Bex and I endured every emotional hardship together, from the hormonal roller coaster of first crushes to Bex moving to Chattanooga when her dad got a promotion. We spent four crazy years together at college that blurred into the excitement of our first place together in Atlanta. We took our friendship and the freedom of youth for granted, as if neither could ever end. Parties, one-night stands, boyfriends, serious boyfriends then, somehow, marriage.
Bex tied the knot at twenty-five. It took me a little longer to do the same. Ethan and I met in LA and married just as I was turning thirty-one, which for a girl from the South meant I was practically an old spinster. As my grandmother Jackie said at the time, “Better late than never.”
Bex loved Patrick, but her dad definitely didn’t. Considering how close Bex and her dad are, it always bothered her that Patrick didn’t have his approval. Bex’s dad probably always imagined his princess with a “good ole country boy.” A Sundance Kid era Robert Redford with a dash of the Marlboro Man, someone who could chop wood while hog-tying a calf. Even though Patrick was from rural Georgia, he was more at home in spreadsheets and boardrooms than the great outdoors. Maybe her dad just saw all along that Patrick couldn’t give Bex the attention she needed.
Ultimately, the bickering and squabbling of two people who loved each other but had grown apart finally reached nuclear levels. My heart actually hurt when I thought about how nasty things had gotten between Bex and Patrick in the end. She got full custody of Maddie and kept the house, thank God. After the divorce, her dad never said “I told you so.” He didn’t need to. Unspoken words can be the loudest of all.
Could I handle a divorce? I’m starting to ask myself that question more and more. Thinking about the routine of the next few days, weeks, and months, just more of the same, makes me so anxious and unsettled. There are times when it seems impossible to even get out of bed each morning.
At the entrance to the tube, I look at my phone one last time to see if Ethan has replied to my text, or indeed if anyone might have texted me. Nothing. I make my way toward the long escalator down to the platform and wait for the train back to an empty flat.
Chapter One
Left or Right
BEX
It’s 10:30 p.m. and I’ve been lying in bed for almost an hour now, aimlessly swiping left and right on my old iPhone. Back at it again. You’d think I’d have taken a break from all this since my failed attempt with Sean a few days ago, but the house has been so quiet with Maddie gone, I’ve fallen back into the black hole of online dating. Does insurance cover Tinder induced carpal tunnel syndrome? If this was the first night I’d been doing this, I’d be excited. But it’s not the first night. And I’m definitely not excited. I’m frustrated, and frankly, if I weren’t tipsy on cheap rosé from Trader Joe’s, I’d be crying.
I pick up my long-stemmed wineglass, the only one left from the wedding set that my ex-cousin-in-law Chuck gave to Patrick and me, to polish off the last remaining room temperature gulp, when I spy “Devon.” He has brown hair, dark walnut skin, and a hot bod in Levi’s with a dark green tee that’s just tight enough. He looks mid-forties with a smile that says trouble, and basically, one hundred percent my type. I take a moment to swipe through a few of his photos—sitting on the bed of a pickup truck, with a girl who looks to be his daughter at Café du Monde with the obligatory beignet photo, powdered sugar all over their shirts. So cute. Intrigued, I take a look at his bio, feeling the beginnings of what could actually be excitement brewing in my belly. Finally! Someone with potential! I read that “he’s a woodworker who likes…” In my eagerness, I sit up too fast, splash that last cherished gulp of wine down my nightgown and swipe left. Yes, left. Even though I’ve done this hundreds of times, I can’t ever remember which direction I’m supposed to swipe when I’m interested or not interested, and in my current state of wine spillage, and let’s be honest, desperation—I swipe the wrong damn way.
And…I’m done. I refuse to pay for a Tinder subscription, which means I don’t have access to the “rewind” button. Paying for a subscription would mean that I’m taking this app dating seriously, something I’m just not ready to do. Besides, the reality is that Devon is probably not as amazing as his photos. But the beignet one was really cute.
I toss the phone on top of my white comforter and look up at the popcorn ceiling of my bedroom. I should just delete this app tonight and move on with my real life. She may not be here now, but Maddie is really the only thing I should be focusing on. She still needs me. At least, she still needs me to drive her around. What does it say about me that I’m chauffeuring my thirteen-year-old daughter to the mall so she can hold hands in the food court with a boy from her school while I sit in the car and do crossword puzzles, hankering for a slice of Sbarro pizza? It’s a sad state of affairs, that’s what it is. Regardless, my needs aren’t important right now; hers are. That’s how a good mom should be. Isn’t it…?
On the flip side, maybe I should be in a loving relationship to show her what a healthy adult partnership looks like. Patrick moved on four years ago, after we’d only been divorced for a year. He seems happy enough with Amber, who I actually like a lot which is a surprise even to me. She’s one of those people I would love to hate, but she’s sweet to Maddie, so I can’t complain. But Maddie is at my house most of the time, and I worry she’s missing out by not having a father figure here. I know what an important bond that can be, and I want that for Maddie. But that would mean I’d have to actually meet a guy. Go on a date. Start a relationship. Ugh.
Completely over myself and my lack of a love life, I pick up my phone again. But this time, instead of opening Tinder, I hold my thumb over the icon so it quivers and the x appears so I can delete it for good. Just as I’m about to hit the x, my phone lights up with an incoming call. I hesitate to answer because it’s late, I’m half drunk, my nightgown is soaked in wine and I’m tired as hell, but it’s Olivia so I answer.
“Hey, Liv,” I say, sounding more cheery than I actually am.
“You’re still up? Good! I was hoping I would catch you,” she says with such an upbeat tone I’m instantly skeptical.
“What are you doing up? It’s, what, six thirty in the morning in London? Are you going to work early? What’s wrong?” I rattle off this litany of questions like a hyperactive dog digging for a bone. It’s hard to imagine anything is wrong when she sounds so alive and vibrant, but she never calls this early, or late, as the case may be. In fact, she never seems to call at all; we mostly just exchange texts.
“Well, no…I’m just heading home.”
My eyes narrow. “Why do I sense trouble in River City?” I can’t help using song references. I was a musical theater nerd in high school.
After a moment, Liv lets out a melancholy sigh and my radar is pinged. She’s put out the bait, so I’m definitely gonna bite. Liv’s been happily married to Ethan for nine years. He’s an okay guy, although I’ve never really thought he was right for Liv. But he’s handsome and they live the big city life she always dreamed of having when we were younger. Which is why I’m confused by this “heading home” comment.