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She puts her hand on my arm to stop me on my way out of the kitchen. “They seemed really cozy. She had her hand on his arm through most of dinner. I just thought that if I were you, I’d want to know.”
I laugh sarcastically. “No, Lori, you wanted to rub my nose in the fact that Adam was on a date with a pretty blonde.”
She feigns indignation. “Why, I—that’s absolutely not the case!”
I shrug and walk out of the kitchen, proud of myself for finally standing up to her. She can pretend I’m wrong, just like I can pretend Adam taking Olivia out to dinner doesn’t enrage me, but we both know the truth.
…
Later that night, Adam calls me while I’m making dinner. I’m hovering near the stove, heating up spaghetti sauce when his name lights up my iPhone’s screen. I stare down at it on the counter. Technically, I can’t answer because I have spaghetti sauce on my fingers, but I’m not a coward. I wash my hands and reach for the phone before it goes to voicemail. I sound out of breath when I say hello.
“Madeleine, hey.”
“Hi.”
“How are you? Did you have a good day?”
We’ve never done this. In the last few weeks, we weren’t phone-call-at-the-end-of-the-day type people; we didn’t have to be because more often than not, we were together. Now, I guess things have changed.
“I’m good,” I reply, trying to sound chipper. “Work was good.” Good, good—apparently I don’t know any other adjective to describe my life. “And yours?”
“Oh, yeah. Same. Good.”
We both laugh because this is painful. This is blind-date levels of pain.
I want to ask him about his dinner last night, but I don’t want him to think I’m snooping on him. Worse, I decide it’s his responsibility to bring up the subject, not mine…but he never does. Over our short phone conversation, we don’t discuss Olivia. We don’t discuss us.
I want to go back to playing the game I invented earlier.
“Oh, my pasta is finished. I better go.”
In truth, it’s been done for five minutes, sitting in a colander in the sink, sad and droopy.
“Okay, yeah. You’ll be at the training class tomorrow though, right?”
The training class, of course. I’d forgotten about it, and now that he brings it up, I’d love nothing more than to skip it, but Mouse doesn’t deserve that. I don’t want to be the reason that Mouse becomes a dog school dropout, turns to a life of doggy crime, and ultimately ends up in the pound for smuggling milk bones across the border.
“Yeah, of course. Wouldn’t miss it.”
I end the call and then I eat my sad dinner in my sad apartment. Turns out, I have thought of another adjective to describe my life: S-A-D.
…
I’m showing Mr. Boggs a house the next day when Daisy finally returns my phone call. I excuse myself and walk outside to answer.
“Daisy! Finally.”
“Sorry, I was with a patient. What’s going on? Why did you tell my receptionist 9-1-1?”
“Because I need you to come with me to Mouse’s training class later.”
“That’s your emergency? You understand what those numbers symbolize, right?”
“Yes. This is an emergency,” I insist. “Can you come?”
“Sorry Madeleine, I have a doctor’s appointment.”
I panic. “Are you serious? Reschedule—or better yet, just diagnose yourself.”
She laughs. “Yeah, that’s not really how it works. I appreciate the creativity though.”
I walk another few steps away from the house and hold my hand over the receiver so my voice doesn’t carry. “Daisy, I can’t do this alone. I can’t face him.”
“Yes, you can. You’re making this Olivia thing into a bigger deal than it is. Don’t let Lori get into your head.”
“I’m not making it a bigger deal, it IS a big deal! They were engaged for five years, Madeleine. They’re probably soul mates, and tonight after class, he’s going to pull me aside and let me down gently. I can’t do it. I don’t want Mouse to see me like that. My emotions will betray me.”
“Yeah, God forbid you let him know how you feel.”
“Yes, God forbid, Daisy! How pathetic will it look when he tries to break up with me and I start crying. I mean, I’m not even sure he owes me a breakup! Like you said, we weren’t official or anything.”
She sighs. “Yes, you were.”
There’s another voice on her end of the line—a medical assistant prompting Daisy about an appointment—and she lets me know she has to go.
I want to hate her for abandoning me in my time of need, but I can’t. She’s right. I’m a grown woman and I can face Adam with my head held high, and I do just that, right up until I’m on my way to the YMCA with Mouse and get caught in a torrential downpour. All day, it was a cloudless, blue sky, yet somehow as I pull my car into a parking space, it has suddenly morphed into monsoon season. I stay inside, trying to wait out the worst of it, but minutes tick by and I’ll be late if I don’t make a run for it soon. Other attendees pull into the parking lot with umbrellas and galoshes, rain jackets that reach from their head to their feet. I rummage around my car and find the remnants of a plastic bag that just barely covers my head.
