She Has Your Eyes (14 page)

In the morning my muscles were stiff and sore from David and I sleeping back-to-back the entire night and refusing to budge. I went downstairs following my shower and prepared a
breakfast of pancakes and bacon, taking deep breaths and willing myself to put on my happiest face for Wylie. She entered the kitchen wearing pink pajama bottoms with puckered lipstick kisses on them and a purple thermal shirt. It was my first time seeing her without makeup. She was so much prettier without all that heavy liner and mascara, and looked twice as much like David. She hunched her shoulders and sat at the butcher-block table, tucking one of her legs under her.

“Morning,” I said in feigned cheeriness. “Sleep OK?”

“I guess.”

“Strange in unfamiliar surroundings?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” She shuddered.

“Heat will come up soon, I promise. Want some hot cocoa or something?”

“Do you have any tea?”

“Coming right up.” I filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove.

“Where’s, um… where’s David?” she asked.

“In the shower. He’ll be down soon.”

Wylie stared out the kitchen window at nothing. “Is it weird to be marrying one guy after being married to another?”

Why was she so preoccupied with my relationships with David and Sam?

“Weird for me, or weird in general?” I asked.

“Weird for you.”

“Sometimes,” I said. “It’s not like I ever stopped being married to Sam. He and I would’ve still been together were it not for the accident.”

“But you love David.” She said this like a statement, but I knew she was asking a question.

“I love David very much,” I answered, filling with guilt and regret over the previous night’s fight.

“So what if you had met David while Sam was still alive?”

“Well, I knew David before Sam and I met. Back then we were friends.” The term sounded disingenuous. “We got together after…” I trailed off.

“I mean, what if you and Sam were married, and you ran into David or whatever while you were still… would you have been attracted to him?”

“Oh.” I flicked an ice-cream scoopful of pancake batter onto the griddle. “I don’t know. Maybe. I doubt I would’ve acted on it, though.”

“Why?”

“Because I was deeply in love with my husband.”

“But you’re in love with David now, right?”

It was as if she was trying to crack some code, find a secret hidden within me.

“Yes. It’s different, though. David and Sam are very different. Sam was my best friend. We could tell each other anything, talk to each other for hours until our throats were sore. Being with him was easy. Not to say that it was like that all the time. And not to say that David isn’t my friend as much as he’s my—” I stopped short. Was it OK to use the word “lover” with a fifteen-year-old? “David’s just… more alluring,” I said after searching my thoughts. “He always has been. And it’s not that it’s hard to be with him; it’s just that he and I have a different past, more complicated than what Sam and I had.”

The kettle whistled, and I set a mug of hot water for her along with an array of teas from a box. She selected one and dunked it into the mug before letting it steep.

“Wow. I just thought of something. You have two husbands—or you’re about to—and I have two dads. And one of them is the same guy.”

Something about her statement sent a jolt of electricity through me. It was so blunt, so
true
.

“He’s a good guy,” I said in practically a whisper, fighting back tears that were pushing to the surface.
And I want him all to myself,
I thought, ashamed. Maybe David had been right the night before, and I had been somehow competing for his attention. Or maybe I got caught up in Wylie’s hypotheticals about seeing David while Sam was alive and feared David would’ve come out the loser.

As if on cue, David entered the kitchen, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d been secretly listening in on our conversation. I never heard him come down the stairs.

“Morning,” he said with the same syrupy inflection as I had. He kissed my cheek, and I assumed it was for Wylie’s sake. Then again, maybe he too felt guilty about what happened. He leaned over the griddle for a peek. “Banana buttermilk pancakes. What’d I tell you, Wylie? My fiancée can cook.”

“Coffee’s waiting for you,” I announced, hoping it sounded more like something we’d say routinely to each other, a couple who were comfortable and happy. I hadn’t lied to Wylie. I loved David, was in love with David, still loved him even when he acted like a rat-bastard. But at that moment, the sting of his words from the previous night hurt too much. Moreover, it occurred to me at that moment that banana buttermilk pancakes had always been Sam’s favorite, and that familiar ache for him struck me without warning, only adding to the inner turmoil that swirled like a whirlpool, sucking me into its center.

David grabbed a mug from the cabinet and joined Wylie at the table. “Sleep OK?” he asked her.

“I guess,” she said, and I couldn’t help but shake my head and crack a grin, which she caught. We were tripping over ourselves from trying so hard.

“So, what do you want to do today? I promised your parents I’d get you home no later than seven tonight, but we’ve got plenty of time,” said David.

“Why don’t you go to the MFA,” I suggested. To Wylie, I said, “David knows every inch of the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. Could pull off a heist.”

“Someone’s been watching a little too much
White Collar
,” he said. I knew he meant it as a joke, but I couldn’t help but hear a condescending edge on the words.

“Sure, I’d love to check it out,” she replied.

He was practically glowing with delight. “I’ll call your mother and make sure it’s OK.” He seemed to want to avoid the reality that Wylie already had a father, one who was there for her first day of school, her first bicycle ride, her first soccer game and slumber party and art exhibit. One who protected and disciplined her. “You have to check in with her too, remember?”

“Wish I could join you,” I said.

And just like that, David’s radiance clouded over as he got up to pick up the stack of pancakes I’d just removed from the griddle. “Yes, it’s too bad.”

So much for my guilt. Now I was ticked. I caught his glance and held it, returning it with a threat:
Watch it, pal.

I turned off the griddle and put the bowl into the sink. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to get ready.”

“You’re not going to have breakfast with us?” asked Wylie.

I shook my head. “I’ll grab a bagel or something on the boat.” This hadn’t been my intention; I just couldn’t face either one of them for another minute. Some part of me knew I was being irrational, that David had said “it’s too bad” out of disappointment and not resentment. My intellectual side knew it
wasn’t a two-against-one situation. So why did it
feel
that way? What, exactly, had poked my sleeping insecurities awake, especially since Wylie was so willing to share things with me?

“She gets seasick sometimes,” said David, as if that explained everything.

On the ferry, I sat in the cabin, wearing earbuds and listening to Depeche Mode on my iPad, mentally replaying recent events starting with Labor Day, and caught up in a whirlpool of hyperanalysis. I wanted David and Wylie to have some kind of relationship, but what, if anything, would I have to give up in order for that to happen? And if I didn’t have to give up anything, then why did I feel like I did, and why was it so scary? I liked Wylie; couldn’t I be some kind of friend to her, at the very least? Why did I sometimes act as if I were jealous of her, and would I have felt the same way had Sam discovered he had a daughter? And dammit, I hated when I missed Sam, because I feared it meant I didn’t really love David after all, and when I realized how much I did love David then I feared it meant it was OK that Sam wasn’t here.…

Ugh, make it stop!

There had to be an escape hatch from where we could all emerge unscathed.

Yet all the while I could sense an incessant knocking at a virtual door. And I knew what it was. Or rather,
who
.

Normally I didn’t read on the ferry because it made me nauseous; but my curiosity refused to ignore Andrew’s e-mail any longer.

Hey Andi,

Remember Pop’s coffeehouse? The one we used to always joke about buying? Well, it’s up for grabs. Turns out Brent never paid his taxes on the place. The Feds came in and repo’ed everything, right down to the beans. I was there when it happened. Two US marshals stormed in and ushered everyone out as two other guys started hauling the chairs right out from under our asses. Surreal. In all my life I never would’ve pegged Brent as anything so shady. He’s so clean his shoes squeak when he walks. Or so I thought.

Anyway, we’re all like sheep without a pasture now. I’ve been going to Corky’s Café but it’s just not the same. Too much Pearl Jam in there. And the muffins taste like they’ve been there since last fall. And Starbucks is too… well, Starbucks. Brent didn’t own the building, so the space is available for lease.

What do you think—should I quit teaching and go into business? Given that I’ve played in just about every coffee shop in town, I know the lay of the land, right? How ’bout it—wanna go silent partner with me? (Kidding. Sort of.)

Anyway, hope you’re doing well. I’d love to read your latest manuscript when you’re ready for peer review.

Andrew

P.S. I think Brent is halfway to Vegas by now.

I found myself enjoying his informality. It was something familiar, once shared between us when all was well. Like two people who were friends. Something about it felt uncomplicated. (Although “sort of” kidding?
Sort of?
What the hell did that mean?) But even I knew that ease was nothing more than a wolf in sheep’s clothing. And a hungry wolf, at that. The
familiarity
—that’s what attracted me. I always sucked when it came to facing the unknown.

I was about to draft a response to him when a chat box popped up in the lower right corner of my screen.

Andrew:
Hi Andi
.

The alert startled me, especially when it took me a few seconds to realize it was him.

I panicked. If I chose to respond, the second I hit Enter I’d be jettisoning myself into an even bigger minefield, and wouldn’t be able to turn around. E-mailing was one thing. It offered me more control to choose words carefully, time between sending and receiving, and physical as well as emotional distance. Chatting, however, was spontaneous, immediate, uncensored.

The warning sirens were so loud in my head it was hard to believe no one else on the ferry could hear them. The war between my angels and demons commenced:

Don’t do it! Not when you’re feeling rejected by David and missing Sam.

But this is a guy who wants to talk to me. It isn’t face-to-face communication. It’s not like you can hear a voice.
Besides, being
on the water, between New England and Long Island, felt like neutral territory.
He’s being friendly. That’s all. And you could use a friend right now.

Don’t do it! You’ve got plenty of other friends.

Me:
Hi, yourself.

Bloody hell.

Andrew:
Hope you don’t mind. I saw you were online and decided to say hello.

Me:
Took me by surprise.

Andrew:
Google owns us now.

I debated on whether to type an “lol” (I hadn’t actually laughed) or a smiley emoticon (I had smiled, but the face seemed too friendly), but Andrew didn’t wait for either.

Andrew:
How are you?

You don’t wanna know. Rather, you’re not the one I should be telling.

Me:
Fighting off seasickness.

Andrew:
Where are you?

Me:
On the Cross Sound Ferry to Orient Point. Going to see my mom.