hat.”

Marci
smiled at her best friend’s theatrics. “You’re not wearing a hat.”

“Then
I will eat these very beautiful, very expensive shoes. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,”
Marci said in her best Eeyore voice. A momentary pause was broken as they
dissolved into laughter, drawing sidelong glances from the table next to them.

A
few days before Christmas, Jake finally returned one of Marci’s daily calls in
attempt to reach him. Even then he managed to call while she was in the shower,
during the fifteen-minute window each day that she was away from her phone. His
message sounded more tired than angry.

“Marci,
it’s me. I’m calling you back. Well, I guess that’s obvious. Look, I don’t want
there to be all these hard feelings between us either, but I just don’t know
what to do with everything right now. I meant what I said. I feel like I don’t
really know who you are now. Like maybe I was living in a fantasy, trying to
make our lives like
When Harry Met Sally
or something. I thought you
were my future, and now, I just don’t know. But I need some time to sort things
out. I guess what I’m saying is I need you to back off. Not forever, but just
for a while. I’ll get in touch when I can, okay? I love you—”

He
said it almost automatically, as he had for months. For years. Then he seemed
to catch himself. “Well...yeah. I do still love you. You have to know that
already...” He paused as though he wanted to elaborate, but then finished
hurriedly, “Anyway, I’ll call you in a few weeks. Okay? Take care of yourself
and wish your family happy holidays. Oh, yeah, congratulations on the job.” She
heard something like a deep sigh before the click.

Marci
stared at the phone for a while, and then picked it up. “Mom? Yeah, I’m okay.
It’s just...I think I’m going to come home today until after the holidays.”

She
spent Christmas and the days following holed up on her parents’ couch, watching
bad movies with her dad and grazing from the cookie tins he brought home from
work. It always astonished Marci that people brought sweets to the man who
filled their cavities, but this year she was grateful. According to her
mother’s scale, she had put on ten pounds since November, but she told herself
that New Year’s resolutions were just around the corner.

Through
a well-connected client, Suzanne managed to get New Year’s Eve dinner reservations
at Nikolai’s Roof, where they indulged in a six-course meal beyond anything
Marci had ever experienced. As each plate was taken away, waiters in red coats
brushed crumbs from the pristine white tablecloth into tiny silver dustpans.
Marci fought off the ridiculous urge to laugh each time this happened.

“Are
you sure you don’t want to go out to a club? It’s still early,” Suzanne said as
they finished a roasted pear dish that reminded Marci of Thanksgiving at the
Stillwells.

“No,
thanks,” Marci said. “It just wouldn’t be the same without...everyone.” Of
course, neither of them had talked to Jake, or Rebecca. Beth and Ray were also
gone; after years of begging and pleading, they had consented to take their
kids to Disney World for the holidays.

“I
guess two single girls alone at a bar on New Year’s
is
kind of sad,”
Suzanne agreed. She was in the unusual condition of being dateless for the past
several weeks, and Marci realized she had not even asked about it.

“Not
sad, just...not tonight,” Marci said. The waiter brought the bill in a leather
booklet. “Oh, I can’t wait to see
this
.” Her new job started next week
and she was sure Nikolai was getting her first week’s pay before she’d even
earned it.

“Nope,”
Suzanne said lightly as her manicured fingers snatched the bill. “This one is
on me.”

“What?
Why?”

“Call
it congratulations on your new job.”

“Suzanne,
this dinner had to be more than a hundred dollars!”

“Marci,
honey, didn’t your mamma teach you anything? It’s rude to talk about money at
the table.” She wore that prim little grin Marci knew all too well. There was
no point in arguing.

“Thanks,”
Marci said, and downed the last of the vodka cordial in front of her.

They
went back to their apartment and caught the last few minutes of the ball drop
in Times Square. It seemed truly odd without Dick Clark, who was in the
hospital. Marci thought of the years Jake had been in Times Square with his
film school friends, and the night four years ago when he’d kissed her at
midnight. She had no idea where he was tonight, how he was celebrating, who he
was kissing. Regis Philbin was hosting
New Year’s Rockin’ Eve
and Jake
was out of her life. Nothing was right with the world tonight.

Her
new,
permanent
job started the following Monday, and Marci was immensely
grateful for something to do all day. It turned out the company, Lambert
Publishing, had hired about sixteen copywriters from the enormous pool of
applicants she’d sensed at the hotel. The recruiter had told Marci
confidentially that she’d been in the top three chosen, which made her proud,
and also concerned that someone would figure out within the first week that
there had been some sort of huge mistake.

Orientation
took up the first three days. The tedious experience included listening to long
lectures on copier usage policies and the benefits packages, and watching
videos on sexual harassment and diversity. Because most of her cohort were
high-achieving approval-seekers in their first jobs out of college, the
questions were numerous, detailed, and seemingly endless. Twelve women,
including Marci, and four men had been recruited. Most wore freshly pressed and
fashionable clothing, which must have been purchased either by parental support
or the last of their recently acquired student loans.

Of
the sixteen, at least half were what Marci would call “Air-Time Junkies.” They
could not seem to pass up any opportunity to hear themselves talk. Marci
watched them in irritation and amusement. She knew that at some point in her
life she was just like these kids, desperate for attention and approval, with
no clue how the real world actually worked. Her fears about being too old for
the job faded as she realized that her relative maturity might be her biggest
asset.

Marci
drove back to Suzanne’s each afternoon feeling more and more satisfied that,
after nearly ten years of blowing aimlessly in the wind, her work life was
finally heading in the right direction. Once orientation was over, they were
broken into small teams and given projects to start on right away. The creative
director asked her to be the team lead for her group. This both terrified and
thrilled her.

The
firm moved at a fast pace, with a sense of urgency she had never experienced in
Austin. Women wore full makeup to work every day, and either pressed slacks or
panty hose—a far cry from the lightweight skirts and sandals favored in Austin.
People walked, talked, and expected things fast. The hectic pace was an
adjustment, but for the first time in her life, Marci had a badge for getting
into the building with
her
name and picture on it rather than TEMPORARY
EMPLOYEE #7 or something similar. She had a desk where she could store things
overnight and hang up pictures. But pictures of
whom
?

Despite
her turmoil, the routine of going to the same place at the same time each day
was soothing. She bought a commuter pass for the Highway 400 toll plaza. She
purchased a travel mug from the independent coffee shop along the route to
work. She also invested in a tiny cooler for taking her lunch to work. She
vowed to start paying Suzanne rent and bring lunch from home at least three
times a week.

Some
parts of her new routine were less satisfying. Several times each day, she
picked up the phone and battled against the temptation to dial Jake.

Over
the next two weeks, Marci worked nearly a hundred hours. This was partly from a
desire to ensure her inaugural project as team lead was an impressive success,
and partly as a distraction from the fact that Jake had not called her back.

She
had begun looking at tiny apartments in the city, but Suzanne had insisted
Marci stay on as her roommate. Marci hesitated. She really wanted to
demonstrate her new-found independence by sending out change of address cards
for her very own place. But between the rental prices of even the tiniest
spaces downtown and how much she enjoyed living with her best friend, she
decided she would stay.

They
spent half a Saturday at Marci’s storage unit, trading out boxes of Suzanne’s
spare room junk for more of Marci’s things. Suzanne even cleared off single
shelves in her linen closet, refrigerator and pantry for Marci’s exclusive use.
The bathroom was more difficult, because Suzanne had every bottle, jar, and
tube known to woman spilling out of her vanity drawers, not to mention four
separate hair-styling appliances. In the end, Marci opted to continue carrying
her own toiletries back and forth in a basket, à la freshman dorm, rather than
inconvenience her friend’s beauty routine.

It
turned out that Marci’s long-term stay was also the excuse Suzanne had been
waiting for to redecorate the whole place. Marci discovered this when Suzanne
began dragging her to home decorating and furniture stores every day after
work. “Don’t you think we need a new couch, something that’s less
me
,
and more both of us?” “When we have big parties we’re going to need this
cocktail service, don’t you think? I’ve had my eye on it for a while...”

Marci
stood in Pier One, exhausted and bleary-eyed at 8:30 on a freezing Tuesday
evening, comparing throw pillows for Suzanne as though she were at the eye
doctor. “This one or that one? That one or the green one? Shiny green or fluffy
green?” She was fantasizing about clubbing Suzanne over the head with a pillar candle
and dragging her to dinner when her phone rang. The number on her cell phone
was familiar but not recognizable.

“Marci?
It’s Leah.” She sounded breathless.

“Leah?
Hey, what’s wrong?”

“It’s
Daddy. He’s collapsed.”