“Not yet.”
“That’s probably coming.” He takes another sip of his wine. “We’ll have to cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“You’re not upset?” I ask.
Richard laughs. “I mean, it’s not the best.” And then we both laugh. “But listen, I’m an adult. You didn’t force me to have coffee with you. I askedyouto meet me, remember?”
“That’s true.”
“As far as I’m concerned, we’re in this together.”
Today she left the house to go to a café. She looked so beautiful. More beautiful than usual, if that’s even possible. I watched her chat with a neighbor on the way out. And she stopped to pet a dog, a huge, childlike smile on her face. God, that smile. Like she’s lit from within. Even on a crowded New York City sidewalk, she glows.
I know. It’s pathetic. I know that.
But what am I going to do? It’s the truth. And I’ll be damned, after everything that’s happened, if I’m going to lie anymore about how I feel or what I want.
Life is way too short. We all know that now.
I’ve made some mistakes. There’s no doubt about that. But none of them will matter if I have her.
After
Gretchen
September 15
Gretchen could see the crowd clustered outside the courthouse from a block away. Maybe they were some kind of tour group, lined up waiting to get through security, she tried to tell herself.
“Oh my God,” Cassandra said, leaning forward from the back seat of the SUV. She and Becks were in the way-back row, Elizabeth in the bucket seat next to Gretchen’s. Sam was driving—the only normal part of all this. “Who are those people?”
“Who?” Gretchen echoed as if she wasn’t looking right at them. She had a bad feeling she knew exactly who they were.
“I think they’re reporters,” Becks said, squinting to get a better look.
“Vultures. Just ignore them,” Elizabeth said as if she were well versed in navigating the press. For all Gretchen knew, she could be. “Opportunistic motherfuckers.”
“Elizabeth, please. You know I hate that word.”
“Motherfucker,” Becks muttered, like a child trying it on for size.
“Sorry, but if the shoe fits…All reporters are ever trying to do is get attention and yet everyone looks to them to see what’s important. How is that a good idea?”
“Can we maybe not get a lecture on systemic injustice right now?” Cassandra snapped.
“Girls, please. Don’t bicker,” Gretchen said, though there was something comforting about the normalcy of it.
Gretchen already felt sick to her stomach just imagining thequestions that might be hurled her way—Mrs. Falk, are you standing by your husband? Did you know he was having an affair with Frankie Callahan?What if they phrased it like that, like it was already an accepted fact?
She was still worried first and foremost about Richard. How he was holding up, whether he was lonely, panicked. Afraid. Plus she missed him. She understood Hilary’s point about packing Richard’s bagsifhe had cheated—but she had no evidence that he had. She didn’t know anything for sure yet.
***
Brooks was laughing at her. A great big belly laugh. And not just in her general direction—inGretchen’s face. They were sitting on the porch of the East Hampton house in two oversize, cushioned armchairs that caught the breeze right off the ocean, the water glinting in the distance beyond the long, manicured lawn and a gorgeous row of mulberry trees. As usual, Richard was at the office.
Gretchen shot Brooks a look and kicked his foot. “Excuse me—why are you laughing?”
But she’d already started to laugh, too. There was nothing like the comfort of their shared history. Especially these days when she’d been feeling increasingly isolated. It was something about the women in her circle lately or perhaps the ages of the children now or Richard’s increasingly hectic schedule. Gretchen often felt like she could disappear. No, like she’d already been erased.
