Dear Debbie, page 13
Right now, we’re in my living room, eating the salad she made. It’s nothing special but it tastes pretty good, thanks to that miso ranch dressing. I’ll have to ask her where she got it. It’s been a long time since I had a friend I could share recipes with.
It makes me sad to think that I don’t have any close friends anymore. My last one was my college roommate, Mariah. But Mariah got married and had a baby, and after that, every text message exchange we had included a photo of her baby doing something she thought was “so adorable.” I couldn’t even talk about the weather without her sending me a photo of her baby holding a thermometer or something. I finally snapped and told Mariah that I had absolutely no interest in the constant photos of her ugly daughter. After that, our friendship sort of fizzled.
Debbie is talking about her garden now, which is obviously her favorite topic, but I don’t care about her stupid flowers. There’s only one reason why I’ve become friends with Debbie Mullen, and that’s to pump her for information about Cooper, although, as always, I try to be casual about it, like I barely even remember who he is.
“So…” I take another bite of salad, crunching the lettuce between my teeth. “How is your husband doing? What did you say his name was? Carter? Connor?”
She gives me a funny look that I can’t quite interpret. “Cooper.”
“Right. So how is Cooper?”
Her tone is disinterested. “He’s fine.”
“What did you say he does for a living?” I prompt her. “Something in an office?”
“He’s an accountant.”
“Right.” I snap my fingers as if I didn’t already know all this. “That’s sort of boring. He’s a bit of a nerd then?”
“A bit,” she concedes, although I disagree. Cooper might be an accountant, but he’s definitely not a nerd. Nobody who saw him with his shirt off would think so. “Not as much as me. And he’s hopeless with any technology. He needs my help to turn on the computer.”
I already know that’s true. It has made stalking Cooper online an exercise in frustration. I prefer men who post everything they do and everywhere they go on social media so I can gauge exactly what they’re thinking. But Cooper is older than me—old enough that posting minute-to-minute updates online is not a priority for him, like it is for a lot of men my age or younger.
“He sounds nice,” I say before she can start talking about her garden again. “You’re lucky to be married to a nice guy.”
She doesn’t answer me right away. She seems to be considering her response carefully as she stabs a piece of tomato with her fork. “He’s nice” is all she says.
“Good father?” I press her. I like the idea of Cooper being a good father. Mine was shit. I don’t want to blame everything bad I’ve done on daddy issues, but it would have been nice if he ever said two words to me, that’s all I’m saying.
“Great father,” she confirms.
She doesn’t seem eager to discuss this, but I can’t help myself. I’m desperate for any little morsel she can tell me about Cooper Mullen, even if it means giving myself away.
“It must be hard to be married for so long,” I say. “I would think that after five or ten years, a lot of the romance gets sucked out of it.”
Debbie’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. Uh-oh, maybe that was too far. I got greedy. But I am desperate for a tearful confession that she and Cooper don’t love each other anymore and that he hasn’t touched her in years. I don’t want everything he told me to be a lie.
“Marriage can be hard,” she says quietly.
I wait for her to elaborate, but she doesn’t. I grudgingly respect that she isn’t trashing her husband, but maybe that says it all. If she and Cooper were stupidly in love, she would say so. She’s embarrassed to admit that her marriage has fallen apart.
Cooper is the one. Every time I meet with him, I’m more sure of it. And now that I know Debbie, I understand why he’s desperate to get away from her.
I just have to handle this exactly right.
37
DEBBIE
My head is spinning as I drive back home from Harley’s apartment.
That T-shirt. That T-shirt in her bedroom. I can’t get it out of my head. The smell is still lingering in my nasal passages. Tugging at me.
I know that smell.
This changes everything.
There’s a car behind me, riding my ass. I’m going the speed limit. Actually, I’m going five miles above the speed limit on a street littered with stop signs, but that is not fast enough for the man behind me. Every time I slow to a halt at a stop sign, he instantly leans on his horn until I start moving again.
Why is everyone in such a hurry? Is he a surgeon rushing in for an emergency appendectomy, and the appendix will literally explode if he spends more than one second at each stop sign?
I am not in the mood for this.
If this were any other week, I would have pulled over and let the guy go around me. I hate being tailgated—it stresses me out.
But this time, I don’t pull over. In fact, I stay a bit on the left to make it hard for him to get around me if he did choose to illegally cross the double yellow lines. And each time I stop at a stop sign, I spend a little more time there. He leans on his horn the whole time.
Finally, after playing this game for several more minutes, I hit the brakes at yet another stop sign. I count to ten in my head while the man behind me leans on his horn.
One one thousand. Two one thousand. Three one thousand…
I only make it to seven before the man gets completely fed up with me. He swerves around me, blowing through the stop sign at a good thirty miles per hour.
A split second later, the cop car I saw lying in wait turns the corner, its lights flashing.
I go through the stop sign, and I swerve around the man, who is waiting in his car for the cop to come out and give him a ticket. I flash him my middle finger, and he pays me back the same courtesy. I just barely catch the look on the police officer’s face, who thinks that the man’s hand gesture was meant for him.
Well, that was fun.
A few minutes later, I am back in my own neighborhood. When I turn onto my block, I pass Jo Dolan’s garden. I’ve only been gone for an hour and a half, but the Japanese beetle situation has clearly worsened to a critical level. If they weren’t a swarm before, they definitely are now. Jo is standing in the middle of her yard, looking miserable. It’s safe to say that the photo shoot is off. Although perhaps some entomological publication would be interested.
As soon as I pull into my driveway, I dig my phone out of my purse. Despite a few distractions on the way home, I still can’t stop thinking about that T-shirt. Studies have shown that smells trigger greater brain activity than visual stimuli due to the direct connection of the olfactory bulb to the amygdala (which is responsible for emotions) and the hippocampus (which is responsible for memories).
Before I can stop myself, I call Cooper. He picks up quickly, which I take as a good sign.
“Hey, Debbie,” he says. “Everything okay?”
I want to ask him if he can explain that shirt to me, but I can’t seem to push the words out. Things are bad enough without forcing Cooper to lie to me.
That is, lie to me again. Because he’s already been lying to me. I knew it the second I realized he turned off the location sharing on his phone.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Just wanted to check in.”
“Okay…” He sounds confused, which is reasonable considering I don’t usually call him in the middle of the day to check in. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. Really.”
Under other circumstances, I would think he was being sweet and concerned. Ever since we met, Cooper has worshipped the ground I walk on. He never judged me for the things other people have judged me for.
Although, like him, I have my secrets. There are things I never told him, because I never told anyone. And maybe that’s part of the problem. I never gave myself to him one hundred percent.
I start to mention the news of Coach Pike’s arrest, but then I think better of it. He’ll find out about it sooner or later. Better he doesn’t hear about it from me.
“When will you be home?” I ask him.
“Maybe six? I was planning to hit the gym again today.”
Of course he is. “Okay. Just…be home in time for dinner, all right?”
“I always am.”
“Have you talked to Ken again?” I blurt out, even though I recognize it’s the last thing he wants to talk about. “I mean, maybe you should ask him about…”
“Getting my job back?”
He’s right. That was exactly what I was going to say.
Cooper is quiet for a moment as he absorbs the reality of our situation. Neither of us have jobs, and we’ve got a huge mortgage and a college tuition looming next year. “He’s out of town. Until Monday.”
“Oh. Well, maybe Monday then.”
“Maybe.”
It doesn’t matter. Cooper won’t be talking to Ken Bryant on Monday. Nobody will be talking to Ken on Monday or ever again.
38
HARLEY
I’m glad to see Cooper show up at the gym today.
I wasn’t sure if he’d be here, because he usually only comes three days a week. But when I emerge from my Zumba class, there he is, grunting as he lifts weights in a seated position. I stand in the corner of the room, about ten feet away from him, waiting for him to acknowledge me. When he doesn’t even glance my way, I walk right over to him.
“Harley…” He looks startled to see me. “What are you doing here?”
“I work here.”
His gaze darts around the room anxiously. His friend that he often comes with is on another machine, working out, but he’s not looking at us. “I told you, we can’t talk here. It’s too dangerous.”
Too dangerous. This is a man who is scared shitless of getting caught by his wife. Scared because she’s completely out of her mind? Or scared because he still loves her and doesn’t want to lose her?
“Well, sorry.” I plant one hand on either hip, pushing my breasts forward. Cooper definitely notices. “I’ve just been missing you today.”
Cooper opens his mouth, and at that moment, I am absolutely certain he is about to tell me that we need to cool it. I’ve seen that look before, and that’s always what’s coming. I brace myself, waiting for him to say the words.
But he doesn’t say it. He just reaches out, gives my hand a quick squeeze, then pulls away.
“Not here, okay?” he says. “We have to be careful here.”
My shoulders sag in relief. “Right. I’m sorry.”
“But I’ll see you later, okay?”
“Tonight?” I ask hopefully.
He shakes his head. “I can’t get away tonight. Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” I agree, smiling at the delicious thrill that runs through every molecule of my body at the thought of an hour of pleasure with Cooper. “What if you come for dinner?”
He hesitates so long, I’m almost positive he’s going to tell me no. Getting to have dinner with your boyfriend when you’re the other woman is one of those pie-in-the-sky things.
“Please,” I say softly.
“Okay,” he finally agrees, and I almost jump up and down like a little kid. “I’ll come at six-ish. I’ll tell Debbie I’m staying late at the office.”
I’m floating on a cloud as I make my way to the front desk to pick up my schedule for tomorrow. I barely even notice the disapproving look on Cindy’s face when she hands me my schedule—until she won’t let go of the piece of paper.
“Harley,” she says in a low, firm voice.
I try to tug the paper out of her hands, but she still won’t let it go. “What? What’s wrong?”
“He’s married,” she says.
Ugh. This is not what I need right now. I tug harder on the paper, and finally, Cindy releases it from her grasp.
“I know he’s married,” I hiss at her.
“Then why are you messing around with him?”
Cindy doesn’t get it. She is single and seems to have no interest whatsoever in dating or sex. She’s old—even older than Debbie—but she’s actually pretty attractive. She could have a partner if she wanted, but she doesn’t want one. She must be one of those women who hates sex. You can’t expect somebody like that to understand.
“This is actually none of your business,” I tell her quietly.
Cindy blinks at me. “You’re right,” she says. “It’s none of my business.”
I celebrate a little moment of triumph, but then I realize that if she wants, Cindy could tell Debbie what’s been going on. If she tells Debbie that her husband’s been cheating on her with me… Well, I do want Debbie to find out, but not like that. I want her to find out in a way that I can control.
That means that I have to be the one to tell Debbie that her husband is cheating on her. I just have to figure out how to break the news.
39
When I get home from the gym, there’s a car I don’t recognize parked on my deserted, dead-end street.
I squint at the windows of the car to see if there’s anyone inside, but it’s too dark. My first instinct is to make a U-turn and hightail it out of here. I’m not sure where I’d go—a bar? Back to the gym? All I know is that the mystery car doesn’t signify anything good.
Then again, I’m exhausted. All I want is to get into my apartment and take a nice, long shower, slip into a pair of comfy pajamas, and binge reality TV. I don’t want to let some stranger in a silver SUV scare me away from my own home.
So I pull into the driveway, my fingers crossed that my upstairs landlords have a relative visiting and the owner of this vehicle has nothing to do with me.
No such luck though. The second I grab my purse and climb out of my car, the door to the SUV cracks open. Whoever is in that car has been waiting for me. Waiting for God knows how long, which means I won’t be able to get rid of them quickly.
The driver of the SUV is a middle-aged woman who reminds me a bit of Debbie. She has graying brown hair pulled into a neat bun, and she’s wrapped in a trench coat. My first thought is that it’s Edgar’s wife, even though I remember what she looks like, and this woman doesn’t really resemble her. There’s something familiar about her though.
My stomach sinks as the woman takes purposeful strides in my direction. I thrust my right hand into my purse, feeling around for the small can of pepper spray I keep inside. I’ve never used it before—never even tested it—but there’s a first time for everything.
“Harley Sibbern!” Her voice is brimming with fury. “That’s you, isn’t it?”
I freeze, wondering if I should make a run for it. I imagine the woman chasing me down, grabbing me by my ponytail, and tackling me to the ground. “Yes…”
“I’m Lisette Inghram,” she says. When I look at her blankly, she adds, “Edgar’s sister.”
“Oh.” Shit. “How…uh, how is he doing?”
“You mean after you wrecked his family?” Lisette raises her eyebrows, which are in dire need of grooming. “After you got him to leave his wife, then decided you didn’t want him?”
That’s not an entirely fair assessment of the situation. Edgar and I had an affair about a year ago, and yes, I did convince him to leave his wife of thirty years. But unlike Cooper, who has a lot of compelling physical attributes, Edgar was three decades older than me, seriously balding, with a weak chin and beady eyes. His most attractive feature was the fact that he was quite wealthy.
He failed to mention that the wealth belonged entirely to his wife. He also failed to mention that he had signed an ironclad prenuptial agreement and would be left penniless in the divorce. So really, he completely misrepresented himself to me. I was the victim here. I mean, did he think I was going to still live in a basement apartment, working for a second-rate gym as a trainer when I’m forty? He was delusional if he thought that.
And it’s certainly not my fault that his wife didn’t want to take him back. Or that his three children didn’t want to have anything to do with him.
“He hung himself,” Lisette blurts out.
“What?”
“You heard me.” Her furious eyes fill with tears. “He lost everything because of you, and he couldn’t take it anymore.”
Again, this is not fair. His wife is at least fifty percent at fault. “Is he…dead?”
I calculate in my head how much flowers sent to a funeral home will set me back.
“He’s still alive,” she croaks. “But he has an anoxic brain injury. He can’t walk…can’t speak…can’t feed himself. He’s in a nursing home now and needs twenty-four-seven care.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that.”
Lisette looks like she wants to slap me, and I take a step back. “Sorry? That’s all you have to say for yourself?”
My fingers finally locate the bottle of pepper spray, and my shoulders relax slightly. “What do you want me to say? Edgar was an adult, and he made his own bed. I didn’t force him to leave his wife. And I didn’t force him to hang himself.”
“Wow.” She shakes her head as if she’s never met anyone quite as horrible as me. What a drama queen—just like Edgar. “You’re heartless.”
“What do you want from me?” I retort. “What am I supposed to do? Take him back?”
She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. She’s probably the only person in the entire world who’s sad about what happened to Edgar. I didn’t get the sense he had many friends.
“You could visit him,” she says.
“Visit him?”
She nods. “The nursing home is only an hour away from here. He doesn’t talk much, but he smiles when he’s happy. You could sit with him and hold his hand. It…” She takes a breath. “I think it would mean a lot to him.”
