chapter 4

“Sorry I kept you waiting.” Kira sat down at a tiny café table in the corner. “I don’t usually work this late on Fridays, but I just opened the practice and I hate to turn away new clients.”

“Don’t apologize,” Brighton said. “It’s nice to have a bit of free time. I got to walk around and see the town. This place is adorable.”

“Isn’t it?” Kira grabbed the wine list and studied the selections. “The perfect place for a fresh start.”

“And the perfect place for a psychologist.” Brighton grinned. “The woman who owns the Naked Finger told me Black Dog Bay was named the best place in America to bounce back from your breakup. Opening a practice here was genius.”

Kira put down her menu and focused on her friend. “So you were at the Naked Finger?”

“Yes, and you’ll never guess what they had.” Brighton launched into a detailed explanation of the poison ring. “It was so cool.”

Kira smiled. “I’m so glad you’re still designing jewelry.”

“Uh . . .”

“Remember that silver bracelet you made me sophomore year? With the sea glass we found on the beach? I still have that in my closet somewhere.”

“I don’t work with jewelry much anymore. I sold my soul to the corporate world.”

Kira looked disappointed and a bit reproachful. “But what about your grandparents? I thought you were going to take over their business one day.”

“My grandparents died a few years after we graduated.” Brighton sighed. “They left their jewelry business in its entirety to my mother.”

Kira’s eyes softened. She knew enough about Brighton’s mother to know what was coming. “And then what happened?”

“She ran it into the ground. My grandfather spent forty years building that business and my mom bankrupted it in eighteen months.” Brighton shook her head. “I begged her to keep the overhead expenses down, but she couldn’t do the hands-on work and she hated the bookkeeping side of things. So now she’s back to teaching part-time and I’m an actuary.”

Kira waited a beat, then changed the subject. “And how’s your sister?”

“Back in school. She’s in an accelerated accounting program. My mom’s bitterly disappointed in us because we refused to follow the artist’s path. What can I say? We like to eat.”

Kira tapped her finger on the top of the laminated wine list. “So you’re an actuary.”

“Yes.” Brighton smiled wryly. “Don’t be jealous.”

“What does an actuary do, exactly?”

“I minimize risk for the insurance company. I figure out how much we should charge different entities for different policies, based on all kinds of statistical models and behavioral patterns.”

“Sounds . . . juicy.” Kira didn’t try to hide her skepticism.

“It’s very interesting,” Brighton insisted. “Plus, I get to travel.”

“Ooh, like to check out overseas markets? Africa? Asia?”

“Um, more like Cleveland and Chicago.”

“But what happened with the jewelry?” Kira asked. “I know you loved it, and you were so good at it.”

“I was never all that serious about it.” A hint of defensiveness crept into Brighton’s voice. “It was fun, but it was never going to go anywhere.”

Kira waited, her head tilted. “Uh-huh.”

“Let’s be real, Kira. Who actually grows up to be a jewelry designer?” Brighton pointed out her own accessories. “I don’t even have cool jewelry anymore. It’s all tasteful gold pendants and dainty little earrings.”

Kira rested her chin in her hands, never glancing away from Brighton’s face. “You’ve changed.”

“I haven’t.” Brighton spread out her hands. “I’m exactly the same. The eternal designated driver. Except now I have an office, a lovely condo, and an awesome dental plan.”

“And a fiancé,” Kira reminded her. “What’s his name?”

“Colin.”

“I want to hear all about him.” Kira rotated her hand to indicate that Brighton should start talking. “Go.”

Brighton swallowed and tried to figure out where to start. “Well. We met at a networking breakfast two years ago. He got me the packet of sugar for my coffee.”

“Romantic.”

“It kind of was—he had to fight a line-cutting mortgage broker for it.”

“Your knight in shining armor.” Then Kira asked the question Brighton had been dreading: “What does he do?”

“He’s a . . . Well, he’s going to be a lawyer once he passes the bar. He’s cramming all weekend, holed up with his study group.” Brighton clasped her hands next to her cheek in a mock display of sentimentality. “The actuary and the attorney, riding off into the sunset together. We’ll live happily ever after with our spreadsheets and our 401(k)s.” She felt a bit chagrined, and her friend seemed to pick up on this.

“Hey, if you’re happy, I’m happy,” Kira assured her. “Are you happy?”

Brighton finally cracked. “Listen, if I tell you something, can you keep it a secret? Put it in the vault of psychologist confidentiality or the former roommate bunker of trust or whatever?”

“Of course.”

Brighton glanced around and lowered her voice. “Do you ever do couples’ counseling?”

Kira remained totally blasé. She must have heard this lead-in hundreds of times. “With some of my clients, yes.”

“Well, how do you know who’s going to make it long term and who’s not?” Brighton gripped the wrought iron tabletop with both ringless hands. “There have got to be signs, right? Red flags that you can see even if the couple can’t?”

Kira settled back in her chair, her blue eyes kind and patient. “Why do you ask?”

“Because Colin . . .” Brighton ducked her head as her eyes flooded with tears. She knew she shouldn’t be talking about this, especially to someone she hadn’t seen in years, but she was desperate for an outlet for all her anxiety and confusion. “We had a huge fight this morning—a really ridiculous, petty fight—and he asked for the ring back.”

Kira reached across the table and rested her hand atop Brighton’s. “Tell me everything.”

“The whole thing was so stupid.” Brighton dabbed at her eyes with a pink paper napkin. “So stupid.”

•   •   •

In retrospect, Brighton could pinpoint the source of the fight as nutritional in nature. Neither she nor Colin had eaten a proper breakfast. Although she was typically fastidious about starting her day with an egg white frittata or a Greek yogurt smoothie, Colin had offered to drop her off at her office on his way out of town and she’d barely managed to brew coffee before he’d arrived because her mother had called the second she stepped out of the shower.

“Hey, Mom. How’s the new job going?” Brighton had held her breath, half-afraid to hear the answer. Her mother had just moved from a low-paying adjunct teaching job in Indiana to an even lower-paying adjunct teaching job in Iowa.

“Okay.” Despite the early hour, her mother had sounded alert and upbeat. Perpetual optimism, no matter how dire the circumstances, was her mother’s best and worst trait. “Settling into the new apartment.” Halfway through a description of the new teaching position, Brighton asked the question she always asked:

“Any chance this one’ll turn into a full-time position?”

“I brought it up to the department chair, and she started in about budget cuts and belt-tightening. You know how it goes, honey.”

“I do know how it goes.” Brighton stifled a sigh. Her mother had been painting and teaching art history part-time for the past thirty years. She had never had dental insurance or paid vacation time, but she had always done what she loved. She’d encouraged both her daughters to do the same—to live fully, to create and appreciate art.

And when she needed a root canal or a car repair, Brighton sent a check.

“The good news is, I get to teach Tuscan altarpieces this semester. Giotto and Cimabue and Duccio.”

“Tell them I said hi. Listen, Mom, I have to go. Colin will be here any second—”

“Sorry, hon, I know you’re busy. I just wanted to ask . . .”

Brighton waited for the rest of the sentence. “Yes?”

“Nothing. It’s just that Cat’s tuition is due, and . . .”

“I paid it online last night.” Brighton poured coffee into a travel mug, wincing as a drop of hot liquid spilled on her thumb. “Did you really think I’d forget?”

“No. I never worry about you. You’re so responsible.”

Brighton screwed on the travel mug’s lid and ran her hand under cold water. “Even though I live inauthentically?”

“We can’t all paint masterpieces,” her mother replied. “Every artist needs a patron.”

Brighton’s door buzzer sounded. “I’ve got to run. Love you, Mom.”

“We need to talk,” Colin announced as the car merged onto the highway.

Commuter traffic was heavier than usual due to construction in the left lanes, and Brighton braced one hand against the dashboard as Colin slammed on the brakes to avoid rear-ending the car in front of them. “Please be careful,” she said. “What do we need to talk about?”

“The wedding.” He cursed under his breath at the hulking SUV that was tailgating the car. “You’re stalling.”

“I . . . what? How can you say that? I’m setting up cake-tasting appointments for tomorrow.”

He shot her a sullen sidelong glance. “You keep moving the date back.”

“Colin.” She took a moment to suppress all the hurt and surprise. “The hotel called and said they wouldn’t be done with renovations on the original schedule. If you want to change reception venues—”

“Do you?”

“Not really. We made a plan and I think we should stick to it.”

“You made a plan.” He laughed, the sound dry and bitter. “You always have a plan and a backup plan—just in case things don’t work out.”

Brighton stared out the window and reminded herself that he was under a lot of pressure right now. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you’re hedging your bets by dragging out the engagement.”

“Hedging my bets?” she repeated. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing.”

“No, tell me.”

“Nothing.” He switched from surly to sheepish. “Sorry. I’m just stressed about the bar exam.”

Brighton reached over and rested her fingertips on his forearm. “Honey. Don’t get upset, but I have to ask you something: Did you skip breakfast today?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “But that has nothing to do with this.”

“With what? I don’t even know what’s going on.” She turned off the radio. The insistent ding of the turn signal ticked off the seconds while she waited for him to respond.

He shook her hand off and resumed muttering under his breath.

“Look.” She put her hands on one knee. “I know prepping for the bar sucks. But it’ll be over soon, and you’ll never have to take it again. Want me to quiz you?”

“No.”

“Oh, come on. As long as we’re stuck going five miles per hour, we might as well go over real estate holding law again.” She lowered her voice to a breathy whisper. “For every question you get right between here and the office, I’ll make the dinner of your choice. Even that strawberry rhubarb pie I swore I’d never make again.”

“Then we’re both going to starve, because I can’t understand the real estate statutes to save my life.”

“Don’t be like that,” she implored. “You can do this. I know you can! You—” She sucked in her breath as the minivan next to Colin’s car edged closer. “Sweetie, you’re supposed to let him in.” She pointed out the van’s blinking yellow turn signal.

“No way. I had to wait in line; so should he.”

Brighton abandoned all attempts at pie bribery and shifted into actuary mode. “But if everyone in our lane lets one car from that lane in, it’s faster and more efficient.”

Colin hunched his shoulders and set his jaw.

“It’s called a zipper merge.” Brighton kept her tone light. “They’ve done studies.”

“I don’t care. I’m not letting him in.”

“Can I just tell you about the research I read on—”

“No.” He’d gone cold and hard and almost unrecognizable. “Doesn’t your brain ever shut off?”

She turned in her seat to face him, bewildered. “What’s going on with you? Why are you being so . . . ?”

“I’m fine.” He turned away from her, scowling toward the minivan. “Although I would like to know why you always get to make the rules and the schedule.”

She drew back. “We’re supposed to be a team; I thought we agreed. You’re the one who said you wanted to pass the bar before—”

“The bar is bullshit, Brighton.” He hit the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. “The zipper merge is bullshit! All of your rules and excuses and expectations are bullshit!”

She twisted the diamond solitaire on her ring finger. Colin had never raised his voice to her before. Never. Where was the man who rubbed her feet and prided himself on his Sunday morning omelet-making skills? What had become of her late-night Jeopardy!-viewing buddy? “Don’t yell at me. Why are you yelling?”

“Because nothing’s ever enough for you.” His voice dropped from a yell to a barely audible whisper, which was even more unsettling. “I know what you think. You think I can’t pass the bar.”

Brighton felt something inside her snap. “That’s not true. I know you can pass the bar.”

“Then why are you making our whole future dependent on my passing some stupid, bullshit test?”

“I’m not!”

“Fine. Then let’s scrap the whole wedding and go to the courthouse on Monday.”

She blinked. “I have to work on Monday.”

“See? Right there.” He sounded perversely satisfied. “I know why you want such a long engagement. You don’t want to be married to a loser who can’t pass the bar.” He turned up his palm. “Give me the ring.”

“What?” She clapped her hand over the diamond solitaire. “No.”

He stomped on the brake and laid on the horn as the minivan merged in front of them.

“What is wrong with you?” Brighton cried. “You’re going to get shot in a road-rage confrontation. Don’t you listen to the news?”

“This is why I’m yelling!” Colin’s face reddened as a vein pulsed in his forehead. “You always have to be right. You always have to know the statistics. You always have to follow the rules.”

Brighton cringed as the minivan’s bumper came within millimeters of the hood. “It’s a zipper merge!”

“Fuck the zipper merge.”

And Brighton completely lost it. “People like you are the reason that traffic is at a standstill. You think you should be the exception. You think you’re above rules and statistics, but you’re not.” She had a sudden, adolescent urge to unbuckle her seat belt, slam out of the car, and walk the rest of the way to the city. Except there was no sidewalk here and she was wearing heels. “If you want to talk about the wedding like a rational human being, I am happy to do that. But don’t blame me because you can’t pass the bar exam.”

“Then don’t blame me when I give your ring to someone who wants to marry me without my precious bar results.”

“If you . . .” She took a moment to collect herself, smoothing her hair and crossing her ankles. “You know what? This conversation isn’t going anywhere productive.”

“You need to call it, Brighton.” He opened and closed his hands on the steering wheel. “Now or never.”

“Not now or never,” she said. “We made a plan and I would ask that you respect that for the next seventy-two hours. If you still feel this way on Monday morning, we can reevaluate at that time. Now, eat a protein bar before we both say things we’re going to regret.”

•   •   •

“And then he started yelling that I had to give the ring back. He was furious, and I still don’t know what I did.”

“It doesn’t sound like you did anything,” Kira said.

“I haven’t heard from him since,” Brighton confessed, checking her phone for text messages yet again. “It’s been hours. I tried to call him, but it went straight to voice mail. So I ditched work for the first time in . . . ever and drove down to see you.” She tucked her phone back into her handbag. “So what do you think? Should I call him again? Try to smooth things over? Or tell him I’d never want to marry someone who throws a temper tantrum over a zipper merge?”

“Well, I have no idea what your relationship’s like,” Kira pointed out. “I don’t know him. I don’t even know you anymore, apparently.”

Brighton sniffled. “You have a PhD, yes? You have to know something.”

“Do you guys fight a lot? Is this part of a pattern?”

“Not at all. We’re both very calm and rational. We don’t yell, we don’t call each other names—there’s no drama.” Brighton settled back in her chair. “That’s what I like about our relationship. He’s very direct, no surprises. But this bar exam stress has been killing us.”

She paused. Kira let the silence settle in around them.

“The problem’s not Colin,” Brighton finally admitted, to herself as much as to her friend. “It’s me. I’m completely burned out. He’s burned out on the bar, but I’m burned out on everything—my work, my schedule, my whole life. I just don’t have anything to give right now. I feel . . . I don’t know. But I can’t keep going like this.” She blew out a breath. “Anyway, enough about me. I want to catch up with you. Tell me what you’ve been doing since graduation.”

“Going to school and working, mostly.” Kira shrugged, but something in her tone didn’t match her placid expression. “Just opened my practice, and that’s pretty much consuming every waking moment right now.”

“But it’s going well?” Brighton pressed.

“Professionally, it’s going great.”

“Good for you.” Brighton felt a small stab of envy that her friend had dared to do what Brighton had not—take a leap of faith and pursue her passion, health benefits and pensions be damned. “How did you first find this town? It’s pretty out of the way.”

Kira suddenly seemed fascinated by the frosted glass sconces on the wall. “I first came out here for vacation last summer and realized that there weren’t a lot of counseling options in town, which seemed like a big oversight, considering the population. I spent a week at the Better Off Bed-and-Breakfast and they had a few informal support groups for the heartbreak tourists, but no licensed professionals. So I wrote up a business plan and stepped in to fill the void.”

Even though she was pretty sure she was venturing into none-of-your-business territory, Brighton asked, “You came here as a heartbreak tourist yourself?”

“Yes.” Kira kept gazing up, her eyes clear and calm. “I was married. And then I wasn’t married.”

“What happened?” Brighton crossed her arms, preemptively outraged with the man who had done her friend wrong. “Did he cheat on you? Yell at you for no reason? Pick petty fights about traffic maneuvers?”

Kira’s gaze never wavered. “He died.”

Brighton covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, Kira. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

“Don’t feel badly—it’s not like I made an announcement in the alumni class notes.” Kira traced the edge of the table with her finger. “I should have told you when it happened. I wanted to reach out, but I didn’t want to keep going over and over the details. I kind of shut down for a while. But I’m trying to start fresh, and this seemed like a good place.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t know any of this,” Brighton said. “You were like a sister to me. How did we get to the point where you get married and widowed and I’m completely oblivious?”

“We got out in the real world and we got busy.” Kira’s phone buzzed and they both startled. “Speaking of which . . .” She frowned at the screen. “It’s my office. Which means it’s a client emergency. Brighton, I am so sorry—”

“Take it.” Brighton waved away her friend’s apologies. “I’ll order us some wine.”

“Be right back,” Kira promised, and darted for the door.

Brighton took a deep breath and tried to absorb the enormity of everything she’d just confessed. She had made her life choices so carefully, accepting the reality that success in one area required sacrifice in another. She had thought everything through and selected the career and the relationship that were most likely to last.

And now she felt nothing.

Then, from within her purse, she heard her cell phone chime with the ringtone she’d programmed for Colin’s number. She remained numb as she pressed the phone to her ear and said the words a sensible, even-tempered girlfriend should say in this situation: “I’m so glad you called. I feel awful about leaving things the way we did this morning.” She paused to let him talk, then frowned and pressed the phone to her ear. “Hang on, I can’t hear you . . . You’re where? You’re what?” She got to her feet and covered her other ear with her free hand. “Hold on, let me go outside. It’s crazy in here and I can’t hear a thing—it sounded like you said you got married, ha-ha!”