Lost Along the Way (8 page)

“Don't even get me started!” Tabitha laughed.

“So seven o'clock?” Reed offered, placing his hand on top of Cara's and giving it a squeeze. Cody and Tabitha would think he was being affectionate. She knew that he was encouraging her to slap a smile on her face and work on her performance of loving wife. Cara noticed that Reed's ears were starting to turn red and felt her insides tense. Red ears the color of clown paint were Reed's tell, one of the reasons that he'd never been a good poker player. He had gotten very good at being steady and calm in any situation over the years, but his ears always betrayed him.

“Perfect.” She flashed a smile. Reed finished off the rest of his scotch, ordered another, and watched as Cara continued to dance, slipping back into her role of perfect wife.

The car ride home would be another story.

J
ane woke at nine in the morning to the sound of a chainsaw operating on a tree branch somewhere in the near vicinity, and remembered immediately why she'd opted to live in the city. She had to admit that she had slept soundly, though, more soundly than she had in a long time. Her conscience hadn't let her feel at ease in her home once she'd discovered that almost everything she owned was bought with stolen money. Maybe being evicted wouldn't be the worst thing. It was time for her to start over, and it might be better if her new life didn't involve that apartment. Problem was, she had no money and no job, and that would make finding anything to rent, even a flea-infested rat hole in the East Village, impossible. Maybe she could have her breast implants removed and sell them on eBay. There were all sorts of sick freaks out there who would probably pay good money for them.

She trudged into the attached guest bathroom, took a quick shower and dried off with an impossibly soft white towel before getting dressed in a pair of jeans so worn they felt like suede and a light green sweater. She made the bed, hung her wet towel on the hook on the back of the bathroom door, and repacked her short cotton nightgown in an effort to eradicate her footprint from the room entirely. She walked barefoot down the hallway and slowly descended the stairs to the foyer. Halfway down, she froze, overhearing the heated conversation taking place in the kitchen. More specifically, she heard Reed's voice—that conde
scending, controlling asshole—the sound of it still eliciting the same quiet, visceral rage it always had. What Cara ever saw in him, Jane swore she'd never understand.

“I don't know why you bought two of them when we only need one,” Reed said. His voice wasn't raised at all, but it was laced with condescension, as if he were talking to a child and not his wife.

“I bought two of them because they were on sale and it's not a big deal to have an extra box of rice lying around,” Cara answered in a hushed tone.

“Really? This receipt doesn't indicate that they were on sale. This looks like they were full price to me,” he insisted.

“Where did you even get that? I threw it out yesterday. Did you dig through the garbage to find it? Are you afraid that I'm spending thousands of dollars on chicken cutlets and toothpaste at the grocery store?”

“I'm getting really tired of you mindlessly spending money on things we don't need. You don't need to plan for a nuclear attack. We're only two people, and you should be watching your portions anyway. Carbs are no friend to a middle-aged woman.”

Jane bit the inside of her lip to keep from screaming. Getting involved in their argument was probably not the hallmark of a good houseguest.

“Middle-aged? I'm thirty-seven. And so are you, I might add.”

“In Hollywood that's geriatric,” he said.

“Good thing I live in New York. If you want to go out and find someone younger, be my guest.”

“Spare me the false permissions and just start following the grocery list that I give you when you go to the store. I don't know why you have such a hard time following directions, Cara, I really
don't. All I want you to do is take the list and buy exactly what's on it, and nothing else. And don't try to be cute by thinking you can hide things in the back of the cabinets and I won't notice. From now on you will show me the receipts when you get back. It's really too bad that I can't even trust my wife to shop correctly.”

Jane had to grip the banister until her hands turned white to not go storming into the kitchen and tell Reed what he could do with his fucking list. She should've said something before the wedding, instead of just staying quiet and leaving early. She should've objected at the church, or done something, anything, to prevent this blessed nightmare from happening in the first place. She wondered if Cara had been dealing with this kind of criticism for their entire marriage.

“Fine. I'm sorry I overspent,” Cara replied. Jane almost choked listening to her once strong, opinionated, smart friend submit so willingly to the pointless criticism of her slimeball husband.
What the hell happened to her?

“Good. I can't even get into how angry I am about this whole Jane thing. I don't know what you were thinking and I don't really care. All I know is that I don't want her in this house. You get her out of here, today. Discreetly. Do you know what people will say if they find out we're harboring a fugitive? Do you know what that will do to my reputation?”

“She's not a fugitive, she's my friend. And she didn't do anything wrong.”

“Jesus, do you not understand the concept of guilt by association? Spouses reflect on one another.
Why don't you understand that?
Do you think the guys at the club or at my firm are going to differentiate between her husband and her? They are both lying,
thieving, pathetic excuses for human beings and she is not welcome in this house. What were you thinking when you told her she could stay?” he asked.

“I was thinking she was an old friend who needed help.”

“She's no friend of mine, and I told you that years ago. Why don't you start caring about what I want and about how you can help me? That should be your concern. I'm your husband, Cara. I'm your number one priority.”

“Okay. I don't want to fight about this anymore,” Cara said.

“Good. I'm going to work. It's nine thirty in the morning, and I'm already aggravated. Honestly, other men have no idea how lucky they are to be able to get out of the house without having to solve a million different problems first. I don't know why I can't be one of them. Also, don't forget it's Friday. I want the sheets on my bed changed today. Don't think I didn't realize you didn't get around to doing it until Saturday last week. I hate starting the weekend with dirty sheets. You know that. And grab my shirts at the dry cleaner this afternoon, too. They've been ready since Wednesday.”

“Okay,” Cara said quietly. She sounded defeated.

The Cara Jane remembered wouldn't have ever put up with this. The Cara she knew was so much stronger than this. The Cara she knew was someone different entirely.

June 1994

“We shouldn't be here!” Meg whispered, even though there was no one around to hear her.

“That's why it's fun. If we were allowed to be here, this wouldn't be worth doing!” Jane said as she pulled out a pair of bolt cutters she'd managed to borrow from one of the maintenance
men at school—neither Cara nor Meg wanted to know how—from the large duffel bag she had thrown over her shoulder.

“What if we get in trouble?” Meg asked again.

“We graduate tomorrow. What are they going to do to us? Give us detention?” Jane answered. She was really going to miss Meg and her rule-abiding, scaredy-cat ways. She wondered if Meg would loosen up at all when she went to Vanderbilt in August or if she would spend the next four years of her life in college drinking sodas and turning papers in early. “Besides, Cara needs this.”

“I still don't know why we're here!” Cara said. “I'm not much in the mood for a midnight stroll.”

“Why?” Jane asked sarcastically. “Because you just discovered that your boyfriend is cheating on you with a sophomore on the cheerleading team?”

“Yes,” Cara said through gritted teeth. “There are too many things wrong with that sentence to even count.”

“I can't believe him,” Meg said. “If I ever see him again I'm going to smack him.”

“Thanks, Meg,” Cara said. “I seriously can't believe that I am only a few hours away from graduating high school at the ripe age of eighteen, and I've already been ditched for a younger girl with a set of pom-poms. Thinking about it makes me so mad I could hurt someone. Like I might lose my mind.”

Jane watched as Cara squeezed her hands into fists so tightly her thumbnail actually broke the skin and drew blood. “Good! Channel your anger. That's exactly what I want you to do,” Jane cheered, despite the fact that there was nothing happy about this entire situation.

“Why are we here, Jane? Seriously, tell me,” Cara ordered.

“We're here because I am a genius and I refuse to let your last
memories of high school be of that asshole and the fact that he ruined the best thing that ever happened to him.” With one click, Jane used the bolt cutters to break the lock on the gate of the school tennis courts. “Come on! This will make you feel better, Cara, I promise.”

Jane hurried over to the electrical box located at the far end of the court and flicked a switch. The lights above the court blazed, forcing the three girls to shield their eyes for a minute while they adjusted from the darkness. She dropped the duffel bag on the court and removed a tennis racket. She promptly tossed it to Cara, yelling, “Catch!”

Cara always used her athleticism as a way to relieve stress and tension in her life. Whenever she needed to clear her head she went running, or golfing, or skiing, or swimming, depending on the weather and the circumstance. Jane knew that in this case, nothing in the world would make Cara feel better than to blast tennis balls flying at her into oblivion. She'd be picturing Mark's face with every swing. He should be very happy that Jane had the brilliant idea to break into the tennis courts so his scorned girlfriend could work off her rage. Otherwise he'd probably be sporting a broken nose or a black eye tomorrow with his cap and gown.

“We're going to hit tennis balls? Seriously?” Cara asked as she crossed to the far side of the court.

“No.
We
aren't hitting anything. I want
you
to hit tennis balls. Meg and I are just going to man this ball machine thing.” Jane ran to the corner and pulled out the ball machine. She plugged it into the small electrical socket and turned it on. She fished two dozen tennis balls out of the duffel bag and loaded them into the ball machine.

“How do you work this thing? I've never used one of these before in my life,” Meg said, biting her cuticles as usual.

“That's because you've been too busy making muffins,” Cara replied, never missing the opportunity to jab her best friend for her love of home economics and her general apathy toward any and all athletic endeavors.

“You never mind eating the muffins!” Meg reminded her, still biting her cuticles.

“That's true,” Jane said. “You make a mean chocolate chip muffin. Don't ever let anyone tell you differently. Now, let's focus and stop biting your nails. Cara, I think you need to work out some of your aggression toward Mark.”

“Don't even say his name to me. I hate him so much it hurts. I mean, do you believe this guy? He's going to cheat on me with a sophomore? Seriously?”

“Gross,” Meg said. “He's a pig.”

”I want to slash his tires or something.”

“I believe you. That's why you're going to take your anger out on the tennis balls. It'll feel great!”

“You think it's that simple, huh?” Cara asked.

“I think it's a pretty good place to start. Pretend the ball is Mark. Tell him what you really think of him and then nail these tennis balls! Really hit them, Cara!”

Cara laughed as she twirled the racket in her hand. “I've played on this court thousands of times, but for some reason it's a lot more fun when we're not allowed to be here!”

“Everything is more fun when you're not allowed to do it. Have I taught you nothing?”

“Seriously, Jane, I will never understand how your brain works. You couldn't come up with a better way to let her burn off
some steam?” Meg asked, constantly looking over her shoulder to make sure no one was coming to arrest them.

“I had a lot of ideas, but I decided that breaking onto the tennis courts was the best one!” Jane answered with a shrug.

“Oh jeez,” Meg moaned.

“Okay, ready? I'm going to let this one fly,” Jane said as she took her position behind the ball machine.

“Bring it!” Cara said, her knees bent, her back straight, and her racket poised squarely in front of her.

“Okay, Cara, here it comes! Crack it!” Jane yelled as she hit the button and started the balls flying.

“You stupid asshole!” Cara yelled as she slammed the ball with such force that Meg had to duck to avoid getting pelted by it.

“Watch it!” Meg yelled as she ducked. “You're going to hit me by accident!”

“You think she's better than me? You think you can cheat on me with some cheerleading slut?” Cara screamed, the tennis ball once again serving as a wonderful proxy for Mark's head.

“I will kill you!” Cara screeched as she slammed a ball over the net.

“I will destroy you!” she cried, knocking the next ball so hard it became trapped between the links of the fence surrounding the court.

“I will make you wish you never met me!”
Pop!
She smashed another one, the sound of the racket on the ball reminiscent of a champagne cork being freed from its bottle.

“You stupid, arrogant, asshole!” she shouted as she nailed the ball with a powerful backhand that unfortunately went a bit wayward and hit the machine—which promptly stopped working.
Man,
Jane
thought. No matter how many times she watched Cara in action, she'd never stop being impressed by her strength or agility.

“Uh-oh,” Jane said as she heard the machine sputter and the motor slowly wind down.

“What just happened?” Meg asked. She went over and began pushing buttons on the back of the machine. “Oh my God, she broke it! What are we going to do?”

“What's going on?” Cara yelled from the other side of the net, flushed and out of breath but energized. “Come on, I'm just getting warmed up! Turn up the speed! Let them fly! I can do better than this!”