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“Hey,” I say answering. Hoping that maybe he’s ready to put the whole thing behind us and try to mend what is looking increasingly like a broken relationship.
“How’s it going?”
“Good…I’m learning how my grandfather’s business runs, which is important since he left it to me and––”
“Any closer to being done?” he cuts in.
This is not only disheartening, but also irrefutable evidence that he just…doesn’t…get it. “No. And I’m actually enjoying myself. Can you believe it?”
“No. I actually can’t.”
And now the sarcasm makes me wish I’d chosen food.
“Look, Oliver, maybe…maybe––”
“Come home and we’ll have the solicitor handle the business. I mean it this time, Maren. I’m getting really sick of this shit.”
“You mean it?” I scoff because I can’t believe my ears. “I’m not a dog. I don’t answer to your commands.”
“What if I said I missed you.” His words are clipped. There’s not even a trace of genuine feeling in his voice. He doesn’t even make an attempt at it.
“I’d say you don’t sound like you really mean it.”
In the heavy pause, my pulse starts to race. We’re at a stalemate and however this shakes out, I can’t ignore the damage already done.
“Come home, or we’re finished.” His voice is steady and cold and kicks me right in the gut. I suck in a breath, shocked that the words tripped off his tongue so easily.
So this is what a six-year relationship boils down to…an ultimatum? There’s no coming back from this. Not for me. I have to let him go.
Hands shaking, it takes me a minute to gather the courage to say what I need to say. I don’t want to leave any room for misunderstandings.
“Let me get this straight.” Fuming, I force the words out with my heart hammering against my rib cage. “Are you telling me that if I don’t drop everything and come home, you’re breaking up with me?”
“Yes.” Once again, he doesn’t hesitate.
Something inside of me breaks. Hope? My heart? I’m not sure yet. All I know is that a sense of loss is already gaining a foothold. “I guess we’re finished, then.” I don’t hesitate to answer either.
Chapter Fourteen
Maren
“Anybody want potato salad?” my mother asks while she sets down the bowl of string beans on the dining room table already overcrowded with too many side dishes.
“Bebe, potato salad?” She gives my sister that bright-eyed, rapid nod she does when she’s desperately trying to get us to do something.
“Hard pass.”
“Maren?”
“No, thanks.”
“Jon?” My father continues to blindly stare at the television screen across the open room, into the family room, where a football game is in progress. “Jon?”
“What?”
“Potato salad?”
“No, thanks, honey.” His gaze goes straight back to the game.
“Jon, can you please grab the potato salad out of the fridge? Thank you, sweetheart.” My mother places the roast chicken on the table and takes her seat.
I’ve been avoiding these family dinners as best I can, and although avoidance is my superpower, there’s only so many times I can dodge my mother’s invitation without her getting suspicious.
My dad rips his eyes away from the football game and, with a defeated slouch to his posture, gets up from the table to go fetch the aforementioned potato salad.
“Bebe, you got the wrong hotdogs for next Sunday. I told you to get the ones without nitrites, sweetheart. Nitrites cause cancer.”
“That’s inconclusive.”
“We’re not risking it. Get the ones without the nitrates next time, please.” When Bebe ignores her, my mother pushes. “Be?”
“Sure thing.”
Maryanne Murphy knows when she’s being sassed and purses her lips. My father returns and hands my mother the potato salad that nobody wants.
“Your father stopped smoking. Right, Jon?” My eyes lock with Bebe’s, who’s very subtly shaking her head and mouthing no, he didn’t. My teeth sink into my bottom lip to stop from laughing. “Jon?”
“Hmm.” My father nods obediently.
“Maren, did you get that email I sent you? About not using the talcum powder.”
I push my food around the plate, lost in the conversation I had with Oliver. I’m still in shock and I’m not sure what’s more surprising. That part of me feels relief, like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders, or that he could end a six-year relationship over something as flimsy as my refusal to go back to London on demand. We’ve never broken up before, never even come close. Then again I’ve never gone toe to toe with him.
“It’s just talcum powder, Mom. Not the talcum powder,” my sister drawls.
My mother sends Bebe an exasperated glare and huffs. “Maren?”
If my mother is anything, she is persistent. “Yeah, I got it.” I glance at my sister, sitting across from me, and her smirk gets bigger.
“It causes cancer, honey. This is a serious matter.”
“Okay. No talcum powder. Give it a rest, Mom.”
My mother places her fork down, a troubled frown working on her face. “Maren Lucille Murphy––” My mother always invokes my grandmother’s name when she means business. It could be worse. Annabelle’s middle name is Maud.
