I was immensely curious about Eva and Gabe. They were not only Erik’s closest friends but Annabelle’s as well. They’d all met freshman year at UWM. Erik and Gabe had been roommates all four years, Eva living with them senior year. Annabelle commuted from home so she could care for her mom, who was dying. That last autumn, Erik told me, the three of them took turns staying with Annabelle. They bought groceries, did laundry, and sat with Annabelle’s mom while Annabelle slept or took a shower.
A year after graduation, first Erik and Annabelle got married, then Eva and Gabe. They house-hunted together when Annabelle and Erik decided they’d use the inheritance from Annabelle’s mom to buy the house Annabelle still lived in; commiserated when Gabe didn’t pass the bar the first time and celebrated when he did; attended opening nights for Eva’s plays; celebrated Annabelle’s promotions in the PR firm where she still worked part-time. Eva was the first person, after Erik, to hold Spencer. She and Gabe were his godparents.
“Who met who first?” I asked Erik. We were sitting on Annabelle’s leather sofa, staying with the kids while she was out with Scott, her painter. A school night, and we’d planned to bring the kids to Erik’s, but Spencer had panicked, and it was easier to just stay at Annabelle’s. It felt strange watching Erik there, his familiarity as he opened the right cabinet to get a beer mug or went into the laundry to flick on the outdoor garage lights.
“I met Eva during registration. She was—well, still is—gorgeous. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”
“So, you were attracted to her?”
“Everyone’s attracted to Eva. Just wait. You will be too.” He lifted my hand and kissed the tips of my fingers.
“Not so fast, mister.” I tugged my hand back. “How long did this attraction last?” I pretended to glare.
“About two hours. Until she met Gabe. It was like an eclipse, those two. You went blind looking at them. They were perfect.” Something dark flashed across his face, but it was so fleeting I wasn’t sure. I cocked my head at him. “What?” he asked sheepishly.
“I don’t know.” I waited for him to say more. When he didn’t, I asked, “Was it difficult for them, your divorce?”
Again, a flicker of something I couldn’t read. “I think they saw it coming before we did.” He leaned his head against the couch back and closed his eyes, lifting his arm for me to curl against him. “Come here,” he said.
The leather squeaked as I shifted close. “Does it bother you to talk about this?”
“Not really.”
“Why don’t I believe you?”
He opened one eye to look at me. “You don’t? Seriously?”
“Not a bit.” I kissed a spot beneath his jaw. “It’s refreshing, you being the vague one.”
“Moi? Vague?” But then he smiled and closed his eyes again.
“So, there’s more to the story?”
“Isn’t there always?”
“Are you going to tell me?”
“One day. I want you to meet them first.”
I nestled against him, and we were quiet, just the ticking of the paddle fan. The far wall was covered with mirrors: small ones with tarnished glass in wooden frames, a full-length art deco one, another surrounded by hand-painted Mexican tiles, even a silver hand mirror. It was eclectic and charming, and I thought of my own bare-bones home. “Is this how the room looked when you lived here? I’m trying to picture it as your house.”
He lifted his head and surveyed the room, then said, “Yeah, it’s basically the same.” He sighed. “This place never felt like mine, though. It was whatever Annabelle wanted.” He swept his arm toward the mirrors. “I never got that. Why not hang a painting that actually means something? Or hell, leave the wall blank.” He laughed. “Of course, she would have painted it some wacked-out color. I’d go to work and when I came home, the kitchen would be sage or the bedroom thistle, what other people call purple. Jesus. I used to beg her, can we please please have one wall in this fucking house that’s white?”
“Is it weird for you, being here?”
“A little.” He patted the couch. “I spent a lot of nights here. Things got pretty ugly at the end.”
“You seem to get along now, though.”
“We do.” He glanced at me. “Eva was great about not choosing sides, which helped. I remember whining about Annabelle once, and she told me flat out that Annabelle was her best friend and she didn’t want to hear it. End of story.”
“Yikes. Is she always that direct?”
“No. She’s sweet. To a fault. We called her Grandma in college. She bakes casseroles for people when they’re sick. Who does that?” He set his hand on my leg, and I felt the warmth of his palm through my jeans. “I can’t wait for you to meet her.”
“You don’t think it will be strange? Because she and Annabelle are so close?”
“Please. Annabelle thinks you’re great.” He reached for his beer, took a swig, then sat back, long legs propped on the coffee table. He looked boyish, closer to thirty than forty. “I know she appreciated you being here tonight.”
“It wasn’t as strange as I thought. She really likes this guy.”
“He seems nice. Though it might have been a little unnerving for him to have the ex greet him at the door.”
“You think?”
Erik pulled me against him, his lips grazing my hair. “Have I told you how much I appreciate you being here?”
I could have fallen asleep right there, feeling the pulse in his throat against my forehead. The room had grown chilly, and he stood to close the windows. When he sat down, his arm around me again, I picked up his free hand and held it in my lap.
“I love how you always touch me,” he whispered.
I smiled, thinking of how often we said the word love to each other. Not I love you, but I love that you touch me. Or I love that you just go with the flow on all this Annabelle stuff. I was the same: I love that you run with me. I love watching you with your kids. Love. The word like fire and we were kids circling it, poking the flames with sticks, afraid to get too close.
“I know this whole setup is strange,” Erik said after a minute. “And I wish I could tell you it’ll change, but she gets the respite-care nurse only once a month and beyond that…It’s not like we’re ever going to be able to just hire some teenage girl down the street to babysit. You saw Spencer tonight.”
“I’m fine with it, Erik. I really am.”
And I was. Which surprised me. I’d been wary of how entrenched in each other’s lives he and Annabelle were, but she was so open and welcoming, it was impossible not to just accept the situation for what it was. And she was so unpretentious. I thought of how, earlier, the minute we walked in the door, she grabbed my arm and said, “Thank goodness. I need wardrobe advice.”
“Oh God, not from me.” I’d glanced helplessly at Erik, who just grinned and lifted his hands in a don’t-look-at-me gesture.
I’d been upstairs at Annabelle’s before, to peek at Spencer’s newly painted room, but it was strange to be in her bedroom, knowing it had once been Erik’s too. Nights undressing and talking through their days—had he set his loose change in a glass jar atop the bureau as he did now? Had they spent mornings in bed, their kids piled in with them?
In truth, it was almost impossible to imagine him in that room with its lavender (“thistle”) walls, the small crucifix over the bureau, and stuff everywhere—the bed unmade; dirty coffee mugs on one night table; a box of Ritz crackers, books, and magazines piled on the other. And not an inch of carpet to be seen under the clothes strewn everywhere. “It’s not usually this bad,” Annabelle apologized as she ushered me inside and closed the door. “I’m a wreck. I haven’t been on a date since—” She glanced at me. “Since forever.” She scooped a pile of stuff off an armchair and dumped it onto the bed. “Sit here,” she said. “I’ve whittled it down to two options and you have to be brutally honest with me, Claire. I mean it.”
She swept some hanging clothes from the closet door and disappeared into the bathroom while I glanced around. The last time I’d sat in a friend’s bedroom, weighing in on clothing choices, was with Kelly. I skimmed the titles of the books on the night table closest to me: Daily Devotions for Moms; Advocating for Your Special Needs Child; Codependent No More—and felt a pang of remorse for being jealous of Annabelle.
But then she was stepping out of the bathroom in skinny jeans and boots and a sleeveless shimmery gold blouse that brought out the gold in her hair. “So, here’s option one.” She bit her lip. “Maybe the gold is too…I don’t know. Does it make me look like a grandmother?”
I burst out laughing. “A grandmother? No. You look gorgeous.”
“Okay, well…” She exhaled slowly, turning this way and that in front of the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door. “Here comes option two,” she said, and disappeared back into the bathroom.
Option two was the same jeans, black stilettos, and a long black sweater that hugged her body. “I think this one makes me look younger,” she said, “but I don’t want to look…you know, like I’m trying too hard, which of course I am.” Her face crumpled and she abruptly plopped down on the bed. “Oh God. Am I making a fool of myself?”
“Not at all,” I told her. “And go with the black.”
I liked her so much. How vulnerable she let herself be, how honest.
A minute later, as she was debating between two pairs of black shoes, I noticed the tattoo on her ankle—a single word in blue cursive. I pointed to it. “What does it say?”
She glanced down. “Stasia. It’s my mom’s signature.” She rolled her eyes. “My grief tattoo. There’s a reason they tell you to wait a year before making any important decisions.”
“You don’t like it?”
“I’ve just never been a tattoo person. That was my mom’s thing—full sleeves on both arms, her shoulders, her calves—God, I hated her for being different. ‘Why can’t you be a normal mother?’ I used to scream at her all the time. She was only sixteen when she had me, so she was more older sister than mom, and I wanted a mom.” She moved around the bed to the bookshelf next to me. It was cluttered with knickknacks—photos, angel figurines, a Rubik’s Cube, Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way next to a row of books on PR. “This is her,” she said, handing me a framed photo of a woman who looked like a younger Annabelle in cutoffs and a halter top, arms covered in ink. She was crouched next to Annabelle, who couldn’t have been more than five. They were holding lollipops in their fingers the way you’d hold a cigarette. “We were pretending to smoke,” Annabelle said, “which isn’t exactly mom behavior either.”
“You look like her,” I said.
“Yeah, which is another reason I didn’t need the tattoo. All I have to do is glance in the mirror and there she is.” Annabelle took the photo back and stared at it before returning it to the shelf. “If you had told me when I was a teenager that I’d miss her as much as I do…” She shrugged. “Are you close to your mom?”
I nodded. “She’s my best friend.”
“You’re lucky,” Annabelle said. “I wish I’d had that chance with mine.” And then she was holding up two pairs of earrings and asking which I preferred. “I bet you never imagined this is what you’d be doing tonight, is it?”
“Helping my boyfriend’s ex-wife get ready for a date?” I laughed. “That would be a no.”
“It’s so crazy.” She exhaled a long breath. “I’m glad he’s found you, though.”