Page 54 of That's Not a Thing

“Yes, with my job. With the way I spend my days. With the anger I’ve held on to for the years since Wesley and I fell apart. I’ve become someone other than who I am, and I’m ready to change it. I realized tonight that all of my actions have been reactionary, the results of pain that I suffered before I even met you, scars on my soul. And, well, I’m done with it.”

“So, what’s your plan?” I can’t tell if he’s warming up or mocking me.

“I’m going to use the next few months or however long to take care of Wesley and find the right job for me. I am going to rediscover the light that used to shine out from me so that I can be worthy of you. All this time, I wondered if I missed Wesley, and I finally realized tonight that I miss who I was when I knew him. I want to be that person for you.”

“But I like the person you are now. Liked,” he corrects himself, and I feel the blow.

“Please, Aaron. Give me another chance to prove who I am, who I can be.”

“Meredith.” His tone is flat, distant. “I can’t tell you what you need to hear. Not tonight. I need some time to process this. I can’t make any promises about where I’m going to come out.”

“Are you saying you might not forgive me?” My breath hitches as I wait for his answer.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“What? No, Aaron,” I sob into the phone.

“You guys can stay in the apartment. I don’t have it in me to kick Wesley out, not in his condition. I will make other arrangements for myself until we figure the rest of this out.Ifwe figure it out.”

And then the phone goes dead.

I’m not sure how much time passes while I lie on our king-size bed, crying into the duvet, but I finally sit up and wipe my face with the sleeve of my white button-down shirt, which is now riddled with wrinkles and smudges of eyeliner.

I stare at the wet stains on my shirtsleeve, trying to process that it was not even twenty-four hours ago that I woke up and went to work in a freshly pressed shirt, that I had a job, a fiancé. Now, less than a day later, it seems I may have lost it all.

So I do what I always do when all else fails: I pick up the phone again, and I call my mother.

When she hears my soggy voice on the phone, she is immediately concerned, as I knew she would be. I quickly fill her in on everything that’s gone down, including the make-out session with Wesley. I would have preferred to leave that part out, but she won’t be equipped to help me unless she knows everything. When I finally finish with the grand finale, that Aaron and I might be finished, I hear her sharp intake of breath.

“Oh, honey, no.” Her tone is partly sympathetic but also part command, as though she won’t accept this behavior from me.

“It’s not like I have a choice, Mom,” I snip back at her, wondering how I can be so reliant on her and so annoyed with her simultaneously.

“No, sweetie, just hear me out,” she argues, her voice kind but firm in the way she’s always had when she needs to steer me in the right direction. I almost feel hopeful for a second as I wait to hear what she says next.

“If you love that man, you don’t give up without a fight. You remember what happened with your father and me back when I was sick.”

Yes, what I remember is how easily she forgave my dad for almost abandoning her. I remember her closing me out of their relationship and keeping secrets from me. I remember my relationship with her hitting a low point that we are still clawing our way back from. I reach for a tissue on the bedside table and blow my nose loudly into the phone. Then I realize that, true to form, I’m thinking all about me, not about her or and my dad—pity party for one over here. Forcing my mind back to their marriage, I don’t recall my mom fighting for my dad. I recall her fighting for her life.

“A lot went on between us that you know nothing about,” she starts.

“Yeah, no shit,” I quip.

“Meredith.” A reprimand.

“Sorry. Keep going.” If I were less distraught at the moment, I might marvel at how quickly I revert to a teenage mentality whenever I argue with my mother, but right now I just want her to tell me how to climb out of the shit pudding I’m swimming in.

“You really messed up, sweetheart.”

Okay, not helping.

“Frankly, I don’t understand why you thought it made sense to have Wesley staying in your apartment with you, anyway. You’ve always been the one running after wounded animals, never minding the risk to yourself, even when we thought they might have rabies. It’s always been one of your best and worst qualities. So, basically, Wesley is your rabid racoon. You’ve gotten him to the vet, where they might fix his broken leg, but the animal still has rabies.”

“Wow, Mom. Thanks for that.” I blow my nose again.

“Listen,” she starts again. Her voice is quieter now, and I can tell she’s about to tell me a secret. “I’m not supposed to say anything. Gladys wanted to wait as long as possible—she said until after the wedding—but I keep telling her it’s going to be obvious well before that time.”

“What is, Mom? What’s obvious?” Every time I say more than two words, I feel like I’m going to start bawling again.