Time of My Life_ A Novel - Allison Winn Scotch [68]
I noticed that her hair is better highlighted than in weeks past and her skin flawless. The circles beneath her eyes have receded, and whether it’s new makeup or just a new outlook, she looks fresher, happier even.
“Look, Jo, you can’t. You’re happy with Art.”
“I’m not.” She shrugs.
Yes, you are! You’re fucking happy in seven years with Art!
“It m-might seem that way now,” I stammer. “But with some perspective, this will pass.” I try for something more convincing. “In fact, I read a study that said that when asked about their unhappy marriages five years later, nearly 82 percent of couples said they were now happy” (Redbook!).
Josie shifts. “It doesn’t feel that way. It doesn’t feel like this will ever turn around. Art wants to move to San Jose, and . . .” Her voice drifts, and she flops her hands helplessly.
“I understand.”
“I appreciate that, Jill, I do. But until you’ve been married, I don’t know . . . it’s a tough row to hoe. And some things . . . well, sometimes people grow apart.”
I understand! You don’t get it! I really freaking understand!
“And you think that sleeping with Bart will make it all better?”
“Maybe.” She shrugs again, but doesn’t sound entirely convinced.
“Well, maybe it will,” I agree. “But, you know, maybe it won’t. Maybe your relationship with Bart will be as screwed up as your marriage.”
“So you’re acknowledging that my marriage is screwed up?” Jo laughs. “Tell me something I don’t already know.” She sighs. “I probably shouldn’t be saying all of this to a newly engaged woman. I hope I’m not disillusioning you.”
“I’m pretty sure I know what I’m in for.” I lean back in my chair and massage the nape of my neck.
“That’s the thing,” Jo says. “You think you know what you’re in for. I mean, you tell yourself that, of course, it’s not going to be wine and roses and all of that bullshit for the rest of your life, but then, one day, you wake up, and your fucking husband has morphed into someone whom you barely recognize. And you sit there and you stare at him while he scratches his balls through his underwear at the kitchen table, and you think, ‘This is totally not what I signed up for. I mean, who knows if I even love this ball-scratching, foul-breathed man?’ And then you wonder if you love him more out of habit than out of anything else.” She chews the inside of her lip and considers. “And I guess from there, all bets are off.”
“And you don’t think that one day you might wake up and think the same thing about Bart?” I ask. “That he might disappoint you in the same ways?”
“He couldn’t disappoint me in the same ways,” she says, her solemnity ringing clear.
“Well, then maybe in different ones,” I say, pawing my engagement ring until I realize the symbolism and stop abruptly.
“Maybe,” she says. “But I already know that Art’s going to let me down, and with Bart, there’s still the possibility that he won’t.” She heaves herself from the chair. “Anyway, it’s just food for thought. Nothing I’m going to do anything about just yet.”
I watch her go. “Be careful what you wish for,” I call after her, and she pokes her head back into my office. “You just never know what you might end up with.”
She nods and then darts away.
I reach for the phone once again to finally and firmly dial my mother. And as I do so, I try not to think of Jack. Or Henry. Or the disappointment my wishes might bring.
MY MOTHER AND I have agreed, in a stilted two-minute conversation, in which my heart nearly exploded from my chest cavity, to meet at a tea emporium on Eighteenth Street at noon on Saturday. Which means I have to cancel a trip to Saks with Leigh, Meg, and Ainsley, in search of the quintessential bridesmaids’ dresses, and leave Vivian none too pleased.
“Could you please just explain to her why I canceled?” I say to Jack the night before, after fielding her third message in two days. We’re splitting Chinese food after begging off plans with Jack’s coworker Austin and his wife because I am too emotionally exhausted to cope with small talk and martinis.