“Sweetheart, listen to yourself.” She places her hand on my shoulder. “I’m going to say something and I don’t want you to take it the wrong way, okay?”
I brace myself and nod.
“That man can have any woman he wants. Any. Woman. And you’re an intelligent, beautiful, twenty-something blonde who loves kids. Do you seriously think you’re the only intelligent, beautiful, twenty-something blonde who loves kids in the world? I bet I could look around this bar and find at least five others who fit that profile. Schoenbach could do that too. But he chose you. He wants you.”
Exhaling, I finish my drink, more dizzied with thoughts than when I first walked in.
50
Bennett
The bottom of my laptop burns hot as the fan whirs to life Friday night. Honor finishes her third puzzle of the evening and I re-read the email I’m about to send for the thirtieth and final time.
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: None
Astaire,
It’s Friday night. Snow falls quietly outside. The fireplace fills the room with a warm glow. Honor is working on her third puzzle of the night. And you should be here. With us.
I’m sorry you heard that conversation.
But I’m even sorrier you believed it.
I said what I said, Astaire. And you’re right—I am a liar.
I told my brother I didn’t care about you because you are my weakness. And if he knew how I truly felt about you, he would destroy it the way he’s destroyed everything I’ve ever cared about in the past.
So that’s the explanation.
You can choose to believe it or not.
Nietzsche says, “Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process, he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.”
In fighting my brother, I became a monster myself … lying, manipulating, and blackmailing him to get what I wanted.
I don’t regret protecting the ones I love.
I do regret hurting you.
Please, Astaire. Come back to me.
You’re the only person in the world I want to do life with.
Yours (and always will be)—
Bennett
51
Astaire
I arrive at Starwood extra early Monday morning, my car one of three others at the parking lot.
I couldn’t take another minute in the confines of my apartment. I spent most of the weekend in a haze, consumed with thoughts dragging me from one direction to the next. I must have talked myself into calling him a hundred times, then I talked myself out of it a hundred more.
I tried to fill my hours with meaningless, menial tasks.
Laundry.
Cleaning.
Organizing.
I put on a half a dozen movies but couldn’t bring myself to finish a single one. Every time I glanced outside, I was reminded of the snowman we were going to build last week … and then the thoughts spiraled all over again.
Sunday afternoon, I bundled up and ventured out for a walk despite the twenty-two degree temps and the brutal wind. I got all the way to the Elmhurst, only to be met with changed locks and an “under new ownership” sign.
They’d mentioned selling the place, but it was never on the market as far as I knew. The least they could’ve done was send an email …
On my way back, I stopped for a hot tea at my favorite café, and then sat by the crackling wood fire to get warm and kill some more time before heading home.
Bennett’s filled my phone with messages, texts, and missed calls the last several days. I haven’t listened to a single one, but not because I don’t want to hear him out, but because I’d like a clear head before I dive back into … all of this.
I’m too emotional to think straight.
I don’t trust myself to make the right decision—whatever that may be.
I check my mailbox in the teacher’s lounge.
Make a coffee.
Ambling down the hallway, I spot the light on in Mrs. Angelino’s room. When I pass, she glances up from her desk—then glances down before I have a chance to say hi.
Nothing new.
I’m five strides away when I stop in my tracks and contemplate heading back, fixing myself in her doorway, and explaining the situation to the best of my ability.
But then I talk myself out of it.
What would I even say? I met this stranger in a bar, he saw me on a date with your nephew and scared him away? I can only imagine what Bennett told him—if I had to guess, it was something along the lines of me being a con-artist or gold-digger.
If all it takes is some third-hand false information to make her gaze avert every time we pass one another, then she isn’t worth the oxygen I’d breathe trying to explain this convoluted situation.
Besides, it’s neither here nor there.
Water under the bridge—all of it.
A strange blip on the never-ending timeline that is my life.
I unlock my classroom, flip the light on, and hang my jacket on the hook behind the closet door—same routine, only it feels different, like I’ve stepped into a parallel universe where everything’s a bit askew.