Page 11 of Summer in Kentbury
Sinclair
Saturday morning bringsa final email from my lawyer: the house is Clara’s, the alimony is done, and she will be a bride by sunset. I’m not brokenhearted, but I’m still bothered by the failure. It’s not like I’m the only McFolley who divorced. Five out of five marriages is a pretty bad ratio for my parents.
I’m too old to blame them formy problems, but I’m starting to believe that they definitely played a big part in how we all view relationships.
My conversation with Lavender comes back again. “You were the problem—she didn’t have your heart.”
I mean, she didn’t say it that way, but that’s actually what she implied. And all night, I kept wondering if she was right about it.
Did I ever love Clara? Even an smidge to propose to her? I hate to admit it, but I’m not sure I did. Fuck, I don’t even know if I know how to love. Everything in our relationship, including our marriage, was just going through the motions, keeping up appearances, and making my parents happy. The more I think about it, the more her claims of emotional frigidity ring true. I held back, kept myself walled off in so many ways.
And maybe it’s even sadder to realize that I’ve never been in love. In conclusion, Clara was right and to be honest, I didn’t deserve her. But somehow I feel like in a way I didn’t have her either, did I?
With a heavy heart, I pick up my phone again, ignoring the inner voice urging me to leave well enough alone. My fingers seem to dial of their own volition. Clara answers on the third ring, her voice clipped. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to fight me for the house, because I didn’t want it to begin with.”
I muster up a fake chuckle to hide my nerves. “Well, hello to you too.” I lean forward, resting my arms on my legs and pressing my phone to my ear. “Sorry for the impromptu call.”
“You should be,” she replies sharply. “I’m aboutto enter the spa where I have an appointment for a luxurious two-hour massage followed by hair and makeup. Mind you, I’d rather you ruin my day now than after I’m already relaxed.”
“This isn’t a call to fight,” I quickly assure her. “I just have a few questions.”
“Questions?” Her confusion is evident in her tone.
“Why did you marry me?” I blurt out, my heart pounding with uncertainty.
“Excuse me?” she stammers, clearly taken aback.
“You said I was too frigid, that I never loved you. Then why did you marry me?”
There’s a moment of hesitation before she responds. “I-I don’t understand why you’re asking this now,” her voice quivers.
“Because obviously, I was the main problem in our relationship,” I admit, feeling defeated. “But if I was all those terrible things, why did you choose to marry me? You knew who I was from the moment we started dating—three years before. And why did it take five years for us to get divorced?”
“I was in love with the life you provided—the luxuries,” she confesses softly. “You made everything possible for me. To be honest, I didn’t care about feelings until I felt lonely and used. It seemed like I was just a trophy or object for you to show off when it suited you.”
Her words hit me like a ton of bricks, and I feel a wave of shame wash over me. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath as I try to process her painful confession. “I’m sorry, Clara. I never meant to make youfeel that way. I had no idea what I was doing other than going through the motions and checking all the boxes.”
“I know.” Her voice is a quiet exhalation of air, and I can almost visualize the crease in her brow and the pursing of her lips as she speaks. “But that doesn’t change the fact that you did make me feel like an object the McFolleys had to have,” she states.
Her voice sighs, a heavy weight of disappointment in her words. I can almost picture her face, her furrowed brow and pursed lips as she speaks. My mind conjures up an image of her in the quiet dimness, surrounded by shadows and thoughts. The silence between us stretches on, filled with unspoken truths and painful realizations.
She’s right—my parents liked her because she fit the societal standard of beauty, not because they thought I was madly in love with her. And I had gone along with it, liking her well enough but never having deep feelings for her—not a one.
“Did you ever love me?” I ask because we may have been in the same place—two people who never found true love in what might’ve been a modern arranged marriage. We just didn’t know we were part of it.
“Honestly, no,” she whispers, and despite everything, I feel a pang of something that I can’t quite identify. “I didn’t realize that until after we had been divorced for three years. I was . . . infatuated at first and then too angry to even look into what I was feeling.”
I don’t comment on her infatuation, but I can’thelp but note the timing of her newfound realization. “That’s around the time you began to be nice to me,” I remark bitterly.
“I understood that we both made a mistake,” she explains, a weariness creeping into her voice. “Being angry at you just didn’t make sense anymore when I should’ve walked away after our third date.”
Wow, that’s not what I was expecting her to say. Third date. Was I that shitty? Talk about failures. “I hope you’ve found it.”
“Found what?” she asks, confusion evident in her voice.
“Love,” I say, almost scoffing at the idea. “That Sam is the love of your life and you two are happy.”
“Thank you and . . . well, you deserve it too,” she says with such a sweet voice, I wonder if this is the Clara I never got to meet.
