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I decide a new perspective could do me good. I take Margot to the bakery to get some coffee, a pastry, and some space to think. I’m disappointed Emily isn’t there when I park Margot’s stroller beside my table and plop down. I would have loved to show her off. Nonetheless, I spend some time staring out the window into the clear, crisp morning, thinking about all that’s transpired. And then, after a few bites of the cinnamon roll, I get to work.
People are vain. That’s what I learned in my old job. People will tell you a lot without realizing it, especially people who are somewhat narcissistic. Distance from Olivia has made me realize she has those tendencies. Who wouldn’t be a little full of themselves growing up with the lifestyle she did? Trips to Rome. Her daddy’s yacht. Red-bottomed shoes from the time she was sixteen. In truth, her job was always just a passion project, not something she needed for money. I’d tried hard not to be jealous of her. She made it easy to overlook her snobbery; she was always up for a good time and just so charismatic.
Not much has changed, I realize, as I stealth on her social media accounts. It’s been months since I’ve even logged into my page, the baby taking up my attention. Still, I’m relieved to see she hasn’t blocked me. She wouldn’t go that far, right? I better not take any chances, though, after the phone call last night. I get to scrolling through the past months, the past year, looking for anything that might be helpful.
Trips out with the department, drinks in hand. A party on her daddy’s yacht, the normal crew there—all except for the one who went crazy, I mock, shaking my head. I can almost see my empty spot right in the middle, next to Liv. Her right-hand woman, like some cheesy sitcom. Not anymore, though. Not anymore.
I scroll through months of a life I didn’t get to be a part of. I match up what was happening at home with her timeline. On the day of Margot’s delivery, she was in the Alps with some hunky new man who I must admit, looks pretty good. Mine and John’s anniversary—she was out for sushi with a group of girls I don’t recognize, probably from her college days. Memory after memory. Smile after smile. And then I pause on a quote post. A familiar name shows in the comments, like the bull’s eye of a target.
Truth.
It’s one word in a comment. Most people probably would’ve just scrolled on by. But the name beside the comment makes me gasp out loud. An elderly lady a few booths down looks my way. I shake my head.
John. He commented on the quote she wrote.
“You can’t love someone whole again. You can’t love them back to who they once were.”
Tears well. Truth. That’s what he wrote in response to her quote. It was months before I held my sweet Margot that he was browsing Olivia’s social media. That he was reaching out to her instead of me. It was in some of my weary days he was agreeing about how difficult love was? Really? Was that when things started falling apart? Had I missed it all? After I wrap my head around the feelings of infidelity from just one word, I realize she responded.
Call me if you need to talk, she wrote in response. Plastered online for all to see. She’d made a mockery of me. He had, too. All of our friends, acquaintances had seen their subtle but clear “Fuck you, Evette,” right there.
Right there for everyone.
The two people who supposedly cared about me, who were my rocks.
My head starts to spin. I grab the table. It’s happening. It’s really happening. I’m alone, and no one can understand. I have everything I ever wanted but nothing at all. I slam the computer shut, the sting of betrayal heavy on my chest. I’m suffocating. Suddenly, the air is so thick. It sinks in my lungs, clogging them. I gasp for the next breath and the next.
Alone. You’re alone. You’ll always be alone in this world.
My mama’s teary words after Daddy went to jail. Her words when I struggled to make friends and feel accepted. The words that echoed in my head over and over and over when I was sixteen, right before Mama put me in that place for my own good, she said. So I didn’t end up crazy like Daddy.
The room spins. I feel trapped, the wall’s closing in on me. I try to breathe. I feel the smooth, polished feel of the wooden table. I glance out the window between gasps. I remind myself there’s a door here, a window. It’s not the same. I’m free here. I’m free.
I try to let the fear and the betrayal go. I try to, as Dr. Fountain told me, focus on a happy memory, a happy place. But all of the joyful memories have those two in them. The two people who supposedly cared for me, who loved me despite my flaws. They had turned to each other in my dark times. Were they still comforting each other? Was Olivia just trying to throw me off the trail?
I want to know, yet I don’t. When the truth isn’t out there completely, there’s still a tiny albeit an idiotic piece of me that can pretend we haven’t crumbled into ash. I can pretend we are still living a life of domestic bliss, that I didn’t fuck up royally by walking away from my independence, my freedom. I look down at Margot. I see John’s nose. I smile despite everything. I didn’t fuck up, not completely. I got one thing right.
Her. The sight of her grounds me back in reality. I’m stronger now. I’m not that sixteen-year-old powerless girl crushed by an unfair world. I’m not even the newly married woman destroyed by fear and guilt. I’m different now. Margot’s made me different. She’s given me a reason to stay strong, to stay upright.
I clean up the table, heavy with the burden of despair but also determined not to let them win. I walk steadily toward the house that is caving in on me. I stand tall. I’m my mama’s girl. I can withstand the storm, just like her.
A block away from the bakery, another mother pushes a stroller. Her hair is bobbed and shiny black. She’s in athleisure wear but looks like she could be on the cover of one of those women’s magazines. Her arms are buff, despite the fact her little one can’t be more than a few months old. I sink into myself but then decide I have nothing to be ashamed about. She’s probably nice enough. I could use to expand my circle, to show them both that I don’t need them. I’ll find new rocks. It’s a big world out there. I can find my way on my own.
“Hi, how are you?” I say, pulling up beside her. The woman stops pushing the stroller, and I park beside her. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
But she isn’t looking at the day. She peruses me cautiously, backing a little bit away and reaching down as if she needs to make sure her baby is still in place.
“Oh, how cute. What’s her name?” I prod.
“Gina,” the woman says, her voice shaky. Why is she so damned nervous around me? I haven’t ever even seen this woman before. Is she friends with Olivia or something? Does she know something I don’t?
Stop it, Ev. I remind myself what the therapist said. It’s the anxiety talking. It’s in my head. The whole world isn’t out to get me. Everyone doesn’t hate me. It’s my inner critic talking. I need to shut her up. This woman’s just being cautious, like I am with Margot. And after the little scenario at the bakery, I probably look a little worse for wear. I haven’t looked in the mirror since I left the house. I’m not as put together as I would hope.
“Adorable. How old?” I ask, widening my smile to balance out my nerves and inner monologue.
“Three months.” Two quick words dart out of her mouth. There is no smile on her face.
“Oh, precious. She’s so cute. She’s got chubby cheeks like my Margot. Everyone says she gets them from her dad, but I’d like to think they look like mine. What do you think?” I smile at her, flashing my biggest, friendliest grin. She offers her own smile now, but her grin is weak, a tiny, polite upturning of the corners of her mouth.
“I’m so sorry. We have to get going. Big day ahead of us.” And with that, she starts pushing the stroller away, her stride much bigger this time as if she can’t put enough distance between us.
My heart sinks. I slowly meander to the house, tears welling.
I’m not enough. Never enough. John thinks I’m not enough. I thought my life would be different. I thought I’d be different than Mama. I really did.
I should’ve listened to her. I should’ve walked the other way when I saw John that night instead of running to his rescue. There’s a reason princesses always need to be saved. It’s because they let themselves become dependent on men who are nothing but letdowns.
I get home and collapse to the kitchen floor as soon as the door shuts behind me. With Margot in her stroller, I curl up in the fetal position and let it all out. I let all the ugly, reeking tears flow down onto the ceramic floor.
I want to reclaim my strength but my body is too weak to let me. I physically can’t seem to extract myself from the floor. John gets home and finds me there, the disgusting mess of a woman I truly am. To his credit, he says nothing. He gets down on the floor and holds me right there in the middle of it all. I sob but don’t say a word. As his strong arms hold me, I try not to imagine who else he’s held, or who else he’s wanted to hold. I try to think of a time when he and I were enough for each other.
Once, I was enough.