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“Okay . . .” I lift my gaze to watch her. “Go on.”
Georgie’s throat moves with a nervous swallow. “Paul.” She licks her lips. “The night you got married . . . he was really drunk . . . he tried to kiss me. Right before the ceremony. Didn’t force himself on me or anything like that, but tried. I pushed him away and gave him an earful—then I ran to Ma and told her all about it.”
I continue staring at her but don’t say a thing. What is there to say? I believe Georgie. Would have believed her if she’d told me back then too. Which is why, I’m guessing, Ma told her not to.
“What’d she say?” I ask. I care more about how my family reacted to this than about Paul. I already know he’s a scumbag.
Ma is outside the shop, fetching us iced coffee with extra whipped cream.
“She said to let it slide. That it might be the nerves on his part. But that if it happens again, we should definitely tell you.”
So this is why my family hasn’t spoken about Paul since the funeral. They saw through the good guy charade. They didn’t like him. Or at least, they had some serious reservations.
“You’re not mad, are you?” Georgie asks, giving me her puppy face.
I smile. “No. But next time, always tell me. I’d want to know.”
The day after, Georgie drags me along for two classes of Pilates, and the day after that, Lizzy absolutely insists I help her put her new nursery together.
I slip into my pre-Paul existence like it’s an old prom dress. Effortlessly, and yet it feels weird wearing my old life. My days are a whirl of social calls, cozy dinners, backyard parties, and leisurely walks by the river.
Three weeks after I get to Mulberry Creek, I decide I have too much free time on my hands. I take a volunteering post three towns north in Red Springs, on the Kentucky border, as a theater director for a Romeo and Juliet production, set by a group of underprivileged youth.
I spend the car rides rolling down the windows and putting country music on blast. I make cookies without feeling like a dumb hillbilly about it—and give them away to complete strangers. I write to Arya and Chrissy and attend baby showers. I eat home-cooked meals and hug the people I love, and whenever Paul enters my mind, I don’t push the thought away like it’s a hot potato in my hand. I let myself feel the pain. And move on.
It’s only when Arsène slips into my mind that I find myself doubting why I’m here. Which is silly. He told me time and time again we are nothing to each other. Proved as much, too, with his surprise visit where he berated me like he was a teacher. And yet, if he is planning to sue me, he is not being quick about it. I check my mailbox every day. Nothing but bills and paper-wasting ads is ever there.
I still don’t cry, unable to produce tears, but I’m no longer anxious about it.
My friends and family are incredibly supportive. Rhys, especially, is an absolute star. We meet for billiards once a week and talk about our high school years, about all the things we used to talk about. Nothing about our hangout feels like dating. The first time we met up over a beer and a quick game, I told him plainly that I’m not ready to date.
“Honestly, I figured as much.” He smiled and threw the cue-stick chalk across the table. “Can’t blame you, after what you’ve been through. But I’m willing to wait.”
Those words haunt me for two reasons. The first—because they contain a declaration of intention. He is willing to wait for me, which means he is waiting for something. He wants to pick up where we left off. I realize now that despite the last year, despite my idolizing what Rhys and I had after what I found out about Paul, I don’t necessarily think it’s a good idea to spark this old flame. “A wet match never reignites,” Memaw used to say when she was alive.
The second, more pressing issue with what Rhys said is that my reason for not moving on has nothing to do with Paul.
It’s been almost a year. A year to digest what happened, what he did, the things that can never be undone. I paid my widow dues. I grieved. I wept. I broke. Mended myself together, then broke all over again. Paul didn’t deserve me: this much I can now tell. He saw me in the same light as all his friends did. Those gently bred, private-schooled, helicopter professionals he brushed shoulders with. I was a trophy. A status symbol. Nothing more.
No. The reason I cannot move on from Paul isn’t Paul. It’s someone else.
