The Status of All Things (4 page)

I hesitate before checking the alert. Is it another email from a wedding guest who felt as blindsided as I had by Max’s announcement—wanting me to explain
why
? Or was it yet another clueless Facebook friend wondering why I hadn’t posted so much as a picture of my veil on my special day? So far, the friends and family who’d been at the rehearsal dinner had been rather tight-lipped about what happened, but I knew it was only a matter of time before word got out. Even the mailman, Henry, was wondering why I was back early. I’d overheard a hushed conversation between him and Jules as she was coming inside earlier—something about how
he’d thought
I’d deferred delivery of my packages for another week. I imagined his sun-weathered face contort in disbelief as she quickly explained what had happened.

Pity from the postman—that’s all I needed.

It was hard enough seeing the sympathetic faces of my family and close friends in Maui as they heard the news. But now that I was home, I realized I was going to have to go through it all over again. And not just with the people in my everyday life, but also with the friends I interacted with every day online. I was quick to like their pictures and check-ins, and even though I hadn’t had a live conversation with most of them in years, I still felt strangely invested in their lives—and was terrified to let them see that I wasn’t the carefree girl who loved to shop at Target and play Candy Crush.

As long as Jules was here I could put off dealing with reality and continue to ignore the questions from curious people wondering why I hadn’t gotten married. But eventually she’d have
to go back to her life—to cheering on the sidelines of Evan’s soccer games and posting pictures of her latest professional chocolate masterpieces on foodgawker. And then where would that leave me?

The alert turns out to be a text from my mom checking in to see if I made it home safely and asking if I want to join her for a power walk to clear my mind
.

I look up from my phone. “It’s my mom.”

“Let me guess—she thinks a hefty workout will cheer you up?”

“Yep,” I answer, pausing to write her and say thanks for the offer, but I’m too tired to go hiking with ankle weights and I’ll call her tomorrow instead. “Her answer to everything—burning calories!” I take a long sip of my wine, deciding that for the rest of the night, I’m going to try my best not to think about why I’m sitting on an Adirondack chair in my backyard instead of lounging on a beach chair in the tropical sun.

• • •

There’s that split second first thing in the morning when your eyes slowly open and your mind is still empty and your heart is still light. It’s that moment when you are blissfully unaware of the pain that is inside of you—the dreams that danced in your head the night before still seeming possible. And then you see your best friend passed out on the floor, her mouth hanging open slightly, and it unleashes the memory. And instantly, like a wave of nausea, reality hits.

I force my legs out from under me and pull a sweatshirt and baseball cap from the hall closet, too emotionally drained to care about what I look like—to worry if my bad breath and raccoon eyes will scare off anyone I might run into while out in public. I
grab a book from my packed floor-to-ceiling bookshelf and leave Jules a note that I’m going to Starbucks, and after I close the door behind me, I rest my back against it and squeeze the tears away.

Last night, I’d told Jules I wasn’t ready to walk into the master bedroom, let alone sleep in the bed, so she’d swiftly grabbed a fitted sheet and tucked it around the cushions of the couch and covered me with a blanket as my eyelids became heavy from the wine. “You’re a good mom,” I’d said just before I drifted off to sleep.

Walking the two blocks to the coffee shop, I resist the memories flying to the surface of Max and me, walking hand in hand down the same street just last weekend. I’d been venting about the florist informing me that due to an inexplicable ordering snafu, it wouldn’t be possible to get the exact color and type of exotic orchid I’d wanted to surprise my mother, my stepmom, and Max’s mom with on the morning of the ceremony. As I’d clamored on about finding another person to handle the flowers, Max hadn’t said a word, which, at the time, hadn’t seemed that unusual since he’d been leaving most of the wedding decisions up to me. But now I wonder if his silence meant he hadn’t been listening, or hadn’t cared, because he knew he wouldn’t be there anyway. I shake my head slightly—neither of those scenarios fit the man I’d loved for the past three years.

After I order my coffee, I sink into an oversized chair in the corner and open the novel I brought with me, the words blurring on the page. I shut it quickly and pull my phone out of my pocket delicately, like it’s a loaded gun. I rub the sleep still wedged in the corners of my eyes and stare at the screen, instinctively looking around as if Jules might walk in at any second and scold me. And she’d be right. I shouldn’t go on Facebook. Or Instagram. Or
even Google Plus. Because there’s no chance I’m ready to make an appearance on social media—to officially change my status back to single, and then explain why.

But like a bad habit, I still crave my news feed, and soon find my eyes locked on a picture of Max and me posing with beers in the pool at the Four Seasons the day before our guests were scheduled to begin arriving. Ignoring the flood of messages filling up my timeline and in-box, I click to update my status and stare at the empty space, wishing I could find the words to make my life seem right again. But for the first time since I joined Facebook years ago, I’m speechless. “I wish there was a status update that could fix this mess,” I mumble before slipping my phone back into my pocket.

I head back up to the counter to order a mocha for Jules before going home. I pay quickly and lean against the counter as the barista, a striking woman with caramel-colored hair and chocolate eyes, wields the espresso machine expertly. I let out a loud sigh as I wait, and she looks up and smiles.

“In a hurry?” she asks.

“Not really,” I admit, embarrassed she caught my annoyance.

She eyes me sympathetically. “Don’t worry, your life will get better.”

I tilt my head and take a closer look at her face. Had I met her before? I didn’t think so, but something about the way she said that my life would get better—it was almost as if she knew me and knew what happened. But how?

She slides the mocha across the counter and I meet her eyes again, now certain I have never seen her before.
God, I have already lost my fiancé, am I losing my mind too?

“You’re going to be okay,” she says as I grab the hot cup and slide a sleeve over it.

“Thanks, but I’m fine,” I finally say more sharply than I intend, wanting to believe my own words, to escape this woman who seems to be able to see right through me. I swivel and walk away quickly, not looking back, even when I swear I hear her laugh and say, “Whatever you say, Kate.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Feeling blindsided and stupid. How could I have missed the warning signs?

I mentally compose the status update I wish I could post as I climb the stairs to my front door, painted fire-engine red based on the recommendation of the feng shui consultant I hired after Max moved in with me. She had floated through the house like a fall breeze, shaking her head slightly every few minutes and making notes in her gold notebook. Several hundred dollars and paint colors later, she had finally given her chi blessing and convinced me that my happily-ever-after with Max was just around the corner despite the fact he’d been tight-lipped about his plan to propose.

As I hear the flutelike sound of the wind brushing against the chime I’d hung outside, my mind wanders to the delicate pink crystal hearts I’d hid in the love corner, which happened to be our laundry room—the ones I’d dangled from a nail in the back of the linen closet behind my bulk purchases of tissue boxes and Dove soap. The same gems I’d smashed to pieces last night, feeling like the universe had let me down. I had unflinchingly
given all my faith, painstakingly put together a vision board, and religiously chanted my daily affirmations, yet here I was—
alone
. As I’d ripped up every last inspirational photo and motivational quote that I had so carefully pinned to the manifestation corkboard that I had hung over my mahogany desk, I decided it was a sad moment when you realized there really was no magic in this world.

I find Jules and Liam huddled on my couch. “Hey,” they say in unison with feigned smiles painted across their faces.

“I’m glad you got out of the house,” Jules says as she materializes at my side and gently takes the cup from my hand. “Thanks for this.”

“Where’s mine?” Liam fake whines, and I shrug.

“Sorry, I didn’t know you’d be here,” I say as he protrudes his lower lip excessively before smiling. “But I’m really glad you are,” I add, hugging him tightly, breathing in the smell of Irish Spring soap.

“It’s probably for the best anyway . . . I brought my own comfort drink.” He holds up the same flask he had in the bridal suite. For a moment, the night comes crashing back like a wave slamming hard against a rocky coast, but I shake my head slightly to dispel the thoughts and instead conjure a memory of the two of us sitting in the back of a movie theater sipping peppermint schnapps as we laughed hysterically at whatever silly rom-com I’d convinced him to see, always with the agreement that we’d both pretend he didn’t love it as much as I did. He reaches down and pulls out a pint of Ben & Jerry’s from a plastic Ralph’s bag at his feet. “Forget your no-foam soy whatevers. Why don’t you join me in
this
kind of comfort?” He holds up the flask in one hand and the carton of ice cream in the other. “C’mon, pick your poison!”

Deciding I’ll opt for high-fructose sugar over whatever mystery alcohol he’s holding, still nursing a headache from last night’s wine bender, I grab the carton of my favorite flavor, Chunky Monkey, from his hand and a spoon from the kitchen.

We sit in silence in a row on the couch— with matched solemn expressions, like three kids waiting for the principal—me stuffing my face with walnut, banana, and chocolate chunks, Jules drinking her mocha, and Liam sipping his liquor. “So I’ve been thinking,” Liam finally says. “What if we make Max pay for what he’s done to you the good old-fashioned way—you know, by giving him a nice ass-kicking?”

“Are
you
volunteering?” I ask as Jules and I dissolve in laughter, the tightness in my chest temporarily surrendering. “Because you don’t even like to
watch
boxing on TV!”

“Maybe. But that doesn’t mean I couldn’t take him.” Liam balls his hands into fists and jabs his toned arms in the air. “He hurt my girl—that’ll help any guy find his inner Tyson!”

We spend the next hour dissecting my relationship with Max, finally concluding there was no way even Jules’ spiritual adviser, Jordan, could have seen this one coming.

“I have to admit, Max is the
last
person I thought would do this.” Liam kicks his feet up on the coffee table, revealing a sock with a hole in its toe. “You guys seemed way too predictable for something crazy like this to happen.”

I wave a spoonful of ice cream at him. “Is that your way of saying we’re boring?”

“Not boring.” He backtracks, keeping an eye on the clump of chocolate that threatens to fall from my spoon onto his jeans. “But you never seemed to have any problems.”

“And that’s a bad thing why?” I ask, but don’t wait for his answer and look over at Jules, who hides her eyes behind her cup.
“I know you find your own dating situations humdrum if a day goes by without drama, but newsflash, Liam: in most relationships, it’s a
good thing
for the two people involved to get along.”

“No—I didn’t mean that. . . . Jules, help me out here. . . .”

She throws her arms in the air. “You’re on your own with this one, buddy.”

“What I’m trying to say is you guys seemed like you had already been married thirty years.” He laughs awkwardly, and Jules shakes her head at him. “Okay, I’m going to stop talking now,” he declares before taking a long swig from his flask.

The truth was, Max and I
were
a predictable couple. We had always gotten along well for the most part—our biggest fight had happened after I backed his new car into a pole and tried to get it fixed without telling him.

My past relationships would usually start out full throttle and fizzle out slowly, like a soda that had been accidentally left out on the counter. My boyfriend before Max had been so moody he once picked a fight over my restaurant choice (he’d wanted dim sum,
not
Japanese) and stormed out, leaving me with the check and a pit the size of a crater in my stomach. I’d told myself I was done bickering over petty things—I wanted someone who wasn’t constantly looking for an argument. And then Max had shown up, just when I’d mentally thrown in the towel, Jules squealing about some therapist on
Oprah
who said that’s always when you find
the one
, when you’re
not looking
. Our relationship built slowly and grew stronger with such ease I had initially questioned it, wondering if it was too good to be true, but Jules assured me I had paid my dues with the other assholes I had dated, that Max was my reward for being patient. And I had believed her, convincing myself that I had finally earned that happy ending that had eluded me thus far.

For months during that period when people’s guards are supposed to drop and their “bad” sides start to come out, everything with Max was still so easy—looking back, maybe too easy—that I’d been constantly waiting for the big reveal that Max was just another jerk masquerading as a nice guy. Not that I wanted a cantankerous man like the last one, but I had expected there to be some terse tones or maybe even an eye roll.

When I’d finally asked Max point-blank why he was so mellow, he’d assured me that was who he really was, that he wasn’t a closet misogynist like I’d jokingly speculated. He’d said that because he spent his days as an attorney, arguing over tiny details buried in lengthy contracts, if I wanted antibiotic-free milk or to watch a reality show instead of
Monday Night Football,
then so be it. That he didn’t want to waste time worrying about the little things. And the system had always worked for us. Or so I’d thought. Now I wonder, did the little things he was trying to ignore pile up so high that they ultimately toppled our relationship, causing it to crash like the falling pieces of a Jenga game?

“So, Max asked me to tell you something,” Jules says delicately, her lips turning down slightly as she notices the engagement ring still on my finger. I twist the diamond so it’s on the inside of my hand and turn away. I’d ceremoniously removed it in Maui, but kept it close—in a pocket or my purse—until this morning, when something had pushed me to put it back on before I’d left the house. I wasn’t sure if it was the fear of my naked ring finger being exposed to the world, or if it was denial or maybe a little bit of both. Hadn’t I noticed the barista at Starbucks eyeing it as if she knew it wasn’t supposed to be there?

“What does he want me to know?” I finally ask.

“I told him I’d pass it along, but if you’re not ready to hear it—”

“You don’t have to listen to anything that guy has to say.” Liam clenches his jaw. “Fuck him.”

I put my hand over Liam’s mouth to silence him, his anger with Max threatening to unleash the tears that are clamoring at the backs of my eyes. There was a side to Liam he didn’t show everyone, a part that took time to find, like a shell you finally unearth after digging through the sand. On the exterior, he was a guy’s guy, slapping high fives when Hanley Ramirez hit a grand slam or when Liam went for a layup on the basketball court like he was still twenty-one years old. But underneath, he could be sensitive, like the time he’d grabbed my hand and sat silently beside me as I wailed like a toddler after my favorite TV show was canceled, something he could have told me wasn’t important, but he didn’t because he understood it mattered to me. And I was the only person who knew he’d cried while reading
The Notebook
, a secret he’d made me promise never to reveal, information I’d been proud to protect because it represented my favorite part of him.

Our friendship just worked. I understood him and he got me. We never pushed each other to fix our neuroses. He knew I needed to scrutinize ten nearly identical photos before uploading one to Instagram, always willing to weigh in on which picture made my arms look the least fleshy. And in return, I understood he wasn’t interested in showing his “secret sensitive side” to the women he dated. The Liam he gave them was the thirty-four-year-old hilarious computer programmer by day who went on acting auditions at night, even landing a couple of national commercials, not the man whose parents had divorced when he was ten and whose dad hadn’t been in the picture much since, the man who fiercely protected his own heart as much as he looked out for Jules and me.

As I regard him now, a scowl settling into his chiseled face and loyalty blazing in his hazel eyes, I know he’d do anything to take my pain away.

“It’s okay. I want to hear what he told Jules.” I recognize that familiar feeling that’s been rising and falling within me every day since he canceled our wedding—
hope
.

Jules inches her body closer to me. “He wants to talk . . .” She pauses, squeezing my palm, and suddenly I’m picturing my mom’s warm hand over mine as she choked back her sobs, telling me that she and my dad were getting a divorce. Was the pain I was feeling only a fraction of what she had experienced? There had always been a part of me that had resented her bitterness. But now I could see why it might be easy to wallow in it.

“Kate?” Jules notices I’ve drifted away.

“Sorry,” I say, snapping my attention back to her.

“I was saying that he wants to talk as soon as you are ready. And he wanted me to tell you
again
that he’s sorry.”

“Did he sound sincere?” I ask.

Jules presses her lips together in a tight line.

“Jules?” I ask again, sinking back into the sofa’s plush cushions, remembering when I’d bought it after the feng shui consultant deemed my old futon full of
bad energy
, feeling excited as the movers unloaded the sofa in the center of my living room, imagining all of the possibilities this new piece of furniture represented. But why had I focused so much of my attention on the good fortune some inanimate object would bring my relationship?

“What a prick,” Liam says, his tone a sharp contrast to Jules’ motherly inflection. “I can’t believe he’d try to get to you through Jules—put her in the middle like this.”

Ignoring Liam, Jules finally nods her head. “He did sound
like he meant it. But who cares what I think. You should talk to him and decide what
you
think. I know you’re hurting right now, but the sooner you do face him, the faster you can start picking up the pieces.”

“Ugh. I hate it when you’re right.” I release an exaggerated sigh. “And even though he’s got his tough-guy thing going on right now, Liam does have a point,” I say as he peers at me over the top of his flask, nodding his head in agreement. “It’s not fair of
either of us
to make you the middleman any longer.”

“Don’t worry about me—I can handle him,” Jules says. “I took care of two kids with swine flu last winter while Ben was at his annual stockholders’ meeting. This is nothing!”

I cringe at the visual of Jules getting puked on and running cold baths. “Believe me, I am
very
aware that you can tackle any situation with the proficiency of a drill sergeant, but you’re right. I can’t avoid him any longer, especially because he lives here—at least he used to.” I choke back the bile in my throat as I think about the cold sheets on his side of the bed. “And there are things to divide up—although I don’t even know where we’ll begin. I mean, what’s the etiquette for dealing with those?” I sweep my hand toward the wedding gifts that are piled beneath a quilt in the corner. Jules had thrown the blanket over them after I’d kicked one of the boxes the night before, the sound of whatever was inside breaking, me praying it was the stupid bread maker Max had insisted we register for. When we’d taken the trip to Crate & Barrel, he’d silently shuffled beside me, nodding absentmindedly as I scanned various items. But then, like an elderly person who nods off after a meal and abruptly wakes up, he’d stopped in the middle of the aisle and pointed, offering a strong opinion about the need for us to be able to make homemade bread. “Like, when are we ever going to use that? I can’t
even remember the last time I had a piece of toast!” I’d screamed at Jules late last night, right before she took the wine from my hand and guided me over to the couch to go to sleep.