Page 11 of The Rebound
“You will.”
“Do you have a date yet? We’ll need to book time off work.”
“You’ll be the first to know,” I say, even as I start to feel a little ill. It occurs to me only then that they’re probably saving up to go to the wedding. Neither of them has much money. Tomasz is on a nurse’s salary and I know Louise takes on a lot of seasonal work like everyone else in the town, meaning the charity she works for must not pay very well. I had tried to help them when I first started at MacFarlane but Louise had been very insulted and flat out refused during a very heated argument one Christmas.
The only time they go overseas is the annual trip to visit Tomasz’s family. Of course they’d need to save for the wedding. The wedding that isn’t happening.
I swallow my last bit of food, barely tasting it. “All done,” I say a little louder than I meant to. “Thanks, Louise. We’re doing this every morning, right?”
“I think that sounds like a good idea,” Tomasz says, transferring one of Louise’s pancakes to his own stack.
She watches me as I put my plate in the sink. “The Baileys are coming at one-thirty.”
“Got it,” I say, backing out the door. “I’ll be here.”
“Notin your running clothes.”
“I was thinking a ballgown actually.” I flash her my best smile, escaping outside before she can reply.
Okay, so I do have something for my planner.
Tell Louise about Tyler.
Tell everyone about Tyler but start with Louise.
Start with Louise so she can tell my parents and they can tell everyone else and soon everyone will know how monumentally destroyed my life is.
I close my eyes, trying to banish the thoughts before they overwhelm me. Try, as Jess always says, to focus on the now. And the now isn’t so bad. It’s a relief to be outside. There’s a nip in the air despite the sunshine, but it’s unusually warm for late March and I breathe in deep before starting a light run on the road.
I ran every morning in New York. Or at least every morning when I wasn’t called in early. I’d loop around Central Park, under the towering buildings and thick canopy of trees. I never entered races, I never did marathons, I never timed myself or tried to go farther than I wanted to. I just did what I felt like, content simply with the steady beat on the ground, the delicious stretch in my legs.
I’m not a pretty runner. I like that too. I like that my face goes bright red and I sweat and I puff. I like that I can fall apart only to return to my apartment and piece myself together again with a shower and coffee and makeup and clothes. It’s more than a routine, it’s a ritual, and it’s one I intend to keep.
I pick up my pace, following the river into the village, past the garage and the tired gas pumps, past the garden center and the primary school and over the ancient greystone bridge that leads me to the place that was the center of my universe for the first eighteen years of my life.
Clonard is either a small town or a large village, depending on who you’re talking to. It’s really just one long road, spread out over a series of hills. This road splits off into smaller ones, all with the same terraced buildings and the odd stable yard. The layout of the place hasn’t changed much since the fifties, though the population certainly has, most of its inhabitants moving on to newer housing developments closer to the offices and industrial parks farther out.
The only reason the village has even survived as long as it has is because of the summer tourists who come in droves for the surrounding lakes and mountains. In a few months every shop, restaurant, and B&B will be bursting, but for now the storefronts are boarded up for the off-season, the streets empty. The barbershop is still open though, along with the butchers and the newsagent. Pete’s pub is still there and, to my relief, a new café that would look more at home in Brooklyn than Clonard. But other than that, there’s not much to see and a part of me is almost relieved I don’t have to drag Tyler out here so he can pretend to like it.
I can picture it perfectly. The polite smile, the pleasant inquiries, all the while he plans our escape route.
Tyler and I dated for three years, partners in every sense of the word. And though the unspoken agreement between us was that for now our careers came first, we hit each relationship milestone exactly on time. We met each other’s parents, we moved in together, we had weekends away and dinner parties with friends.
A few months ago, a little before Halloween, he arrived home for our scheduled date-night dinner and halfway through the second course the conversation turned to the topic of marriage. Specifically, marriage between us. There was no down-on-one-knee moment. It wasn’t Tyler’s style and, to be honest, it wasn’t really mine. We discussed the pros and cons, we went over timelines and next steps, and after a few minutes, it was decided. We would get married. We opened a very expensive bottle of wine and made love twice and it was like all the pieces in my life were coming together exactly as I hoped.
And then, just a few weeks before theNew York Timesreleased its damning exposé on MacFarlane, a few weeks before our offices were raided and my career fell apart in the space of a few hours, Tyler sat me down on a cold February evening and explained calmly and somberly that he was having second thoughts about our engagement. That between his job and… well, his job, he was re-evaluating the important things in his life and that re-evaluation had made him unsure if our relationship was as strong as it should be.
He wasn’t sure if he loved me anymore.
Not that hedidn’tlove me. Just that he wasn’t sure. And for Tyler, who made every move, every decision with a confidence that sometimes awed me, that was enough. I cried and he stayed with me while I did and then I yelled at him and then I left. The next day I moved into one of MacFarlane’s apartments. They’re supposed to be kept for new starters as a perk, but it’s not unusual for a good chunk of first-year analysts to drop out over the holidays, so I was able to stay there until that was taken from me too.
Something catches in my chest and I stumble, barely halfway into my planned route as a familiar pressure starts in my chest, a rising panic I try to shove down as I double over, hands on my knees. It’s been happening a lot the last few weeks and I don’t need to go to my therapist to know that it’s stress. Which is fortunate, seeing as I can’t afford my therapist anymore. I can’t afford anything anymore.
I straighten, my breathing strained, and catch the eye of a young woman across the street who’s watching me with a concerned look. Embarrassment rolls through me and, before she can cross the road, I turn to jog back, my legs sluggish beneath me.
Once home, I take a long shower and make a note to pick up some conditioner. My curls will quickly spiral out of control if I go a few days out of routine. Louise knocks on my door twice, reminding me of the time, and I toy with the idea of showing up in sweatpants just to annoy her, but instead pull on jeans and a nice blouse and try my best with my makeup.
When the bell rings I’m already halfway down the stairs, intercepting Louise with an overly friendly “I’ll get it!”
