Page 42 of The Thinnest Air
But then there’s Allison. She’s the only neighbor who waves when I pass by. Then again, she and her husband only recently moved in. They didn’t know Andrew when he was still shackled to Erica.
“My one-year anniversary is next month,” I say to Ronan, peering over the dash and wishing he would keep driving.
“Doing anything special?”
“Andrew wants to take me somewhere. Says it’s a surprise. Told me to pack a swimsuit,” I say, shrugging. I’m guessing it’s Fiji or the Virgin Islands. Definitely a place he can brag about to his friends as he shows off pictures from our trip.
I know Andrew loves me, but he also loves to show off his earthly possessions ... his Maserati, his limited-edition diamond Rolex, me.
“You don’t sound too excited.”
“I don’t?” I hadn’t realized. “I am. I just ... I think I’m in a funk or something.”
“How so?”
I’ve yet to ask myself that question, afraid of what the answer might be if I dig deep enough.
“Are you unhappy?” he asks.
“Not at all,” I lie. I lie so hard.
A year ago, I was walking on a breeze, a smile permanently etched on my carefree face, counting down the minutes until my husband walked in the door at the end of the night and barely containing myself the second we crawled into bed.
But then I met Ronan.
And my life took an unexpected detour.
And it’s not Ronan. It’s not Andrew. It’s all me. I know that. I blame no one but myself.
“Actually. I don’t know.” I sigh, feeling the pressure of the words as they congest in my throat. I’ve held all this in, not telling a single soul, and I don’t know how long I can do it anymore. “When I’m with Andrew, I feel a certain way. Grateful? Fortunate? Loved?”
I pick at a loose thread on his seat.
“But when I’m with you, I feel something else entirely,” I say. “And I don’t know what that is. I just know it makes me feel alive in a way that Andrew doesn’t.”
I muster the courage to glance in his direction, watching for his reaction. His brows are angled in, his gaze focused on the road. He’s listening. Which is more than Andrew can say lately.
When we first met, Andrew would listen to me drone on and on about everything. He seemed fascinated by my eclectic childhood, my rebellious teenage years, my college shenanigans, and everything in between. He actually listened. We had real conversations with real dialogue that volleyed back and forth.
Now I can’t recall the last time we actually conversed for longer than five minutes about anything meaningful. Lately it’s “How was your day?” and “What are we having for dinner?” and “Did you want to see that play this weekend?”
“If you’re not happy, Meredith, then by all means, get the fuck out,” Ronan says. “There’s a reason the divorce rate in this country is so high. People make mistakes every day. Love makes us do stupid things.”
“Do you know how many people told me not to marry Andrew?” I ask. “All my friends. My coworkers. My sister practically launched an all-out campaign against him. But I loved him. And I didn’t want to believe them. I wanted to prove them wrong.”
“So you’re going to stay miserable just to prove a point?” he scoffs, shaking his head, the first time I’ve ever seen him annoyed with me.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” I say, resting my forehead against the chilled glass window. “I don’t have a single penny to my name. My sister lives in a studio apartment, and living with my mother and her boyfriend-of-the-month is completely out of the question.”
“So get a job. Save some money.”
I don’t tell him about the trust fund. It’s none of his business.
“Andrew doesn’t want me to work.” I place my palm over my mouth. “God, do you hear how I sound right now?”
Ronan turns to me, his lips half frowning. “Yep.”
“He’d question it. He’d know something was up.” I close my eyes, wishing I’d never agreed to that stupid prenup that ensured that if the marriage couldn’t make it past year five, I’d walk away penniless.
