Perfect Strangers

The first thing out of his mouth after I say hello is an abrupt and irritated, “What the hell are you doing in Paris?”

His voice is exactly the same upper-crusty New England voice it’s always been. The kind that suggests polo ponies and private social clubs and vacation “cottages” on Martha’s Vineyard. The slightly nasal Kennedy twang that comes across as rich and entitled, even when it’s cursing.

After a shocked pause, I answer evenly, “Why, hello there, Chris. So nice to hear you haven’t lost your charm and good humor since we last spoke.”

He bypasses my sarcasm and goes right back to barking questions. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going out of the country?”

“Gee, let’s see. It could be because we’re not married anymore. Or because we haven’t communicated since the divorce was finalized. Or because, I don’t know, it’s none of your business?”

“You’re my wife,” comes the hard response. “Everything you do is my business.”

I remove the receiver from my ear and stare at it in confusion for several seconds. Maybe this is a dream. Did I have bourbon earlier? Am I face down on the bed right now, asleep and blissfully snoring?

“Not to put too fine a point on it,” I say after coming back on the line, “but as I recall, you signed the same paperwork I did. I’m very much no longer your wife.”

“Marriage is for life, no matter what the fucking paperwork says.”

My eyes bulge to the point that I fear they might pop right out of their sockets. I’m in too much disbelief over what I’m hearing to muster any outrage. Instead, I start to laugh.

“I’m sorry, sir, but you’ve obviously dialed the wrong number. The person you’re speaking to is single, and has been for a long time, and thinks you should seek immediate psychiatric intervention for this delusional episode you’re experiencing. And by the way, how did you get this number?”

“When I couldn’t reach you at the house, I called Estelle. I knew she’d know where you were.” He adds in a clipped aside, “That old bat always knows where you are.”

Why is he angry? Why is he acting so strange? What the hell is going on?

“Christopher?”

“What?”

“Why are you calling me?”

His silence is long and tense. I know exactly what he’s doing during it: pacing back and forth with one hand propped on his hip while scowling at the floor. He’s in his penthouse in Manhattan or in some swanky hotel room in the emirates on a high floor with a good view and thousand-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets.

His dark blond hair is perfect. His crisp blue dress shirt is rolled up his forearms. Though he’s been working non-stop for more than a dozen hours and is exhausted, he looks like an ad for Brooks Brothers. There’s a half-empty bowl of peppermints somewhere in the room.

No matter what time zone he’s in or if it’s day or night, his laptop is open and a 24-hour news channel plays in the background on TV.

He says, “I needed to make sure you were safe.”

His voice is low and rough, and scares the holy living fuck out of me.

There’s an edge to it I’ve never heard before, a worried and emotional edge he never allowed himself to show during our marriage. Not even at the hospital. Not even at the morgue. He was always perfectly in control, perfectly calm, perfectly…

Cold.

And now, suddenly, he’s not.

I stand, then sit back down again because my heart is beating so fast I’m dizzy. “What’s happened?”

He says tightly, “Nothing’s happened. I’m just checking in on you.”

“That is a giant steaming pile of ostrich shit, my friend, and we both know it. Is it…is there news about…”

He knows what I’m asking without me having to ask it. “No. The case is still open. No new leads.”

All the breath leaves my lungs in a huge rush. I close my eyes and flop back onto the mattress, settling a hand over my pounding heart. “What, then? I know you’re not giving me a random social call after an entire year for no good reason.”

“I just…I’ve just been thinking.”

My eyes fly open. “Thinking?”

“About us.”

Now not only are my eyes wide open, so is my mouth. Is it my imagination , or is his tone longing? “There is no us, Chris. There hasn’t been in a long time. Even before…” I swallow, then go on. “I don’t know what’s going on with you that’s motivating this phone call, but—”

“What’s going on with me,” he cuts in loudly, “is that I need to know you’re safe. That was all I ever wanted: to keep you safe.”

We breathe at each other for a while, until I say, “And how did that work out for you?”

He snaps, “Don’t be a bitch.”

Anger finally rears its ugly head, scorching through me like a hot and bitter wind. I push myself up, stand, and resist the urge to punch a hole in the wall.This is from NôvelDrama.Org.

Chris must sense my fury, because he turns contrite. “I’m sorry. Please don’t hang up. I’m sorry I said that, Livvie, it’s just…you can’t understand what it’s been like for me…”

He exhales a ragged breath. Then his voice comes in a miserable whisper. “You’re not the only one who lost her.”

My face crumples.

I can feel it, scrunching up like it does before I’m about to ugly cry and it gets all red and squishy. It’s not only the mention of our daughter, but the entire bizarre and unexpected conversation itself, including the way he said his old nickname for me. The soft and pleading way he said it, like he’s drowning and he needs me to throw him a life preserver.

How conveniently he forgot that I was once drowning, too, and the only thing he did was turn his back and walk away as I went under.

“Whatever this is, Chris, it’s coming too late. Don’t bother with apologies now. I’m sorry to hear that you’re having a rough time, because I wish you well, honestly I do, but the only thing this phone call is doing is ripping the scabs off old wounds that I’m still trying to heal.”

After a moment, he says haltingly, “I…if I could only tell you…I know I made a lot of mistakes—”

“Stop.”

My tone must be convincingly severe, because he falls silent.

“Please don’t call me again unless you have news from the police. You’ve got my email. Use that.”

“You hate me, don’t you?”

I draw a hitching breath and answer in a high, tight voice. “You gave me the greatest gift I’ve ever been given. And even though Emmie’s no longer here, I’m grateful for every second we had her. I’m grateful for every memory, good and bad. So no, I don’t hate you. I could never hate you, Chris. I’m just not strong enough yet to deal with whatever this is.”

I hang up the phone and promptly burst into tears.

Then I decide the only appropriate way for a woman to handle discovering that her new lover has a terminal illness on the same day she gets a phone call from her estranged ex telling her that they’re still married and he’s filled with regrets is to get stark raving drunk.

And so, without further ado, I set out to make that happen.

The first rule of deliberately inducing intoxication is that it should always take place at home.

Many people make the mistake of going out to a bar or restaurant to get bombed, but not only is that a bad idea for obvious safety reasons, it’s expensive, too.

My father was so frugal he’d use the same laundry dryer sheet for a dozen loads. He grew up desperately poor and was always convinced every penny he made would be his last. I’m proud to say that I inherited several of his tightwad tendencies, though it was often a source of friction in my marriage because Chris was born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth.

His parents bought him a Porsche for his sixteenth birthday. When he promptly wrecked it, they blamed the car and bought him an Aston Martin instead.

Imagine how nuts it drove him when I rinsed out Ziploc plastic baggies so they could be used again.

The second rule of deliberate intoxication is hydration. One must drink at least eight ounces of water for every alcoholic drink consumed. One of the worst parts of a hangover is the dehydration, so it’s important to suck back the agua while you’re busy getting snockered. Your head will thank you in the morning.

And the final rule—the one that can never be broken—is that you can’t deliberately get drunk alone.

You can accidentally get drunk alone, but if you’re doing it on purpose, you really need to have another person around. Otherwise, it’s just you and your chronic alcohol problem, and that’s no fun at all.

As my acquaintances in Paris are limited to Gigi, Gaspard, Edmond, and James—one half of the reason for my deliberate intoxication project and therefore disqualified— it takes me all of five seconds to decide who I’d like most to get shitfaced with and pick up the phone to call.

“Edmond,” I chirp brightly when he answers, “would you and your wife like to come over for cocktails this evening?”

He sounds excited by the prospect. “Ah, mais oui!” After a moment, he adds tentatively, “Who is this?”

“Olivia.” When the silence stretches too long, I start to feel a little desperate. “Estelle’s friend? The writer from America?”

Edmond exclaims, “My apologies, mademoiselle! You sound so much happier on the phone!”

I regret this choice already.

“Sorry for the short notice, but I just realized I bought all this bread and cheese today that I can’t possibly eat alone, and I’ve got enough wine up here to get an army drunk.” Or one writer teetering on the edge of insanity. “How soon do you think you can come?”

He says a French word that sounds zoomy and enthusiastic, which I take to mean now.

“Great! I’ll leave the door open, just let yourselves in.”

“What shall we bring? We can’t arrive empty-handed.”

“Nothing. Just your wonderful selves. I’m so looking forward to seeing you and meeting your lovely wife.” And getting cross-eyed drunk within the hour.

Flattered by my gushing, Edmond makes a cooing, grandfatherly noise. “Ah, mademoiselle, you are such a delight! If it wasn’t for those sad eyes of yours—”

“See you soon!”

I hang up the phone, knowing it’s going to be a long night.

In the morning, I don’t remember much.

Edmond’s brunette wife was beautiful and elegant, I can remember that. Also tall: she towered over him. I recall that she had very long legs I spent too much time staring at, marveling how they were the legs of a person who was born male, because I’d never seen legs as gorgeous on anyone born female.

I know we all had drinks—many, many drinks—and ate too much cheese and laughed a lot, but I couldn’t tell you what we talked about. It’s all a blur.

The thing I’m really trying to figure out is why there’s a man sitting in the armchair across from my bed, glowering at me from under lowered brows.

“James,” I say, my voice thick. “What are you doing?”

“Making sure you didn’t die of alcohol poisoning.”

He seems as if he’s barely controlling his temper. His tone is low and clipped, and his words are spoken through thinned lips. He’s gripping the arms of the chair as if he’s going to rip them off at any moment.

I’m lying on my side in bed, atop the covers, wearing the same clothes I had on last night. Outside, birds are chirping. The sun is up. I don’t know what time I passed out, but it’s a new day.

A new day in which I’m hungover and James is still dying.

Filled with guilt about how I know that, I push myself up to a sitting position and look at him. “I need to tell you something.”

He arches his brows. “You’re not going to ask how I got in your apartment? Or how I knew you were drunk?”

I frown, trying to focus through my brain’s haze. “Did I leave the door open again?”

“I saw Edmond and Marcheline in the elevator last night. They said they’d just left your place after a nice visit. They were both staggering and reeked of booze. Edmond mentioned that you seemed even more sad than usual.”

Fucking Edmond. I exhale and run a hand over my face.

“He said you cried at one point.”

Horrified, I gape at James. “I cried?”

“You cried,” he repeats, his gaze locked on mine, “over me.”

I look away, pinching my lips together in shame. I don’t remember crying, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. I also don’t know if I said something to them about why I might be crying over James.

About what I’d found out.

Shit.

“I tend to get overly emotional when I’ve had too much to drink.” I wait, tensed, my stomach churning, to see how he’ll respond to that. If I told Edmond and Marcheline his private medical situation, I’ll never forgive myself.

Very softly, James says my name. I glance over to find him leaning forward, his forearms balanced on his spread thighs, his fingers threaded together, and his eyes blazing hellfire blue.

He says, “I want so fucking badly to take you over my knee right now and spank you. And not in the good way.”

A tremor runs through me. I whisper, “Why?”

“Because it’s me you should’ve talked to about whatever made you cry. It’s me you should’ve turned to if you were that upset about our conversation. But mostly because you’re too smart, and frankly too old, to decide to tie one on and make yourself sick as a way to deal with your emotions.”

He’s right, of course, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to be pissed about it. “Ouch.”

He knows which part of what he said angers me and shakes his head in frustration. “I’m not saying you’re old, for Christ’s sake. I’m saying that’s a teenage move.”

I’m relieved about one thing: judging by how he said “whatever made you cry,” I must not have gotten detailed with an explanation to Edmond and Marcheline last night.

“Maybe. But it was my move, and I’m owning it.” When I can’t stand the intensity of his gaze anymore, I glance down and pick at the bed covers.

“And it wasn’t only about you. I got a call yesterday that knocked me off kilter.” My laugh is small and bitter. “Knocked me off kilter and brought back a lot of old, painful memories. I guess I should’ve gone jogging or taken a long walk to work it out—or journaled, like my two dozen therapists suggested—but honestly sometimes the only way I know how to cope with pain that huge is to drown it.”

Fighting tears, I draw a long breath. My voice comes out choked. “I guess you were right about me and the blue pill.”

There’s a brief pause, then James is out of his chair and closing the space between us.

He takes us down to the bed, rolling to his back and pulling me on top of his body so I’m lying on him with my arms wrapped around his shoulders and his wrapped around my back.

I rest my cheek on his broad chest and struggle not to cry.

He doesn’t say anything for a long time. He just holds me, giving me the occasional squeeze and a kiss on top of my head. When I’m fairly sure I’ve got my emotions under control and my breathing has gone back to normal, he whispers, “So how do I compare to the boyfriend pillow?”

I huff out a small laugh. Even when he’s mad at me, he’s still angling for compliments. “Meh. You’ll do.”

His chuckle stirs my hair. “I know something it can’t do for you.”

The suggestive tone of his voice makes me look up. James is smiling down at me with a devilish twinkle in his eye.

His moods change even faster than mine do, and that’s saying something. “Like what?”

He traces his fingertip along the line of my jaw. “First you have to tell me what you decided about us.”

Feeling how solid and strong he is underneath me, how his body can comfortably support my weight, how damn healthy he looks and feels, it’s impossible to believe he could be sick. I don’t want to believe it.

I want him to be well. I want him to live a long, happy life and die an old man surrounded by family.

Realizing how fiercely I want both of those things, I understand the true value of what I’m being given.

When I told Chris on the phone that I was grateful for every moment we had our daughter, for every beautiful memory we made, that was the truth. Even knowing as I do now that we’d only have a few years with her, I’d still do it all over again.

It wasn’t how long we had that mattered. It was the strength of love we shared as a family. It was all the joy and indescribable pleasure that being a mother brought to my life.

A joy that hasn’t been diminished by the agony that came after.

Maybe I am a red pill girl after all.

Looking into James’s beautiful blue eyes, I say softly, “I’ve decided that meeting you is a gift, and it will always be a gift, no matter how long we have together. So what I promised still stands: I’m yours until September. If you still want me.”

He swallows. Eyes burning, he says in a husky voice, “You know I still want you.” He rolls me to my back and kisses me, deeply, his big hands cradling my head. His voice drops to the barest whisper as he speaks against mouth. “I’ll always want you. That’s the problem.”

I feel a tightness in my chest, like a vise clamping down on my heart.

God help me, but I already know that when September comes, I won’t want to leave.