Authors: Kristan Higgins
After dinner, the noise level (and the alcohol level) had risen. Prish was singing into a fork, Ryan was drumming on the table, keeping time, Ben was rummaging for another bottle of wine, and suddenly Dare turned to me and said, “I’ve been wanting to kiss you for weeks now.” Then he took my face in his hands and did just that.
A wet, sloppy, drunken kiss, fairly horrible, tasted like roasted red peppers. The others burst into applause.
“About time!” Jocasta yelled. “He’s been giving you the eye for ages!”
I pushed away. “Don’t do that again,” I said, adrenaline flooding my legs. This was bad. This couldn’t…I didn’t…he should never have…I had to tell them—
My brain slammed to a halt.
Nick was standing on the street in front of Claudia’s, looking in the window. Looking at me. His mouth was slightly open, as if he didn’t quite believe what he’d just seen.
The blood drained from my face.
For a second, I thought he’d just walk away, and I jolted to my feet, bumping the table. “Nick!” I called, but he was already opening the door.
“Friend of yours?” Dare asked lazily, pouring me some more wine. I ignored him, but my legs started to shake.
Nick came over to the table. “Hi,” he said quietly.
“Hi,” I breathed. He didn’t seem mad. Or even upset, really. Maybe he could tell that was just a stupid sloppy kiss from an irritating poser. His eyes went from me to Dare, then to the others.
“Um, guys,” I said, “this is Nick.”
I guess I sounded weird, or scared, because everyone quieted down.
“Nick? Who’s Nick?” Ben asked, emerging from the back room.
“You sneaky thing, Harper,” Prish said. “I didn’t know you were dating someone.”
The magnitude of what I’d done finally hit me. Nick looked at me, stunned, as if I’d just shot him in the heart. Which, in a sense, I had. He blinked—twice—I was on hyperdrive with the details here—his gypsy eyes as dark as a black hole. “She’s not dating anyone,” he said. “I’m her husband.”
Somewhere, a fire truck laid on the air horn. Over the sound system, a jazz band was murdering “White Christmas.” But otherwise, our party had gone abruptly silent.
“I thought you were only, like, twenty-one, Harper,” Ryan slurred. “What, are you in one of those religious sects or something? A sister-wife?”
“You’re
married?
” Jocasta asked, incredulous. “Are you kidding?”
And then Nick did walk out.
“Ruh-roh, Scooby-Doo,” Ryan said. I shoved away from the table, but Dare caught my hand.
“You don’t have to go after him,” he said.
“Yes, I do, asshole,” I hissed, yanking my hand free. The bells on the door jangled with obscene good cheer as I ran out into the cold night air. No Nick. At the corner, I looked both ways, and there he was, hands jammed in his pockets, walking fast, head down. “Nick! Wait!”
He didn’t wait, so I ran after him, tripping on the cobblestones, and caught up to him at the next corner.
“Nick,” I said. He didn’t look at me. I grabbed his arm. “Nick, wait,” I panted. “Please let me explain.”
“Go ahead,” he said, and his voice was oddly calm.
“Okay, well…I—I obviously didn’t…”
“Mention me.” The light changed, and he started across.
“Right,” I said, trotting after him. I’d left my coat at the restaurant, and it was horribly cold. My teeth wanted to chatter, but I clamped my jaw closed.
“You were kissing that guy.” Voice still calm, feet still walking. “What else have you done with him?”
“Nothing! That was nothing, Nick. He’s an idiot. He was drunk. That was nothing.”
“But nobody knew you were married.”
“No…I—see, Nick, I…” Oh, God, what was I going to say? “Let’s go home and talk, okay?”
He stopped, finally, and I immediately wished he hadn’t. He was
furious.
His eyes were black and hot and burned like a brand. “You never mentioned me.”
“No,” I admitted in a whisper.
“Not even once.”
I shivered, and not just from the cold. Nick didn’t offer me his coat. I didn’t blame him. “No, Nick. I didn’t tell them I was married. I didn’t talk about you.”
“I see,” he said softly. And he started walking again, but he took off his coat and threw it on the ground behind him, and the gesture broke my heart.
“Nick? Please! I’m sorry.”
He didn’t stop, or pause, or answer. I followed, picking up his coat but feeling unworthy to wear it. I was ridiculous in my shiny silver tank top and high heels, teetering after my furious husband. I was also full of self-hatred. And last but not least…I was utterly terrified.
And if there was one feeling I hated more than any other, it was being scared.
You know, he’s got some nerve,
a small, evil part of my brain whispered. The seeds of resentment that had been festering for the past few months suddenly found fertile soil, replacing the abject terror and sense of doom. After all, Nick was a fine one to be mad. Really,
Nick
was feeling abandoned? Nick?
I
was the one who’d been dropped into a huge city and basically patted on the head and told to go off and play and not to bother the grown-ups.
I
was the one whose husband had no time for me. Of
course
I’d found friends. Of
course
I’d been hungry for some attention.
He
sure as hell wasn’t giving me any. My box had been checked! When was the last time Nick and I had had a real conversation, huh? He didn’t
want
real conversations. Not with me. Nope, I was just there to do his laundry, keep the fridge stocked and be available for a quickie in the middle of the night. Some marriage. No
wonder
I hadn’t talked about it! Who could blame me?
Oh, Harper, don’t do this,
the better angel said, but it was easier—so much easier—to be the victim. And so I built the case against Nick—I really was meant to be a lawyer—and found myself innocent. I’d made a mistake, yes, but not a huge one. Definitely forgivable, but what about
his
sins, huh? I let the righteous anger grow while Nick’s figure grew smaller and smaller as the distance between us grew. Fine. He didn’t want to hear what I had to say? Fine. That was nothing new, was it?
New York was quiet on a Monday night; Tribeca deserted at this late hour. Sirens, almost constant in the city, blared uptown. A single sheet of newspaper tumbled down the cobbled street, the only thing keeping me company. A bitter wind blew off the Hudson, cutting into me, bringing the smell of blood from the meatpacking companies on the West Side Highway.
By the time I reached our apartment building, Nick was already inside. I could see his dark head in the fourth-floor window—our bedroom. I let the door slam behind me and stomped up the stairs, wanting Nick to know I was primed for a fight. Opened the door to our apartment, walked briskly through the tiny kitchen and went into the bedroom.
He was furious, crackling with energy.
And he was packing.
Every thought was immediately sucked from my head. My mouth opened, but no sound came out. I watched as Nick packed with brutal efficiency. Jeans, in. Sweaters, in. T-shirts, socks, boxers…into the suitcases we’d been given for a wedding gift, suitcases that hadn’t yet been used.
The last time I’d watched someone pack this way was on my thirteenth birthday. He was
leaving
me, and terror rose up so fast and hard, I thought I might faint…gray speckled my vision and my legs wanted to buckle and my neck wasn’t strong enough to hold my head.
And then, just like that, something inside my heart shut off. My vision cleared. My legs and neck worked just fine. Maybe—maybe if I had fainted, or flung myself on him, if I’d begged him to forgive me, if I’d sobbed out how much I loved him—maybe we would’ve made it through that night.
But I wasn’t really the sobbing, flinging type.
“So I guess till death do us part…that was just for fun?” I said. It was the wrong thing to lead with. Obviously.
He didn’t deign to look at me. “I’m staying at Peter’s tonight.”
“For longer than tonight, from the looks of it.”
“How long have you worked there, Harper? Two months? Three?” He moved to the minuscule closet and swept out his shirts, hangers and all. “You never,
never
found a second to tell your best buds that you were married? Not once? In three fucking months?”
“Maybe I would have, Nick, if you’d come around. Ever.” My voice was cool.
“No wonder that douchebag was kissing you,” Nick went on. “Why not? You’re free and clear, right?” His eyes dropped to my naked left hand, and his eyes seemed to flinch at the absence there. “Jesus, Harper,” he said, and his voice broke, and the case against him took a serious blow.
I bit my lip. “Nick, look. I’m really sorry, I am. It’s just…I just felt so freakish—”
“Freakish?”
“Well…yes! It’s just…you’re never here, Nick! You didn’t want to listen to how lonely I was, you didn’t care, all you do is work—”
“I’m trying to build a life for us, Harper!” he yelled. “Working so we could have a decent future!”
“I know, but, Nick, I just didn’t expect it to be all or noth—”
“I have to do this! I thought you understood!” He threw a pair of shoes into the suitcase. “No wonder you’ve been so…distant. You’ve been—”
“Me? Me, distant, Nick? Seriously?”
“—playing around with some 30-year-old loser who’s still waiting tables, trying to figure out what he wants to be when he grows up.”
“Not that I was playing with anyone, Nick, but could you blame me? You’re the one who was on fire to get married, and before the first week is out, you barely remember to come home.” I was yelling, too, both of us runaway trains, unable to stop.
He slammed the bureau drawer closed.
“Nick,” I said in one last effort to stay calm, to make him see, to make him stay. “Nick. Look. It was stupid and immature—”
“Stupid and immature, okay, so that’s a start, Harper. How about deceitful? How about manipulative? How about unfaithful?”
“I didn’t cheat on you! That guy, he just…kissed me. I didn’t want him to, he just did!”
“Right.”
My jaw clenched. “Okay. Believe what you want, Nick. You haven’t listened to me for months, why would you now, right?”
Ivan of the Cabbages banged on his ceiling. “Quiet, eediots!” he yelled. Nick continued stuffing his clothes into a suitcase.
“You erased me, Harper,” he said. “I don’t even exist in your life.”
“Right back at you, Nick,” I bit out.
“How can you say that?” he barked, slamming closed the lid of the suitcase. “Your picture is all over my office! Everyone knows you at my firm. You’re all I ever talk about!”
“And why is that, Nick? Because it makes you look good to have a little wife tucked away at home?”
“This is pointless,” he said, moving into the bathroom. He clattered around, grabbing his toothbrush, razor, shaving cream. He was
leaving
me. After that full-court press to convince me to marry him a month after college graduation, after countering all my fears with assurances that we’d last forever, after all I’d put up with since our wedding day, Nick was leaving me. The first major bump in the road, and the whole “for better or worse” clause was just flushed right down the toilet. My chest felt so tight I couldn’t breathe, and my face was burning hot.
I should’ve known. I should never have believed.
He yanked open the front door and banged down the stairs, suitcase in tow. I followed wordlessly. My brain was a roaring mess. A cab—shit, he must’ve called a cab, he was really leaving!—turned the corner and slowed in front of our building.
Nick turned to me, jaw clenched, eyes hot with anger. “You never believed we’d work, and guess what, Harper? You seem to be right. Good for you. I’ll be at Pete’s. Go back to the restaurant. Have fun with your waiter.”
At those words, I yanked off the wedding ring from my right hand and threw it at him, and the ring…my beautiful, lovely, special ring…bounced off his chest, went into the gutter and rolled into a storm drain.
“Nicely put,” Nick said, and with that, he got into the cab, and not two seconds later, he was gone.
I didn’t remember going back inside, but obviously, I did, because some time later, I was sitting on the kitchen floor, shaking so hard my teeth chattered. I didn’t fully realize I’d called anyone till I heard the groggy voice on the other end, the voice of the one I knew would help me. “I need you to come get me,” I whispered. “You okay?”
“No.”
“I’m on my way.” No questions asked. Probably, no questions needed.
I filed for divorce the very next day, sobbing for only the second time in ten years, sitting in Theo’s office. But it was for the best. Sometimes the heart needed time to accept what the head already knew.
Nick and I weren’t going to make it.
CHAPTER TWELVE
B
Y THE TIME WE STOPPED
for the night after yes, visiting the world’s largest penguin statue, I was a little fried—from sitting in the wind and sun all afternoon, and from the memories of our brief, doomed marriage. Nick, too, was quiet, though polite.
The town we stopped in was microscopic, only one intersection (no stoplight), a town hall, a church, a hamburger stand called Charlie’s Burger Box and adjacent motel with four units, all unoccupied. Nick paid for both our rooms.
“You don’t have to do that,” I said.
“No problem,” he answered.
“Make sure you check out the dinosaur footprints,” the clerk told us, giving me a wink. “Real big. And mind the forecast. Might get some snow later tomorrow.”
“Will do,” Nick and I said in unison. We glanced at each other, then looked away.
“Where are you folks from?” the clerk asked.
“New York,” Nick said as I said, “Massachusetts.”
“Oh, yeah? I went to Harvard.”
“I went to Tufts Law,” I answered, and we had a lovely chat about the wonders of Boston, while Nick stood silently, only contributing an eye-roll as the clerk and I anticipated a Red Sox sweep of the Yankees during an upcoming series. As Charlie’s Burger Box was the only restaurant in town, we ate there, the Harvard-educated clerk amiably doubling as the cook as he told us about working as an investment banker amassing and losing millions, then coming back home to Montana. “Never been happier,” he said. “You folks enjoy.” He passed us our tray of burgers and fries, then went back to the motel.
Nick and I ate at the picnic table at the edge of the small parking lot. Coco sat next to me, statuelike, waiting, waiting for a bite of burger, inhaling it with a snap of her cute little mouth. Occasionally, a pickup truck rattled down the road, but otherwise, we didn’t see many people.
“So is this what you pictured for your drive across country?” I asked, wiping my mouth with a paper napkin.
“Pretty much,” Nick said, not looking at me.
“Really?”
“Except for bringing you to the airport, yes. Small towns, farmland, the heart’s blood of our great nation and all that.”
“Said the boy from Brooklyn,” I added. “Who, as I recall, couldn’t get along with a simple sheep.”
It was true…one of the times Nick had visited me the summer I worked in Connecticut, we’d gone to a petting farm in the country. A sheep, assuming that Nick had some of those snack pellets in his pocket, kept ramming her nose into his groin, which made me laugh so hard I actually fell down.
I smiled at the memory and glanced at Nick. He wasn’t smiling back. Eyes somber, mouth grim. As if it required physical effort, he dragged his eyes off me and resumed staring at the endlessly flat landscape in front of us. “If we leave by eight, we should be able to make it to the airport by early afternoon,” he said.
We’d make it a lot sooner if he’d managed to hit the speed limit, but I kept those words to myself. “Great. Thanks.”
He nodded. Conversation over, apparently. Which was fine.
Since Nick wasn’t talking, I took out my phone and texted a few messages…one to Carol with a cc to Theo, saying I’d been delayed and would call them tomorrow. I had both their home numbers, but it didn’t feel right, calling on a Sunday evening. They both had families, had a hard-and-fast rule about not working on weekends (unlike myself)…they were normal, in other words. I sent another message to BeverLee and Dad, letting them know the same. Another to Dennis, just in case he worried. I felt a pang at the thought of him back on the Vineyard without me. Our relationship had been…well, comfortable. The thrum, the connection, the depth of emotion I’d had with Nick hadn’t been there with Dennis, and I’d always thought that was a good thing. More mature, more lasting, more stable. Guess it showed what I knew. Dennis hadn’t wanted to marry me, end of story. I wondered if he was feeling at least a little blue, too. I rather hoped so; what would it say if he wasn’t missing me at all?
Though it was home, Martha’s Vineyard seemed like a memory. Strange, to be so far away, in a landscape that was nothing like the familiar hills and rock walls of the island, the gray-shingled homes and scrubby pines. Here, the land stretched uninterrupted to the horizon, and the sky was a little merciless in its vastness.
“All right. I’m heading down the street,” Nick said.
I glanced down the road. “Stan’s Bar. Sounds perfect. Grab a beer, watch some baseball, soak up a little Montana color, is that it?”
“Exactly.” He paused. “You can come if you want.”
I took a quick breath. “Um…nah. I have to do some work, actually. I’ll just take Coco for a walk and hit the old laptop.”
“Okay. Sleep well.”
He got up to go. “Nick?”
“Yeah?” He looked a little careworn, a little creased. He looked his age…not the boy I married. My heart squeezed, and I tried to ignore it. “I really appreciate you doing this.”
He shrugged. “I have to. We’re related now.”
“Oh, God. Is that true?”
His lightning smile flashed. “Well, you’re my half brother’s stepsister-in-law. So yes. I’ll expect presents at Christmastime.”
“Got it. One blow-up doll, superdeluxe model.”
He laughed, gave my shoulder a squeeze, causing that electrical hum to surge to a thousand volts. “Good night, Harper.”
“Night,” I said faintly.
I cleared my throat, tossed my trash into the nearby can and took Coco’s leash. She had a tennis ball, too, which I retrieved from the car—what Jack Russell didn’t love chasing stuff? We walked down the street a little…there was no downtown, no green or park, something I took for granted in New England. But there were fields, endless fields, so we went a few yards in.
“Want to fetch?” I asked, and my dog froze with breathless anticipation, her eyes bright and hopeful. I unclipped her leash, then fired the ball as far as I could, smiling as my little dog streaked across the field. She instantly found the ball and brought it back, tail whipping proudly, and dropped it at my feet so I could throw it again, preferably a thousand or so more times.
It was good therapy, standing in the fresh, cool air, the sky purpling with the onset of night. Sitting in the car for so long had taken a toll, and I was stiff and a little sore.
What would it be like to live in a place like this? According to the map, there were two hundred and fifteen people who lived in Sleeping Elk. What did people do for work? For fun? How did they meet people? Where did they go on a date, other than Charlie’s Burger Box or Stan’s Bar?
Maybe this was the type of place my mother had stayed on her long trek throughout the country. Maybe she’d stayed in this very town. Found a job, worked for a while, moved on. I knew very little about what she’d done the past twenty years, but thanks to Dirk Kilpatrick, P.I., I did know she’d been a wanderer. And I knew where she was now.
The wind gusted, and black clouds rumbled in the west. Time to go inside, give Kim a call, make light of my situation with my ex-husband, write up a brief and try not to think too much about the people I’d lost.
T
HE NEXT MORNING, WE
learned that “breakfast included” meant a voucher at the gas station next door to the motel, as Charlie’s Burger Box didn’t open until eleven-thirty. Our amiable Crimson man had left us a note wishing us well. Nice.
“Can’t we get some steak and eggs?” I asked as we surveyed the paltry selection of plastic-wrapped Hostess baked goods. “Isn’t this Montana, home of beef? Shouldn’t I be able to get some steak and eggs somewhere? Isn’t this Cheney country? Can’t we get some cholesterol somewhere?”
“Can’t you limit the number of sentences you say before 10 a.m.?” Nick returned. But he went to the counter and asked the toothless store clerk about restaurants.
The clerk, who looked as if he was never without either banjo, chewing tobacco or rifle, pondered this difficult question.
“There used to be Sissy’s,” he said slowly, “but that burned down ‘bout six years ago. Maybe seven. Big fire, man, you shoulda seen it. Me and Herb Wilson, you know Herb? Met him yet? No? Well, me and Herb, we was on the fire department back then, and we nearly set ourselves on fire tryin’ to hose down the gas tanks, know what I’m sayin’?”
“So no restaurants?” I prodded. Clearly Jethro here didn’t get to see real live humans all that often, and I was starving.
“No, ma’am. Used to be Sissy’s but that burned down ‘bout six, seven years back. You know Herb Wilson, ma’am? Me and Herb—”
“Then we’ll just take these,” I said, tossing a six-pack of miniature doughnuts on the counter.
“Fill up on pump number one,” Nick added. “And I’m sorry for my…companion’s rudeness. She’s from Massachusetts.”
“Where’s that at?” Jethro asked.
“It’s in New England, and we’re not companions,” I told the clerk. “I’m his parole officer. Thanks for your time.” I slid a five onto the counter, grabbed Nick’s arm and led him out of shop.
“Now that’s local color,” Nick grinned as he filled up the Mustang’s gas tank. Indeed, his mood was very jolly this morning, a vast improvement on last night’s somber tone. He’d always been…moody. No, that wasn’t quite fair. He’d always been
expectant
. He could be sweet and funny and more energetic than a fox on amphetamines. But then, for whatever reason, his mood could shut off like a light. Sometimes, too, when we were dating or engaged, he’d stare at me…not in-love dopey staring (well, there was some of that), but other times, he’d just look at me and…wait. Wait for something I never gave, apparently, because eventually, when I’d had enough and say “Nick, do you
mind?
” he’d look away, clear his expression and act normally.
Communication was never our thing.
But today, he was happy enough. He even petted Coco, who gave him a very disdainful Chihuahua look before turning her head back to me. Nick had never been crazy about animals; one of the (many) arguments we’d had as newlyweds was over whether we could get a dog, which our lease specifically forbade. I was all in favor of breaking the rules; Nick lectured me about how hard it had been to find this place, how expensive housing was here in a “real city”—like so many New Yorkers, he viewed Boston as little more than a poorly laid-out lump populated by obsessive sports fans, which was actually pretty accurate. At any rate, no dog. I’d gotten Coco the day after Theo hired me, and we’d been best friends ever since. As if reading my mind, my little dog licked my hand, then rolled onto her back and allowed me to rub her tummy.
The scenery was much the same as yesterday’s. Flat. The sky was beautiful, towering, creamy cumulus clouds drifting over the vast blue. Every twenty or so miles, we’d see a tree. Sometimes we’d spot a few antelope at the side of the road. It was quite exciting. I looked at the map. Looked at the sky. Looked out the window. Occasionally, an eighteen-wheeler would roar past us, rocking the Mustang, as those drivers, at least, were capable of a little speed.
After three hours of driving years beneath the speed limit, I finally snapped. “So, Nick, do you think we could grab life by the horns and go faster than I can run?”
He gave me a tolerant glance with the full power of his gypsy eyes. “My trip, my car. Or, to quote a classic, ‘I’m telling you straight. It’s my way, or the highway. Anyone wants to walk, do it now.’”
“Hmm, let me guess. Would that be
Hamlet
or
King Lear?
”
“Close.
Road House.
”
“Ah, the classics. But if we’re going to make it to an airport before my death of natural causes at age one hundred and four, you’re going to have to step on that little pedal down there on the floor. Go ahead, try it. See car go fast. Don’t be scared, Nick.”
Flashing me a smile, he put on the turn signal, ignoring my groan of frustration. “Time for a photo op,” he said, hopping out of the car without opening the door. He reached into the backseat and pulled out his impressive-looking camera.
I clipped on Coco’s leash and took her into the field to do her business.
“Surly ex-wife and her dog, somewhere in Montana,” he said, clicking a picture of me.
“Your next Facebook entry?” I suggested. Nick came over and stood close to me, showing me the shot he’d just taken. Me, scowling, Coco pooping. Adorable.
“And here we have yesterday’s pictures…you with the penguin, don’t you look so cute…” I was scowling in that one, too.
Nick smelled good. Edible. This was getting uncomfortable. Apparently Nick felt it, too. “Okay,” he said, turning back to the car. “Whenever you and your dog are ready, we can head off to see the world’s biggest plastic model dinosaur.”
“Maybe we can swing by the Unabomber’s cabin,” I said brightly.
“Great idea.”
“Is this just a plot to spend more time with me, Nick, all these back roads and irritating stops?”
“Oh, definitely. What man alive wouldn’t want more time with you, Harpy?” He raised the camera once more and clicked. Well, that photo would showcase my middle finger.
“At least let me drive, Nick.” I grumbled, scooping up Coco and plodding back to the Mustang.
To my surprise, he opened the driver’s side door and held it for me. “Sure. Be my guest. And here.” He bent, picked something from the ground, then presented me with a little blue flower. “For you. A souvenir.”
I took it suspiciously. “Nightshade?” I guessed. Nick gave a crooked grin. The flower petals were very soft, and when I touched them, a faint vanilla smell drifted up. Hmm. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
I tucked the flower in my wallet and got into the car. “Buckle up, Nicky dear,” I said to my companion.
Oh, the thrill of sitting behind the wheel of a genuine, made-in-America muscle car! Unlike Nick, I knew what to do. Securing the hat marked with the sign of the devil (NY, that is), I buckled my seat belt and glanced over to make sure Nick was secure, as well. “Hold on to Coco, okay?” I said, and as soon as he had her, I put the ’Stang to the test. Gravel spun, there was a brief screech of tires, and Coco (or Nick) gave a surprised yip.
“Christ, Harper, slow down!” Nick said, clutching the dashboard.