The Status of All Things (14 page)

“I’m going to head up to bed,” I say, standing up. “Want to come?”

“In a bit, babe,” Max answers, and I involuntarily look at his phone. Did he want to stay up so he could keep texting with Courtney? My feet feel heavy as I march up the stairs, holding back my tears as I make the bed with our new orange duvet before lying down and pulling it tightly around me, still seeing the bright color in my head when I close my eyes.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Max is fumbling with his necktie when I come out of the bathroom the next morning. “Want some help with that?” I ask, but start adjusting the silk into a wide knot before he can answer. I glance from the dark gray tie into his eyes, our chests almost touching as I straighten the fabric, trying to muster the confidence to ask him what I spent last night’s sleepless hours thinking about—a question I’m still not completely sure I want the answer to.

“Thanks,” he mumbles as he studies something on his phone. “I’m in a hurry . . . need to get into the office—it’s a big day.”

Because it’s Courtney’s first day?

I raise my eyebrow but let his mention pass. “Speaking of
big days
 . . .” I pause, watching Max pull on his nicest navy-blue suit jacket, the one that changes the color of his eyes into a deeper shade of green. Had he selected that for her?

“Have you seen my keys?” Max rushes out of the bedroom to hunt for them, his eyes still glued to his phone.

“Max—before you go, I wanted to ask you something.” I take the stairs two at a time after him, my fuzzy pink slippers making a squeaking sound with each step.

“Yeah?” he yells back as I hear him sifting through a drawer in the kitchen, cursing under his breath.

“Where did you last see them?” I ask. It wasn’t like him to lose anything—
ever.

“In the ignition when I was driving home last night,” he snaps, then stops his ransack of the junk drawer and gives me a sorrowful look. “Sorry—can you drop me off on your way out?” he says, his tone softer.

“Just take my car,” I answer without thinking and dangle my keys in front of him, watching the stress disappear from his face like the foam dissolving into a hot latte as he folds his hand around them.

“How are you going to get to work?”

“I’m sure your keys are around here somewhere. I’ll find them and take yours,” I assure him. “And I know you’re in a rush, but before you go, I have a quick question.”

“Shoot,” he says, but starts striding toward the front door and I trail behind like a puppy dog clamoring for a treat.

“You said today was a
big day
, which got me thinking about, you know,
ours
and those very big vows we need to write. I just wanted to check in and see how yours were coming—” I clasp my hands behind my back as I wait for his response.

“They’re done!” he says proudly. “Been finished for a while now.”

He has them written?
He had something to write?
Maybe I haven’t lost him yet.

“Wow, I’m impressed!” I break into an uncontrollable grin as the pendulum swings back toward hope again. I lightly kiss his lips, tasting his peppermint toothpaste.

“You seem surprised,” he remarks as he grabs his messenger bag and slings it over his chest.

I reach over and push a flop of hair away from his forehead. “No—well, yes—but only because I haven’t even started mine.”

“Have you met me? Have you met you?” He laughs, and for a moment, I feel like
us
again as we banter. “Of course I’m done and you’re not, Ms. Perfectionist!”

He was right. I was often paralyzed by projects. My overwhelming desire to make them perfect caused me to fall behind as I considered all the ways I could tackle them. And Max was always ahead of schedule—he was the guy who filed his taxes by February 1.

“I can’t wait to hear them!” I say quickly before I can pull the words back, watching his face for any signs that I might not ever get that opportunity. But his expression is unreadable.

“No peeking!” is all he says as he strides out the front door.

“Of course not,” I lie, heading straight for his journal the moment he’s gone.

I run my hands over the soft brown leather notebook that conceals Max’s inner thoughts, flipping it back and forth in my hand, debating whether I should open it, whether I should be reading the words he’s written. Even though they are intended for me, it feels wrong. But this could be my only chance to discover what is in Max’s heart leading up to the wedding—and that outweighs the guilt. I peel back the cover and my eyes fall on his familiar loopy handwriting. When I’d first seen his signature, the even shape of his letters reminded me of the words I’d traced in the fourth grade when trying to achieve my cursive license. “You write like a girl!” I’d exclaimed, letting out a cackle, then throwing my hand over my mouth. He’d smiled, his eyes laughing with me as he’d grabbed a Sharpie off his desk, a piece of paper out of his printer tray, and wrote
I love you, Katie
in his big, curvy scrawl. I still have it.

Kate,

Everything with you has always been so easy. From the night we met, I’ve known our relationship was special, that you were different. When I look into your eyes I know we have the solid foundation we need to stand the test of time—that we will go as far as we want in life, that we can do anything together. There’s a comfort in knowing I can count on you, I can count on us. That we can go the distance—that we’re built to last.

I love you
more than words can say.

I set the notebook back in the bottom drawer of his desk, his words stinging my heart, even though I’m not sure what I had been expecting. Max has never been the most romantic guy, always choosing to let Hallmark do the talking for him on special occasions, his name signed firmly at the bottom of the card. And it’s not like what he’d written was
terrible
, but it had felt like reading one of those greeting cards—with all the right things printed inside of them, but they were not
his
words. I had always been confident that he loved me, and had come to accept that like many men, he struggled with translating his feelings onto paper. But as I’d read his vows, I wish he could’ve dug a little deeper just this once, could’ve tried to come up with something that was intimate between us, that didn’t feel so generic. Unless this was the best he could do—saying he was comfortable, that we were built to last. Making me sound more like a Subaru than his future wife.

• • •

With the vows imprinted in my mind like a message written across the sky, I’d tried to concentrate on finding Max’s keys. I’d tossed the couch cushions, searched the laundry hamper, and
even checked the freezer, but still couldn’t locate them, finally giving up and calling a cab. I knew the keys were probably dangling right in front of me, but I was too distracted. I was bothered, not just because the vows felt stiff, but because I wasn’t sure I could do a better job with my own. Max didn’t know this, but on the night of our rehearsal dinner, my vows still weren’t written. I’d spent months thinking about what I should say, but I couldn’t decide what combination of words would properly encapsulate
us.
And now I wonder if there was a deeper reason why the pages in my own journal had remained blank. Did I not have the right words because
we
weren’t right?

The yellow taxi pulls up and I slip into the backseat. The driver swivels her head around and smiles at me, revealing the familiar gap between her teeth. “Where to, Kate?”

“It’s you,” I say as one of her toffee-colored curls slips out from under her tweed driving cap. I quickly recover from the surprise of seeing her. “I’m meeting my mom at Grub on Seward Street for breakfast.”

“Sounds good,” she says, and makes a U-turn.

“I’m so glad you’re here—I have a million questions I want to ask you!” I exclaim.

“You can ask one.”

“Just one?” I whine.

I meet Ruby’s eyes in the rearview mirror and she narrows them at me. “Fine,” I concede.

As I take several minutes to collect my thoughts, staring out the window at the 10 freeway, I realize there’s only one issue that’s been pressing on my mind. “Why do my wishes keep pushing Max and Courtney closer together instead of driving them apart?” I ask, my heart thudding as I wait for the answer. I have my own theories, but I pray that none of them are right.

Ruby pulls the taxi to a stop in front of Grub and shifts her body toward the backseat. “Fate’s a lot like Mother Nature. Sometimes you just can’t mess with it.”

“So are you saying I can’t use this power to get Max back—my life back?” I ask.

“That’s another question.” Ruby looks at me sympathetically.

“Please,” I plead as I grip the back of her seat. “I can’t keep fighting if I know it won’t change anything.”

Ruby holds my gaze for a minute before answering, ignoring the person in the brightly colored wrap dress standing impatiently outside my door, waiting to get in. “You do have the power to change things, but not everything is as simple as you want it to be. Just have a little faith.” She reaches over and puts her hand over mine. “Now, please, get out before this person loses her mind.” She laughs as the woman throws up her hands in frustration.

Still in a daze from Ruby’s cryptic message, I find my mom sitting at a small table in the back of the restaurant, her face glowing from her day spent at the spa yesterday. I’d cringed when I’d read her post on Facebook:

My masseur didn’t believe my real age. I had to show him my ID! Talk about happy ending for me! Wink, wink!

She’d posted a picture she’d taken of herself clad only in a white cotton towel with her arm flung around the man who’d just massaged her.

“Hey,” I say, sliding into the seat across from her.

“Sweetie, it’s so good to
finally
see you. I took the liberty of ordering for you,” she says, and I glance at my phone. Less than ten seconds and she’s already giving me a guilt trip. That has to be a record.

“I know—I’m sorry it’s been a while. Things have been really hectic—”

“With the wedding planning? Do you need help?”

In more ways than you could possibly know.

I shake my head. “Stella has everything under control,” I say as I imagine her scrambling to find the Samoan fire-knife dancing team that Max just added to the list.

My mom’s face brightens at my answer. “I saw on Facebook that your wedding gifts were starting to arrive. You posted that adorable picture holding the oddly shaped package, asking everyone to guess what they thought was inside. I still think it’s a Roomba!” she says, clapping her hands together.

I think back to the photo I’d made myself post yesterday, wanting so much to live my life as if I didn’t know what was around the corner. Last time around, I would’ve blissfully held the box with a smirk on my face as I tried to guess its contents, excited to see what funny items my friends would speculate could be inside. But this time, the whole thing felt forced.

As my mom laughs at her own guess, her pale blue eyes close slightly, exposing the fine lines around them. Lines I think make her more beautiful, but that she’s been considering eyelid surgery to remove. I’d argued when she’d first announced her plans, trying to convince her that the collagen fillers she’d already been getting in her upper cheeks and forehead were unnecessary. I was worried that one cosmetic surgery would lead to another and she’d end up looking like one of those Botox-addicted Real Housewives. But I couldn’t tell her that—since my dad left, she’d been convinced he married Leslie so he could have a young trophy wife on his arm.

Courtney comes to mind. I had always confided in Jules about how deep my mom’s denial ran when it came to my dad.
Now I wondered if I was going to follow in her footsteps, clamoring for something that had already disappeared right before my eyes. “Can I ask you something?”

She nods, sipping her coffee.

“What was it about Dad—why did you want to marry him?”

“He was
everything
,”
she answers immediately.

“What do you mean?” I ask, mixing a packet of sugar into my latte.

“He was everything I’d ever wanted—all of the good parts of someone rolled up into one.” She smiles, but it quickly shifts into a frown. “Well, before he met
her.
”

I’ve often wondered if my mom even remembers the marriage as it actually was or if she’s become a revisionist historian since Dad left, not wanting to accept that his love for someone else could ever be deeper than his love for her.

“Why do you ask?” My mom eyes me suspiciously as the server sets down a fruit plate in front of her and a plate of scrambled egg whites in front of me. I look around as if the rest of my order is going to arrive—the bacon and hash browns I would’ve requested. But I knew better. My mom eats like a bird and wants me to as well.

“I came across Max’s vows . . . and, I don’t know, they just didn’t make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside,” I say, suddenly thinking of my furry pink slippers that I’d had since college and wore year-round because they were comfortable. That’s the same word Max had used to describe us in his vows. Was he right? And if so, was that even a negative? What was wrong with a relationship that was safe and easy?

“Warm and fuzzy?” my mom scoffs.

“I guess when I read them I thought they would show that he
gets me
.”

“
Gets
you?” she repeats, cocking her head to the side in confusion as if I’ve just spoken Japanese.