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“This,” she says, gingerly pulling her hair somewhat back to reveal the edges of the bruise to me. The revelation is brief, and then she covers it up again, positioning the pieces of hair back into place to hide the wound.
I pull a face. “Ouch. What happened?” I ask, trying to react like the bruise is brand-new to me, like this is the first time I’m seeing it.
“The other night,” she says, reaching for and fiddling with the edge of a paper napkin, reluctant to meet my eye, “I got up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom. I was half out of it. I’d had a glass of wine before bed, but that’s no excuse. I was totally sober. I don’t know what happened. I lost my bearings, I guess. I was disoriented from sleep, or I stood up too fast, something like that. Anyway, in the darkness, I miscalculated, walking straight into the doorframe instead of through the open door.”
I grimace. “That must have hurt.”
She shakes her head. “It didn’t, actually. It stunned me because I wasn’t expecting it, but it didn’t hurt.” She pats at her head again, makes sure the hair is where it belongs. She looks at me, and then she looks away again, her voice lowered as she says, “I keep trying to cover it up because I don’t want people to get the wrong idea.”
“Like what?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I don’t know, that someone is hurting me or something.”
A beat of silence follows. I want to ask if someone is hurting her and, if so, if it’s her ex, the handsome man in the Facebook images I saw. Mr. Roche. But then, before I can, the waiter comes back with our drinks, going on and on about how he didn’t know if she wanted bottled or tap water, and, by the time he leaves, the moment is gone.
“Do you still talk to anyone else from high school, besides Ben?” she asks, and suddenly it doesn’t feel right to dredge up the bruise again.
“Not really.”
“Mandy Cho?” she asks and I shake my head. In high school, Mandy was my doubles partner, though we didn’t talk to one another off the court. We had opposite strengths—Mandy was a big hitter, while I was a pretty consistent returner—and so the tennis coach paired us together, not because we were friends but to balance our strengths and weaknesses. “Do you?”
“No. Not much. I lost touch with just about everyone after high school. It was my fault. I’m terrible at keeping up with people.”
“What about Emily?” I ask because Emily Miller was Nat’s closest friend in high school.
“Some. She calls every couple months.”
“It’s hard, right? Everyone is so busy. How is your family?” I ask. “Are they still in Barrington?”
“No, not anymore.” She changes topics. “This place is nice,” she says about the restaurant. “You said you’ve been here before?”
I nod, taking a tentative sip of my tea, testing to see how hot it is. “It is. Yes. A friend found it years ago and I’ve been coming ever sense. Quaint, quiet.” The drinks and food are good, but it’s mostly the vibe I like: the soft, warm lighting; cool jazz playing in the background; the atmosphere.
I ask what she thought of the meeting the other day.
“It was nice. It felt good to be surrounded by people in a similar circumstance for a change.”
“That’s one of the reasons I love it too.”
She asks, “How long have you and Ben been divorced?”
“About a year,” I say, and then I tell her what I told the others my first time at the support group: how I was the one who filed for divorce and how I did so for my daughter, Sienna, because I couldn’t stand for her to see Ben and me fight anymore.
She changes positions on the chair. “My family and friends absolutely love Declan,” she offers. “They were enamored the first time they met him. They think he’s the perfect guy, as if there is such a thing. Sweet, charming, attractive, with a great job that pays well.” She takes a breath and I hold mine, hoping she’ll say more, and she does. “It’s hard to talk about Declan with them because they have this preconceived notion of who he is, and what I say is at odds with that notion. I don’t think they believe me when I tell them.”
“Tell them what?”
“What he’s like.”
I take another sip of my tea, too fast this time so that it burns my tongue. “What is he like?” I ask, trying not to react as I lower the mug to the table.
She reaches for her ice water, running her fingers through the beads of condensation on the outside of the glass. I watch her, waiting for a reply that doesn’t come.
“I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “You don’t need to answer that. Would you rather we talk about something else?” I ask because I can tell this conversation is making her uncomfortable, and I don’t want to do that. It’s been twenty-some years since we’ve laid eyes on each other. The last thing I want is to come on too strong.
“No,” she says, sliding her glass away, looking slowly up. “It’s okay. This is actually good for me, I think, to talk about Declan with someone who doesn’t know him for a change. I considered a therapist but the wait lists are months long, and there’s something nice about talking to someone you actually know, to someone who gets it, to someone who’s in a similar position, instead of someone who is getting paid to listen to me, you know?”
I smile. “I do. I know. It’s the same reason I found that group. Misery loves company, right?”
