Page 13 of The False Flat

Finally, his gaze shifted. Antsy for the seat of my bicycle, I struggled to keep the smile on my lips as my muscles jumped. How awkward would it be if I hauled my own stationary bike into Deanna’s home? It could be my thing. Other people carry a purse; I would roll in exercise equipment. I could set it up beside the cherry dinner table, maybe even attach a rudimentary tray, then feverishly pump my legs and talk about this Chuck with ease as I moved through imaginary space.

“Yeah, yeah. Chuck’s great, but we were talking about the Quebec trip!” William turned to me and said in an impressive accent, “We rode P’tit Train du Nord. Have you heard of it?”

I shook my head.

William explained the bike trail, sounding authentic as he pronounced other French names.

I tried to be conversational. “Your accent is amazing.” Maybe instead of the bike, because it wouldn’t be as freakishly weird, I could start talking to them like clients. I was comfortable explaining the market. What would happen if I started spouting financial terms—“fiduciary,” my favorite—or maybe I could explain the difference between traditional and Roth IRAs. No, then I’d be like Sal with his stache, his own eyes alight with glee while the other person thought of creative ways to use the steak knife just to end the conversation.

“Merci beaucoup. Ma mère est française.”

“His mother is French,” Deanna translated.

“Oh really?” I asked. “I was in Paris for a semester in college.” That was the spring of Javier, a no-strings distraction from life and my parents’ issues.

“Nice, and yeah.” William nodded. “My grandmother, aunt, and cousins still live there, but my mom was traveling in the US when she met my dad here, then never went back. Except to visit, of course.”

“His cousin Atticus has been asking us to come.” Deanna pushed her chair back, walked to one of the two twin white recessed shelving units in the dining room, and picked up a four-by-six picture frame. “William’s French family is a story for another time.” She extended the frame to me, the glass glittering in the light of the chandelier. “This is us at the Hôtel de Glace.”

A winterized William, Deanna, and Grant stood with a heavily bearded man with flannel peeking out from under his coat in front of glowing translucent pillars while holding shot glasses that appeared to be made of rough-hewn crystal.

“All the structures you see around us are made of ice.” I jumped at the voice. Grant was unexpectedly behind me, so close his scent—somehow capturing a crisp spring day—curled around me, intensifying as his arm extended and he pointed to one of the columns, cast in blue light.

I nodded. No big deal that his body heat was warming the side of my arm. No big deal.

He returned to his seat diagonally across the table from me, and I tried to listen to him describe the intricately carved ice sculptures and snow domes, like the architect I’d learned he was, but my mind wouldn’t stop picking at the details of this night. The crinkle at the corner of Grant’s eye, the uncensored way in which Deanna’s head was tossed back in levity, William’s hand reaching for his wife’s. This was what normal looked like. All little things—all things they likely took for granted but I couldn’t stop paying attention to, because I’d never had this.

I’d misjudged Grant, though. He’d morphed from a forky four to a ten. Not a “ten” in the sense that he was hot—a “one” could be a runway model; my numbers had no hierarchy—but he was the kind of “ten” who wore a sophisticated monocle, which I’d heard was making a comeback. Even under the shadow of his mustache, he lit up the room with every story he told, propelling the conversation forward. And he looked at everyone with interest, not just me. If someone was talking, his monocled eye was on them, making them feel heard and important, and he didn’t look like he was pretending. It filled me with a mix of admiration and jealousy.

Worst of all, being here in this room made me think of family, which meant, despite my best efforts, I thought of my own. What if Brandon and I had had the life Grant and Deanna had? What if my brother had lived to see his late thirties? Would I be more like Deanna then?

How many times had I fantasized about a situation like this? But instead of William, Deanna, and Grant, it was always me sitting across from Brandon, laughing with the girl he’d brought home, evaluating her suitability for my big brother, the man I admired most in the world.

Family. A part of me wanted to keep watching, while another part wanted to run because my mind kept circling like a vulture hungry for decaying memories.

I excused myself as dinner transitioned into dessert, asking Deanna to point me to the bathroom.

I pressed my palms into the wooden vanity, around the white bowl sink, and observed myself in a mirror framed by distressed pine. Rosy cheeks, sparkling hazel eyes, not a hair out of place, a deep-purple dress that fit all my curves. That’s what I wanted everyone to see. In reality, my cheeks were red because I constantly bit the soft flesh inside, my eyes sparkled because they were always on the brink of tears, my hair was pulled into a bun to keep me from pulling it out, and the dress was there to distract onlookers from the moments I slipped.

I ran my hands under the cold water as it cascaded down from the waterfall sink, then pressed them to my cheeks.

What was I doing here? I didn’t belong here. Even William wasn’t like me, not really. Our similarities ended at skin tone.

I wanted what these people had, but I was never going to have this. I wasn’t equipped for relationships like these. My inhales chased the heels of my exhales as I contemplated the unthinkable: Chad. I thought about the divorce papers and what he’d said.

I’m leaving Vicki whether you take me back or not. I want us. I think I love you.

I looked back at my phone, at the last text he’d sent me, and I realized I’d missed another message from him, a wall of words that filled the screen.

Chad: Vicki said she knew we’d made a mistake by getting married. She told me she’s had feelings for her best friend for a while, but, unlike me, never acted on them. She’s upset, and I don’t blame her. But she’s also relieved. She’s felt trapped for a while and didn’t know what to do about it. I thought she was happy, which tells you how wrong we were for each other. We’re telling our families tonight. And I told her about you, that I came to Nashville to see you, and she asked me if I loved you.

I do love you. I love you, Pen. And I meant what I said the other night. I want it to be us.

I flicked the screen away and made it go black as my breath struggled in and out of my lungs. It was as if he’d felt my doubts and pounced on them.

I was so tired of being alone. Being in Deanna’s warm house tonight was making me realize how lonely I was. No matter how much I tried to convince myself I was better off without the complication of people, the thought of a life completely alone scared me as much as having someone did. But I didn’t know how to be with anyone, except I’d had something with Chad.

I had the sudden urge to call him, to pick up the phone and hear the voice of the man who’d told me he loved me. Who else was going to love me?