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At home, I iron my suit for tomorrow’s interview, then watch the next episode ofGame of Thronesjust to spite him. Halfway through, I turn it off and fling the remote onto the coffee table. It slides off the other end and hits the floor, its batteries rolling in different directions.
How dare he?I did nothing wrong, as far as he knows, but he still held me against the wall. How fucking dare he? So much for his whole “no one touches you without your permission, Kate” thing.
The fact that Iwasactually doing something wrong is completely irrelevant, as is the fact that I liked the way he held me against the wall.
I snatch the batteries off the floor and throw them onto the coffee table.
I’m allowed to have friends who aren’t him. I’m allowed to date. And he can pretend otherwise, but I’d stake my life on the fact that he wanted to kiss me. Badly. He wanted it every bit as much as I did.
“I don’t need this shit right now!” I yell to the empty cabin walls as one of the batteries rolls back to the floor. “I really don’t!”
It’s not entirely about him. It has far more to do with the interview and what tomorrow reminds me of. But it shouldn’t be about him at all, and it is.
When I wake the next day on very little sleep, I remain in my room, waiting until the door slams and his motorcycle roars away before I emerge to shower.
I go through all the motions of getting ready, but it still seems as if my head is in the wrong place. It was always going to be in the wrong place, though, whether I’d fought with Beck or not.
No tragedy has a single anniversary, not when you’re the reason it happened. Because there are all the times preceding it when you could have chosen differently, all the times when you took a path and it turned out to be the wrong one.
Almost every month of the year holds some small tragedy, but this month...it holds the most, and those anniversaries seem to hurt more now rather than less.
Time heals all wounds, people say, but mine simply fester.
Today’s tragedy has a photo marking the date. I couldn’t forget it if I wanted to.August 18, 2020, it reads, beneath a picture of Hannah in utero. The profile of her face is crystal clear. She is sucking her thumb.
It was the day my doctor suggested a scheduled caesarian—not because Hannah was breach, not because there was any kind of problem, but because Caleb and I worked so much. “Women in your position sometimes prefer that,”she said,“simply for planning purposes.”
I turned her down and called Caleb immediately afterward, stunned by how unethical the suggestion was. But what if I’d said, “You know best”?What if I’d said, “That’s really thoughtful of you, and yes, actually, it would be nice to know my water isn’t going to break in the middle of a meeting”?
If I hadn’t been so goddamn sure I was smarter than everyone else, my daughter would be approaching her third birthday right now. I’d be planning her party and giving her all the things I’d promised her while I was pregnant. God, I made her so many promises back then.
Caleb was always gone, but it didn’t matter. I’d sit in the nursery Beck had helped me decorate, swaying in the white painted chair I’d already bought her, and dream of bringing her home, of the weight of her in my arms and the way she’d really be mine, something no one could take from me. I was going to give her every single thing I hadn’t had.
Camping at Shelter Cove. Christmas in Hawaii. Dance classes. Tennis lessons.
I guess, really, I was just promising her the same future Mimi had laid out for us, the life she said we’d have after I started at my new school. How fucking pathetic that all I could offer my daughter were the same lies some bitch offered me.
When I tuck the photo into my purse as I walk out the door, it’s not because I hope it will bring me luck. It’s just a reminder that no matter how badly today goes, I deserve worse.
* * *
Zavatello is locatedin San Jose. It’s not a great commute back to where Caleb’s living now, but it’s manageable.
I park in a garage and walk through the green space between the buildings while all the office dwellers walk briskly by—phones in their right hand, coffee in their left. Yes, people are getting shit done here, and even if it’s not my dream job, it’s an opportunity. A place where I can prove I’m okay again.
I wait in the lobby until my name is called, and then I’m taken to a corner office similar to the last one I had.
The man behind the desk rises. He’s middle-aged, big and doughy, like a former football player who let it all go after college. His face is familiar, though, and he’s smiling as if he expects me to know him.Washe a football player? Those guys always seem to think they’re celebrities, even if they never saw a second of game time.
“Kate,” he says, clasping my hand tight in one meaty paw. “Todd Stanich. You used to work with my wife, Lisa?”
A tiny spark of hope darts through my chest. Lisa Stanich and I got on reasonably well and he must be okay with my past, because there’s not achancehe doesn’t know.
“Of course,” I say, though I don’t recall any specific interaction with him. “It’s good to see you again.”
He indicates the seat across from him and I take it.
“So, how have you been?” His face is open and friendly, his smile gentle. His way of sayingI know, and it’s okay. His gaze drops to my legs and lingers there too long, but whatever. He’s still a guy, even if he’s a sort of friend. I can’t expect him to be Jesus.
