36

Harper

At the restaurant, we order a dozen oysters on the half shell and I wonder if we should have gotten eighteen. I keep reading blurbs in the news about how we shouldn’t be eating raw seafood, but I can’t help myself. And Remy loves good raw oysters as much as I do. Several of the entrees look amazing, but we end up ordering four small plates. He lets me choose the food; he chooses the wine.

I watch Remy across the table from me. We’re against the wall. I’m sitting on a bench. I like this table; it’s cozy and seems more intimate than the tables in the middle of the room. I sip my wine.

“What made you decide to make dinner reservations on the Friday after Mardi Gras?” I ask him. I laugh, tickled he’d be so romantic as to make arrangements for a date night. And at Pêche, one of my favorites in town. “How did you get us an eight o’clock reservation?”

“Magic,” he says, topping off my wineglass.

I brush my fingertips against his as he passes me my glass. I watch him; he doesn’t meet my gaze. He pours another glass for himself. A Côte de Beaune pinot noir. It’s good, of course, but my husband knows his wine.

“Reservations by magic?” I tease.

“No.” Remy takes a sip. “One of Phil’s TAs works here. He checked the cancellation list for me. Well, for Phil. Phil was the one who made the reservations for all of us at Christmastime.”

I nod. Phil has been a casual friend of Remy’s for years. They graduated from Tulane together. Phil’s now a calculus professor at Tulane. They’re on the same flag football team, too. Once in a while they grab a beer together or meet at a bar to watch a game.

“Is the TA here tonight?”

Remy shakes his head. “He only made the reservation.”

“Well, then, thank you, Phil.” I nod and lift my glass in a toast. It feels nice to be out like this. I can’t remember when we went out to dinner alone together like this. My birthday last year, maybe?

When Remy announced Wednesday night that he and I were going for dinner without the girls, I was excited. And I did well with the new parenting skills I’m learning. I didn’t put up a single protest. I didn’t even suggest that we should drop Georgina and Jojo off at Ann’s on our way to dinner. Remy and I talked about letting Georgina start driving again. He thought she should drive his car because it’s smaller, and older. He said it wouldn’t matter if it got dinged up. I tried to breathe through the idea of Georgina getting into a car accident. And I realized that if she was old enough to drive, even if it’s on a graduated license with us still in the car with her, she was old enough to stay home and keep an eye on Jojo.

Tonight, when we got ready to go, I did second-guess leaving the girls. Jojo, at least, because she wasn’t feeling well and was running a bit of a fever. But she insisted she was fine. She said she and her sister would go to their own rooms and watch something on their laptops. A part of me wanted to suggest they do something together, but I kept it to myself. I know I can’t force a friendship between them. Trying to do so might actually make them less likely to form a bond. So I zipped my lip and told Jojo to call me if she felt worse. I also asked Georgina to check on her sister. Georgina agreed.

I’m a little concerned about her. She’s been subdued since Sunday when she and Remy went to the parade. Or maybe since she stood in the living room and yelled at us for lying to her about being married. I see her point. And I think this error in judgment that could be seen as a lie might have to be brought up next time I go to confession. I don’t go often enough and I need to get better about it because I do feel better afterward.

My gaze returns to Remy. I want to remark to him that I’m wondering how the girls are making out, but I decided this week that it’s time I start focusing more on my marriage. I’m not just a mother, I’m a wife, too. I think maybe that was what Remy was hinting at the night we had the talk on the porch. He doesn’t want me talking issues to death. Issues about the girls, the house, work. But I think he wants me to be more present for him, even if he didn’t or wasn’t able to express that. So instead of saying anything to him about our daughters, I make myself content with a quick check to see if any text messages have come in.

Nothing from our girls, just a message from Ann saying to have a good time. As I slip my cell back into my bag, the waiter brings the oysters.

While we eat our plump, salty little Dauphin Island oysters out of Alabama, and local Hopedales, we talk about Remy’s sister. Divorced for the second time, with a child from each marriage, Remy and their brother Beau are concerned, and rightly so. Lucy’s working long hours in the family law office, but then instead of going home to her children, she’s being seen on a lot of bar stools. Without saying much, I listen to Remy express his concerns. I dominate too many of our conversations and too often they center around me. Even when they’ve been about Georgina, and so many have been about Georgina in the last two months, I’m realizing that they’ve also been about me. Too much about me.

Remy loves his sister and he feels responsible for her. But Lucy has a temper and she doesn’t like her brothers butting into her business. So we talk about how Remy can approach a conversation with her, making it nonconfrontational. Beau thought they should do it together, but I agree with Remy that it will seem too much like the boys are ganging up on her.

“A dozen wasn’t enough,” Remy tells the waiter as he takes away the oyster shells and we make room for the plates he’s bringing. There are lamb skewers, spicy ground shrimp over pasta, and catfish with pickled greens, but my favorite is the crawfish-and-jalapeño capellini. And the hush puppies. We order a second plate of hush puppies after Remy loses the last one playing rock-paper-scissors against me. We laugh and I seriously think about ordering the salted peanut pie with bourbon sauce, but I’m so stuffed I resist. It might taste good now, but I’ll feel awful later.

“More wine?” Remy asks me when the waiter has cleared away our plates. “You sure you don’t want dessert?”

“No. I can’t.” I laugh and press my hand to my stomach. I’m glad I wore my black skirt that has an elastic band. “I’ve already eaten too much.” I’m actually feeling a little overheated. Too much food and the tannins in the wine, I suspect. I just need some air. We had to park a good eight blocks away, but the walk will be good for me and I’m wearing my tall black boots, so the trek down the less-than-optimal sidewalks will be safe.

“Can you drive home?” Remy asks me.

The waiter is still standing there.

I nod, thinking it’s an odd question. Remy never drinks too much. It’s been years since I even saw him get tipsy.

Remy looks up at the waiter. He orders a scotch and asks for the check.

“Scotch?” I ask when the waiter walks away. Remy likes scotch, but he doesn’t usually order it out and not after having three-quarters of a bottle of wine.

“We need to talk,” he says, reaching across the table to take my hand.

I look at him suspiciously. We’ve been talking all evening. “Okay . . .” I drawl out the word the way Jojo does.

He’s wearing a burgundy oxford shirt and a gray wool sports coat. Very scholarly. And hot. I’ve always been okay-looking, but my Remy is handsome and I like the idea that he’s coming home with me tonight and not with any of the beautiful women in this restaurant.

“Harper—” He exhales, dropping his head to stare at the table.

I look at the way he’s holding his head and I’m suddenly worried. Something’s wrong. I thread my fingers through his, the heels of our hands resting on the table. I wonder if maybe he isn’t getting the comptroller job. Maybe his boss has decided not to retire yet. Or what if they’re giving it to someone else? But that makes no sense because they haven’t even advertised for the job. To my knowledge.

I stare at him. “Hon, what is it?”

He slowly raises his head. “Baby . . . I need to . . . we need to . . .” He hesitates. “Harper, I can’t—” He goes quiet as the waiter walks up to the table, setting down a scotch from the Isle of Skye. And the check.

“I’ll take it whenever you’re ready,” the waiter says, walking away. “No hurry.”

Remy pulls his hand away from mine, lifts the glass of scotch, and takes a drink. And doesn’t look at me.

I feel like I’m going to be sick. Because it hits me what’s going on here. I’ve been set up. The impromptu date? Reservations Remy made instead of getting me to make them? The couple of awkward moments of silence between us that I chalked up to both of us being out of practice going out alone?

I’m an idiot.

I abruptly stand up. “No,” I say. “You will not do this to me.” I grab my coat and handbag off the bench beside me.

“Harper—”

“No,” I repeat, walking away from the table. I know I’m being loud. People are looking at us. I don’t care. As I go, out of the corner of my eye, I see Remy stand, then pick up the little black portfolio lying on the table. He hasn’t paid the bill yet. He can’t leave.

Out on the sidewalk, I pull on my red wool coat that I rarely wear because it’s usually too warm in Louisiana for wool. I keep walking. I fumble, trying to push the buttons through the holes and hold on to my little black leather bag at the same time. My date night handbag. I switched bags just for him. Just because it was a special evening.

It’s turning out to be pretty special, all right.

At the corner, I turn right on Julia. In my tall black boots with the little heels, I can walk fast. A crowd of twentysomething revelers, leftovers from Mardi Gras, brushes past me. One of them is carrying one of those tall, lime-green plastic-tube drink cups called a hand grenade. You can buy them on Bourbon Street filled with a nasty mixed drink. For a moment I’m afraid I’m going to be sick right here on the street. Totally normal for the Mardi Gras partiers who just passed me. Not so much for Pêche patrons in their forties.

I keep walking. Marching, really. I pass an art gallery. Closed now. On our way to the restaurant, I mentioned to Remy that I’d like to go in there sometime. Maybe on another date night. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t say there wouldn’t be any more date nights.

Behind me, I think I hear Remy calling my name. It’s windy. I keep walking. Pick up the pace.

“Harper! Will you wait? Please?” Remy’s practically shouting.

I turn onto Tchoupitoulas. I clutch my little black bag. There are tears in my eyes but I’m too angry to cry. I wish I had the car keys. If I had the keys, I’d get in the car and drive away and leave him. As packed as the city is tonight, I bet it would take him at least half an hour to get an Uber. Maybe longer if I was lucky and he wasn’t.

I hear footsteps on the pavement behind me. Ordinarily I’d whip around, thinking it was a mugger. But I know it’s just my husband. My ex-husband.

“Harper, please,” Remy pants.

I don’t stop until he grabs my shoulder and then I whip around. There’s an old-style gas lamp beside the door of an engineering office where we stop. The lamp makes a familiar hissing sound like the lamps at our front door. The yellow light they cast isn’t particularly complimentary. When I look at Remy’s face he seems older than he did at the table a few minutes ago.

“When were you going to tell me?” I shout at him. I don’t think I’ve ever shouted at him in public in my life. I don’t bother to look up and down the street to see if I’m intruding on someone’s evening that’s going better than mine. “Dessert? Is that why you wanted me to get the pie? Because you wanted to tell me you were leaving over pie?” I emphasize the last word.

He holds up his hand, his palm to me. “Harper, please.”

“You thought this was a good idea? To take me out to dinner, so I would think we were on a date? What? Were you going to tell me in the restaurant, so I won’t make a fuss? Was that the plan?”

“No,” he says quietly. He lifts his hand again, then lets it fall. “Let’s get in the car. It’s cold out here.”

I want to say no. I want to tell him I want to stand here on the dark street and have it out with him. But it is cold. And what’s the sense really? He’s already made up his mind. I see it on his face; I know that face. He made up his mind days ago. Weeks. Or maybe he never had any intention of staying and I just didn’t know it.

In silence, we walk the last two and a half blocks up Tchoupitoulas in silence. He makes no attempt to say anything and neither do I. He uses the key fob to unlock the door before we get to the car. The headlights blink.

“Am I driving or are you?” I ask, meaning, did he down the scotch.

“I’ll drive,” he says.

I walk around to the passenger’s side.

There was a time in our lives when he would walk around the car with me and open the door. Sometimes, before he opened it, I’d lean back against the car and we’d kiss. It was a long time ago, but I wish we were still there. I wish he still felt that way about me. Because I still feel that way about him.

He starts the engine, but cuts the headlights. So we’re going to do this here.

“You’re moving out,” I say softly, suddenly too tired to be loud. Too sad.

“Yes.”

I don’t respond.

“Harper, I thought . . . going out to dinner. I thought it would be nice. Just the two of us. Not because I thought we wouldn’t argue, when I told you, but because I didn’t want to do it in front of the girls.”

Tears are running down my cheeks. I dig in my bag for tissues but there aren’t any. They’re in my big everyday suede handbag. I open the glove compartment where I find some napkins, stashed there after a stop at Melba’s for po’boys, probably. I think I can faintly smell fried shrimp as I wipe my eyes and then my nose. But maybe the smell is just lingering on my clothes from the seafood restaurant.

I lean my head against the cool glass of the passenger-side window. I was feeling overheated in the restaurant and that prickly sensation is creeping up again. I can’t tell if I’m about to have a hot flash or I’m going to be sick. I unbutton my coat. “Why?” I ask him. “Why are you leaving? Now when we’re a family again?”

His sigh is long, so long that I find myself irritated by it.

“I know this is a cliché, baby, but it’s not you.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Meaning?”

“Meaning you haven’t done anything wrong. Georgina and Jojo haven’t done anything wrong. I just can’t . . . I can’t do anything right, not—”

“What are you talking about? You’re a good husband, Remy. You take care of me, you love me, you’ve stuck by me all these years when I know I wasn’t just making myself crazy, I was making you crazy, too.” I turn to him. “And you’re an amazing father. Georgina, she—she’s bonded with you. I don’t . . . I don’t think she and I are never going to have a relationship, but right now, you’re the one she goes to. You’re the one she calls Dad.” I point at myself. “She’s still calling me by my first name.”

He stares out the windshield. “She was so angry that I didn’t tell her we were divorced. She felt I betrayed her.”

“That’s why you’re doing this? Because Georgina got angry with you? Welcome to my world. Remy, she’s sixteen years old. And she’s been to hell and back. Yes, she’s angry that we didn’t tell her, but sometimes it’s okay for our children to be angry with us. And it’s okay for us to have made a mistake.”

He’s shaking his head. “I can’t do it, baby. Not every day. Not day in and day out.” He says each word slowly as if slogging through mud in his mind. “I can’t do it.”

“Do what?” I demand.

He looks at me and I see that there are tears in his eyes. “I can’t be your husband every day. Not the one I want to be.”

I’m loud again. “So you are seeing someone?”

“No.” He laughs without humor. “I can’t even handle one woman. Three, depending on how you look at it. Exactly how would I have room for another woman in my life?”

I just sit there, looking at him. “I still don’t understand. You say you can’t be a husband and father every day. What does that mean? For us?”

“It means . . . I don’t know. It means . . . I need time to myself when no one expects anything of me. Not you, not the girls.” He runs his hand through his hair. He trimmed his beard tonight. He still looks good to me. Even though a part of me wants to rip that facial hair off.

I sigh and close my eyes. “You want to go back to the way things were?”

“Yes,” he murmurs.

“Part-time father.” My words come out as somewhat of an accusation. This is sort of the same conversation we had four years ago. “Part-time husband.”

“If you’ll let me be your husband,” he says. “Because, Harper”—he takes my hand—“I do love you. You know that, right? And I love Jojo, and I love Lilla. And . . . I don’t want anyone else. I just need . . . time when I don’t need to be all the things you want me to be.” He kisses my hand and lets go of it.

I stare straight ahead. I need time to process this. Time without him sitting beside me. “You should go back to your place tonight,” I say.

“Yeah,” he agrees.

“Tomorrow we’ll find some time to . . . I don’t know, come up with a plan.” I shake my head. All I can think of is how heartbroken Georgina will be. This is going to be so hard for her. I try to think about the logistics of this. “I’d like to wait and call the therapist Monday when she’s in her office and ask her how she suggests we tell the girls. Maybe we should do it there so she can help facilitate. Or just call a family meeting in the kitchen over pizza. I don’t know. I’m too upset to think right now.”

“Whatever you think is best, baby.” Remy sounds utterly dejected.

I know I should feel bad for him right now. He’s obviously torn up about this, maybe more than I am. But I can’t feel sorry for him. Not right now. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the next day. But not now. Because right now, I feel sorry for our daughters and for me. But mostly, I think, for our daughters.

“We should go,” I say, searching for my cell in my bag. I want to text Georgina and Jojo and let them know we’re on our way home. I want to check on Jojo and see if her fever has come down. “Your place. I’ll drop you off.”

“I can be back in the morning before they get up. Or . . . I could come home tonight. Sleep on the couch? Or we could sleep together. I could use a hug right now,” he says miserably.

And then my anger is gone and I’m just sad. Really sad.