We’d grabbed a quick bite between meetings in the break room, where I ate a lunch that consisted of stale coffee and a leftover donut from my last meeting with the design team. I also found a cheese stick I left in the office fridge the week before, which qualified as my daily protein. As I ate a disgusting combination of food without tasting anything, I tuned out the conversation and let Jeanine field all style-related queries. I wasn’t exactly in the mood, nor the mindset, to be discussing sequins and seed pearls, or whether shiny gold gladiator sandals would be acceptable at a spring wedding.
I was trying to force my mind onto the last article I needed to write—something about commodity investments that bored me to tears—but other images kept butting in on my thoughts. Savannah in a wedding dress, walking down the aisle. Christian at the altar, beaming ear to ear. Kendra placing the bride and groom topper onto their wedding cake, a perfect replica of the happy couple. Christian holding his first born, brimming with pride, squeezing Savannah’s hand as she lay beautiful and barely fazed by natural childbirth. And me, watching them through the glass, all by myself.
“Excuse me,” I mumbled, heading toward the bathroom. It was empty, thank God, so I locked myself into the nearest stall and threw up my make-shift lunch.
When I threw up a second time, Savannah sent me home for the day, swearing up and down that I wouldn’t miss a thing.
“I’ve got this, Tess. You need to get better for the presentation on Thursday. Go home.” She shoved some money into my hand and tossed me into the first cab to drive down Main Street. I called Kendra on the way, hoping for some anti-nausea remedy only Moms know about.
“Gingerale?” she guessed. “Want me to come over and cure you? I can make Raoul take over for dinner service tonight. It’s about time he did me a favor.”
“No, no, it’s fine. I don’t want you to catch this. You need to stay healthy and take care of my future niece or nephew. Got it?” She protested for a few more minutes, but saw my valid point and dropped it. I paid the cab driver and peeled myself out of the backseat. The bumpy cab ride refueled my nausea so it was a challenge to stumble up the front steps into my apartment.
I barely made it to the bathroom for round three, which was equally as unpleasant as my first two bouts. I brushed my teeth, stripped down to a tank top and shorts, and dragged a pillow and blanket to the couch. No sooner had my butt hit the cushion, my cell phone rang.
“Hey Christian,” I breathed into the phone, afraid the full volume of my voice would bring more lunch remnants up my esophagus.
“Oh God, are you okay?”
“Fine, fine. Kendra called you?”
“Can I do anything? Bring you some gingerale?”
I sighed. “I don’t want you to catch this either. It’s wedding season. Stay home.” I used all my last bits of strength to emphasize those words. Not long after we hung up, I passed out on the couch.
The last face I expected to see when I opened my eyes was my mother’s, and yet, there she was. She was smiling at me, leaning over to brush her lips against my forehead, as though we’d been transported through time to a sick day home from school.
“Mom?” I let my eyes refocus. She offered a glass of gingerale with the straw pointed at my mouth. I took a sip, sending the bubbles rushing through my digestive tract and into my aching, empty stomach. Already, I felt comforted by the sugar and carbonation. “What are you doing here?”
“Kendra called. I got here as soon as I could. It’s a good thing too. You left your keys in the front door,” she smoothed on hand over my head, pushing the stray hairs out of my face. Then she felt my forehead with the back of her hand. “You must’ve been really sick.”
I nodded, struck dumb by the lack of judgment from my harshest critic.
“Well then, let’s get you healthy again.” Mom left the glass on the coffee table, next to a stack of magazines she’d brought me, and crossed the room to close the curtains on the darkening sky. I must’ve slept the rest of the day away, but I did feel better.
As my mother banged around in the kitchen, I marveled at her. It had been a long time since she’d taken care of me and I couldn’t believe how naturally she fell into her old role. When it really mattered, when I really needed her… she appeared, just like when I scraped my knee or caught a cold as a child. Within moments, a mug of steaming soup and a tray of plain crackers showed up in front of me.
“Do you think you can eat?” she asked, setting me up with napkins and a trash barrel—just in case. “You need some calories in you if you’re gonna be back on your feet for this big presentation.”
I did as I was told, letting the warm soup fill me up one sip at a time. She sat next to me on the couch and flipped on the TV. I couldn’t remember the last time we sat completely idle like that, just being together. Having my mother close by, scanning the guide for something to watch, I felt even more warmth than from the soup.
“Hey Mom?” She turned to me and smiled. “Thanks. I’m really glad you came.”
She patted my knee. “Of course, honey. I’m your mother.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
I survived my twelve-hour stomach virus, thanks to my mother’s care, but the illness was only a temporary escape from my other problems. Somehow, though, being sick seemed to carve out new space in my brain for more important details and memories.
It started when I slept that night, dreaming a mixed bag of thoughts about my mother and uncomfortable work scenarios. In one dream, Mom was taking on Mary head-to-head, trying to write me a sick note for a missed afternoon of meetings. In another, she packed the break-room fridge with chicken soup and turkey sandwiches so I would never vomit up a cheese stick again. As my subconscious rambled on and on, a tiny bit of my conscious brain recognized that my strained relationship with my mother had left a bigger hole in my heart than I’d realized. Despite the bizarre dreams, it felt really peaceful to see her as a positive force again.
Somewhere in the middle of a dream where Christian and Savannah were hogging all the toys in my childhood sandbox, I shot up in bed. A white hot panic took hold of me, my heart pounding.
Finn!
I hadn’t fed him in—God, I didn’t know when I’d last fed him. I sprung from my bed toward the front hallway, where I’d specifically placed his bowl so I wouldn’t forget about him. Yet, every day I walked by his bowl on my way to work, too preoccupied to notice him. By the time I got home every night, I usually had tunnel vision for a quick dinner and my own bed.
Poor Finn. I hadn’t so much as looked at him in days, so consumed was I by this stupid, stupid presentation. I couldn’t even remember to feed a fish and people expected me to have kids someday?
“He’s only a fish, only a fish,” I repeated as I entered the hallway. Still, as I flipped on the light, I prayed that I wouldn’t find him floating upside-down. I was afraid to look. If I’d killed him, Lucy would kill me for sure. More importantly, I’d have a hard time forgiving myself.
Finn was still alive, apparently impervious to my chronic neglect. Half of the water in his bowl had evaporated, leaving him a shallow two inches to swim in. he hovered in one place, his mouth opening and closing in a calmingly rhythmic pattern. I let the relief I felt translate into actions and carried the bowl to the kitchen. I ran the tap until the water reached room temperature and filled his bowl again. Instantly, he darted around, exploring each restored inch of his fishy territory. As soon as I sprinkled the food into the water, he gobbled it up. His increased activity reassured me, so I gave him an extra flake or two.
“I wish I could give you cheesecake or something,” I said, pressing my nose to the glass to watch him. “Maybe fish food tastes like cheesecake to you. Is it good?” I sighed, watching his fins curl and swirl in the water. “I’m sorry I almost killed you. Again. I just have to live through this and get that promotion. Things will get easier from here, I promise. Thanks for sticking with me.”
I relocated Finn to someplace where he’d be harder to overlook—my bedroom. Once I was satisfied he was alive and well, I dozed off again for a few last hours of sleep before another busy day. The key was not to think too much about my cruelty to animals or my all-consuming selfishness.
****
Another Coffee Wednesday disaster was brewing, no pun intended. While my mother’s nursing skills had cured me, I still entered Tosca’s with a raging migraine and some residual nausea. I suspected only some of it was due to my violent stomach bug. Somehow in the last few weeks, seeing Christian had begun to have a different effect on me. One I could not explain, but one that did not bring me any comfort. Since my nighttime encounter with Marcy back in April, everything felt strained on his end, and now since Savannah, I felt the strain on both sides of our relationship.
I sometimes felt like the bond between us was starting to fray, but I couldn’t explain it. He greeted me with the same smile, hug and kiss on the cheek, but it was all different. He was edgier, more reserved. We didn’t joke around anymore, we didn’t confide in each other. I felt like I had to be someone else, posing as Tessa Monroe—in her body, with her friends, at her job. Invasion of the body snatchers and what have you.
“Christian,” I said his name stiffly, not sure what tone to use anymore. “We should… talk.”
“Okay, shoot.” He sounded relaxed, but I could see his eyes locked on mine, his jaw set in anticipation.
“Have you noticed that things are a bit weird between us lately?” Oh God,
that
’s how you say it, Tessa? Way to be blunt and direct. Marty Bensen, why don’t you just take over my entire life? “I’m trying to figure out where we went wrong.”
I took a deep breath, watching for his reaction. He did such a good job covering up his initial shock, I almost missed it. In a second, it was replaced by the calm, cool demeanor that had been my companion every Coffee Wednesday since Savannah arrived on the scene. I would have almost preferred to face the raging anger I received for trying to careen down the staircase at Kendra’s. Even if it was unpleasant, at least it was real.
“It got weird…” I added lamely.
“Well,” he crossed his arms over his pinstriped shirt, his eyes narrowed, zeroing in. “You set the tone here. I’ve been tip-toeing around you since I started seeing Savannah. I thought you supported us—hell, you set us up! And then the second we start dating, you want nothing to do with us.”
“What are you talking about?” I heard the words, felt the truth in them, but certainly wasn’t going to fess up to something so cataclysmically not good-friend behavior. I liked them both, I liked them together, so there shouldn’t be a problem.
And yet there was a problem. In the pit of my stomach, I felt a nameless twinge at the very thought of them together. I wanted something like what they had for myself. Was this jealousy? Regret? Either way, I couldn’t easily tackle them with Christian already in self-defense mode.
“Well, let’s see. You rarely return my phone calls,” he held out his hand, ticking off the counts against me one finger at a time. “You keep coming up with excuses to back out of our plans.”
“I told you, I have—”
“Work. I know, Tessie. I
know
. But what about Friday dinner last week? We waited for you but you never turned up. I ordered an entire Hawaiian pizza just for you and where were you?”
“The office.”
“Exactly. Work, work, work. Tessie, this isn’t healthy. Let Savannah share some of the burden. She can take on some of the little stuff, give you more time to concentrate on—”
“And let her take
my job
away from me too?” The voice sounded like mine, the buzzing of my vocal chords told me the voice was mine, but my brain and my mouth had not conferred before the words broke free. When my tear ducts jumped on board, it was all over. A Tessa Monroe waterfall.
At the first sign of tears, he dropped the act, his shoulders sinking back down to their usual resting spot, his jaw relaxing. Christian dug into the pocket of his jeans and extracted a linty tissue, which he used to dab at the tears on my cheeks. “You’re my best friend. I need to know what’s going on.”
I looked through his lenses into those blue eyes, my vision blurred by the tears, and thought about all the ways I could organize my jumbled thoughts. Something was eating away at my insides, something I couldn’t explain. It wasn’t just about work, or my friends, or perfect Savannah, or even Marty Bensen. It was all of it and it was none.
“I just—I can’t—Oh, Christian, I—” But the tears gripped my vocal chords and I couldn’t get anything else out. I sobbed uncontrollably, afraid to look at him. I crumpled onto the table, soaking up the tears in the sleeves of my shirt and took shelter in the darkness I found there. Metal chair legs scraped across the tile just before Christian’s arms were around me. He lifted my head up from the table and onto his shoulder. I pressed my face against his shirt, no doubt leaving tear and mascara stains behind, and cried it out. He held me there until it passed, gently rubbing my back, his chin resting on the top of my head. I felt warm, safe, loved.