Rebound: Chapter 11

I can’t do this. I thought I could, but I was mistaken. Being back in New York is harder than I ever imagined.

I stayed in Charleston for two weeks, and everything felt so much simpler there. Elijah and I started to exchange messages about a week ago, and all our conversations are heartbreakingly polite. We’re both committed to staying calm and civil, and that isn’t something we’ve ever been good at.

We agreed that we didn’t want things to get nasty and decided that the only lawyer involved would be Drake. It’s a hell of a position to put him in, but he said he doesn’t mind, and he is at least someone we both trust. Nathan would be a different matter, of course—he’d have me out on the streets with my possessions in a shopping cart quick as a flash.

My pride screamed at me to simply tell him I don’t want a dime, but that isn’t sensible or even fair. I’ve contributed to this marriage, to Elijah’s life and social standing. Being Mrs. Elijah James is the reason I never built my own career. Pathetic as it might sound now, being Mrs. Elijah James was my career. And now things need to change. I’ve been using the notebook Granny gifted me to make those lists she suggested, and while I was doing that, I felt positive, like I could move forward. Now that I’m back, I’m not so sure.

Hearing his voice when we speak on the phone is unsettling. The low rasp of gravel when he works to hide his emotions, the sound of everyday New York life behind him. I was reminded what I’ve lost—of what I’m giving away.

Our last conversation was especially difficult. The anniversary of Verona’s death always hits him hard, hits all of them hard, and even in our current circumstances, I reached out. I had to. They usually visit her graveside, then go out for drinks to toast her memory. I called him later in the evening to ask how it went.

“It was … okay, I suppose,” he said, the pain clear in every word. “I think Maddox struggled. Or maybe he’s the only one of us who shows it so much. I missed you, Amber.”

I never went to the memorial gatherings with him, but I always called a ceasefire and made sure he wasn’t alone that night. “I kept finding myself wondering what my mom would say,” he continued. “About us.”

Of course, I have a pretty damn good idea what she’d say—leave now, son, while you have the chance. But I kept that to myself, and we navigated our way through the phone call with awkward politeness. Our new normal.

He has asked several times if I’m sure this is what I really want. His neutrality is undoubtedly deliberate, for both our sakes, but I hate it. He’s so emotionless when he asks that it feels like he’s going through the motions, ticking a box. It doesn’t make sense for me to be bothered—how can I be the one who asked for a divorce and also be upset that he isn’t fighting for our marriage? I don’t know how, but I am.

Drake has filed the initial paperwork and started drafting up agreements, and the whole process will now take on a life of its own. I arrived in the city this evening, and as agreed, came back to the house in Manhattan. Elijah has moved into a hotel until we decide what happens next.

Now, I’m standing in the vast entryway, suitcase at my feet, looking around at the sweeping staircase and grand chandeliers. It’s spotless, smelling of fresh polish and wax, white lilies beautifully arranged in vases. Vicky has been at work, and Dionne will have stocked the kitchen for me. She’ll have left me a plate of sandwiches, and there will be fruit in the bowl. The wine cellar will be blessedly full, and anything I could possibly want or need will be only a phone call away.

I absolutely hate it here, and I wish I could run straight back to Charleston.

We were happy in this house to start with, Elijah and I, but that happiness has been completely overshadowed. I don’t walk around these rooms and remember better times—I remember fights. My memories are filled with the sounds of slammed doors and cold silences and the occasional thrown glass. I remember the distance that grew between us.

When we moved in, we expected to fill our home with children, to make it our own. Instead, it’s become the place where our marriage died. I’d trade it all for a walk-up in Brooklyn if I thought we could get that love back.

I don’t even like the way the house looks—it’s too smooth, too perfect. I trudge up the stairs, feeling weary. After unpacking, I glance at my phone. Martha sent a message asking if I want to meet up for drinks, and I find myself pleased to hear from her. One of my new lists includes “make real friends.” Maybe I could start with the ones I already have.

In a normal family dynamic, I’d be friends with Melanie and Amelia, but that feels like too much of a stretch. Amelia will see me through Drake’s eyes, but Mel … that’s a different story. No. I need to find my feet outside the James family circle. Martha and I have never been close, but I do enjoy her company. If nothing else, it will fill my night. The thought of being in this house by myself is depressing.

We arrange to meet for drinks, and I take a shower, eat a sandwich, and start getting ready for the night ahead. It’s so strange being here alone. It’s not new—I’ve often been here alone when Elijah stayed with his family or was away on business trips. But on those occasions, it was only temporary. This is permanent—this could be what my future looks like. Me, bouncing off the overly peach-colored walls of the townhouse.

I don’t want that, I decide, grabbing a dusky-pink wrap dress from the closet. I don’t want this house. I’ll discuss it with Drake, and he’ll discuss it with Elijah, and maybe he’ll keep it. Maybe he’ll sell it. I don’t know—I can’t imagine it has happy associations for him either. One way or another, though, I’m going to walk out those doors one day soon and not come back. What I need is a fresh start, and I’m not going to find it here.

Having made that decision, I feel better as I sit down at my vanity. I got out of the habit of doing my hair and face when I was in Charleston. The cosmetics, the treatments, trips to the salon, the fancy clothes and designer shoes—it was all an added layer of protection. They were a way of shielding myself from a world that could sometimes be cruel. Getting ready for an event was like preparing for battle, and my makeup was my armor.

Tonight, I keep it light and natural, practically naked by my standards. I brush my hair until it shines but don’t add any product. On my feet, I go for a pair of dove-gray heels. I do like my heels—if I really were going into battle, at least I’d be able to stab someone with them.

Dammit, what if I eventually meet someone else, and he’s not as tall as Elijah? What if I have to wear flats so he doesn’t feel too short around me?

That, I tell myself, is a problem for another lifetime. At the moment, I have no interest in finding another man. Or, Granny Lucille’s voice reminds me, a woman.

The place where I’m meeting Martha is in Midtown, and I have a moment of confusion before I leave the house. Do I call Gretchen? Who gets custody of her and the Bentley in the divorce? When was the last time I used the subway like a normal person, anyway? I glance down at my heels and decide against that for tonight. Outside, I hail a cab, trying not to think about the night we met sweet Sanjay. My dashing taxi driver with a heart of gold. At least it’s not raining this time.

Through the window of the bar, I see Martha through waiting for me in a booth and pause before I go inside. Elijah asked his brother Mason to draft a brief press release to announce our separation to the world, but at this moment in time, the only people who know are our families. Can I risk telling Martha? Can I actually trust her, or will my business be broadcasted all over Manhattan society by midnight?

Maybe I can trust her, but it’s not my news alone. As I head inside to join her, I decide it isn’t worth the risk. The place is bustling and packed with beautiful people, the bright lights and chatter a stark contrast to the darkness outside. Martha looks up from her phone as I slide into the booth, and her face lights up. She looks genuinely pleased to see me, and I’m sad that I need to lie to her tonight. I make a promise to myself that she will be the first person I contact once the news is out.

“Well, don’t you look fucking marvelous?” she says, her eyes sweeping over me. “I’m liking this new look.”

I didn’t realize it was so noticeable, and my hand goes to my foundation-free face. “Why, thank you, Mrs. Kemp. I’m experimenting with going minimalist.”

She pours me a glass of wine. “Well, I suppose it beats experimenting with meth. You look great. How’s your grandmother? I bumped into Elijah last week, and he said you’d gone to stay with her.”

Hearing Elijah’s name jars me a little, but I simply nod and smile. “Yes. She’s eighty-nine, you know. I needed to spend some quality time with her, and there comes a point where you have to put family first.”

Not a word of what I said is a lie—Granny is eighty-nine—but the implication is that she’s old and sick and I was looking after her. It was actually the other way around, but I can’t let Martha know that. I’m glad he mentioned it though—it gives me the perfect excuse for why I canceled my upcoming social events.

“So true, darling, so true. I hope my feral offspring have the same attitude when I’m that age. They’re currently at the stage where I can do no right. Even my breathing annoys them. I think they’d quite like it if I stopped doing that altogether.”

Martha has fifteen-year-old twin daughters, and I shudder a little at the thought of all those hormones cooped up in one house. “Moms and daughters are like that,” I say. “For a while anyway. They’ll get through it, I’m sure, and then they’ll see you for the miracle of mothering that you are.”

“From your lips to God’s ears, Amber. So … Did you hear about Nancy Pearson? She crashed her Mercedes into the back of a police patrol car outside the Rockefeller Center. That’s her second DUI.”

And just like that, we are back on familiar territory—gossip, scandal, and examining other people’s problems. It’s ironic really, because neither Martha nor I have perfect lives. I am on the verge of a divorce, and she damn well should be, bearing in mind her husband’s behavior. Yet we don’t touch on those subjects at all. In its own way, it’s actually quite relaxing, like we have come to a mutual agreement to ignore the personal in favor of the public.

I’m not sure this quite fits in with my list goal of making real friends, but it will do for now. Once I can talk about it freely, I’ll confide in Martha and see what happens. Assuming she still wants anything to do with me, that is. There’s every chance that without the clout of the James family name, I will become a social pariah.

Glancing around the room, I realize that I don’t give a damn. Despite being one of the most densely populated cities on earth, New York often feels very small. Would I be bothered if I never saw any of these familiar faces again? If the endless round of invitations and parties dried up? No. In fact, it would be a relief. I might just go and live in a log cabin by a lake and become a crazy cat lady. Maybe I’ll learn how to fish and make campfires, live off the grid and brush my teeth with baking soda. Then again, maybe not. There’s probably some middle ground I have yet to find.

Martha reaches the end of her story about a competitive baking competition at her twins’ school. “I mean, we all buy the damn cakes and pretend we baked them—I know I do. But poor Lindsay Wilmington made the mistake of bringing her choux buns still in the patisserie box. I felt sorry for her, I really did.”

“Sorry enough to confess that you fake it too?”

“Fuck no! Why would I do that?” she says, winking at me. I shake my head, and she orders more wine. I suspect she already had several glasses by the time I arrived.

“Don’t you ever get fed up with it, Martha? All the … faking?”

She narrows her eyes at me. “You’re not just talking about the baking fundraiser here, are you?”

“No, I’m not. I’m talking about everything.”

She finishes off her glass and bites her lip. For a moment, I wonder if she’s about to tell me something real. If we might be on the edge of a breakthrough.

“Sweetheart,” she finally says, “if I didn’t fake it, I’d have nothing left. This is simply the way it is for women like us. Best not to question it or look at it too deeply.”

“Why not?” I ask.

She laughs lightly and wags a finger at me. “Because it might cause a rift in the space-time continuum. Or something like that. Nothing good would come of it, anyway. I’m just popping to the ladies’ room. Don’t drink all the wine when the new bottle arrives.”

She slides out of the booth, her form-fitting dress revealing the jut of her bony hips, the flatness of her ass. She looks like a skeleton in Donna Karan. Just as she disappears into the crowd, the wine turns up. I pour her a glass and one more for myself. Tonight is starting to taste sour. I’ll wait until she’s back, then make my excuses. I need to go home and add to my list: Find some new places to hang out.

I take a sip and glance around. So many familiar faces, but nobody I’m interested in talking to. There is nowhere as lonely as a crowded room.

I’m about to get out my phone and check for messages when I see him. When I see them. They’re standing up, the table in front of them scattered with empty dinner plates and used glasses. Chatting and laughing, comfortable with each other, like all of this is perfectly normal. They’re on the opposite side of the room from me, and I’m hidden in my booth, staring with disbelief as I watch them walk to the exit. My husband and a woman—girl, really—that I recognize from photos. Melanie’s little sister, Ashley. The one who is bright and bubbly and getting her MBA at Harvard. The one who is gazing up at my husband with an adoring smile, hanging on to his every word.

His hand goes to the small of her back as he guides her through the crowded bar, and it’s like someone has stabbed me in the heart. He’s smiling too, looking relaxed and happy and, naturally enough, drop-dead gorgeous. Ashley is holding several shopping bags, and he’s carrying a couple too. What the actual fuck? Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing here? Is my husband out on the town with a twenty-something child? Is Elijah a goddamn sugar daddy?

They reach the exit, and he takes her coat from her hands and holds it out for her to put on, like the gentleman he is. She giggles and thanks him, and I can see her eyes shining from here.

My heart feels like it’s going to explode, and I realize I haven’t taken a breath in way too long. I’m huddled up in the booth, watching them leave. Watching them stroll together along the busy city street, shopping bags swinging, stupid smiles on their stupid faces. I can’t believe he would do this to me.

All that talk about keeping things civil. All those times he asked if I was sure. The way he cried the night I told him I wanted a divorce. I’m starting to think none of that was real. If it was, he’s clearly consoling himself in the arms of Ashley Edison. Who is young, gorgeous, and obviously besotted with him.

I am devastated, but I’m also furious. How dare he? How dare he parade his new plaything like this, in a place where he’s known? He’s flaunting it, and it hurts. I would never do this to him.

The thought of Elijah being with someone new fills me with a sharp, pulsating pain. I feel like I’m being skinned alive. Maybe it’s not even new—maybe it’s being going on for ages, right under my nose. It could be why he moved into his own bedroom. Is he only pretending to be upset about the breakup? Is he playing nice to make sure I don’t hire a killer divorce attorney and skewer him?

Concentrating on my anger is far better than giving in to the pain. I jump to my feet, grab my purse, and scamper out into the night. I keep one eye on the happy couple, and one on my phone screen as I type a hasty message to Martha, telling her I had to leave. I’ll make it up to her later, if she even cares. The chilly air assaults me, and it dawns on me that I left my coat behind, but I don’t give a damn.

I feel ridiculous as I trail them, like I’m in a bad spy movie. I hide in doorways and dodge behind a group of office workers on a night out, making sure I never get too close. Elijah glances behind him a couple of times, as though he senses someone watching, but he never spots me. After a few minutes, they stop outside the lobby of a grand hotel. A familiar car pulls up beside them—the Bentley. I guess that solves the mystery of who gets Gretchen in the custody battle. My heart contracts as he opens the car door for Ashley, the same way he used to open it for me. He laughs at something she says and gestures for her to get in. Then he leans forward, his head and shoulders disappearing inside the vehicle. Is he kissing her? Is he fastening her seatbelt? Is he telling her he loves her?

He emerges again, closes the door, and pats the roof before the car drives away. Then he stands there for a moment, checking his phone, rubbing his hand over his beard and smiling. They’re probably sending each other messages. It’ll be all “miss you already” and rows of kisses. Probably some heart-shaped emojis too, because she’s twelve.

I’m disgusted to find myself on the edge of tears. Where is my backbone? I might have asked for a divorce, but he’s still my husband. He could have shown me some respect and waited five minutes before he found a replacement.

Elijah puts his phone in his pocket and wanders into the lobby of the hotel. I wait for a few seconds, making sure those tears don’t fall, and then I follow him. He heads straight for the elevator, where he presses the button and waits for the car. He’s wearing a charcoal-gray suit that fits snugly across his broad shoulders, a few buttons of his white shirt open at the collar. He looks so damn good, and I hate him for it.

I have no idea what I’m going to do or what I’m going to say. All I know is that I’m going to do something. The elevator doors open, and he waits to let a gray-haired couple out first. I run across the marble floor of the lobby, and the doors are already closing when I stick my hand into the gap.