Olive Oil and White Bread (33 page)

She sat down on the living room floor with the big glass jar of corks that Angie had been collecting since they first got together. Some of the events had completely slipped her mind, and when she read them off—moving days, promotions, births, finished projects, trips—she was both laughing and crying over the life they had together.

God, she was stupid. Worse: she was a walking cliché. How could she have just given in like that? When had she completely lost her mind? Lindsey had texted her a few times to see how things were going, but Jillian knew talking to her about it would be yet another mistake in the long line she'd made. She deleted every text and even erased Lindsey from her contacts. She didn't see any other option, and a part of her felt terrible about that. A bigger part of her was relieved beyond words.

The text from Angie late last night had come as a surprise.

I'm ready to talk. Are you?

Jillian was so thrilled to have any contact at all that she gave a happy little squeal, and sprang up out of bed as if yanked by invisible strings.

Yes!
she typed back.
Can I call you?

No. 2morrow. Starbucks on Jefferson at 9am
.

Tamping down the disappointment and trying to look on the bright side, she answered.
I'll be there
.

OK
.

After a minute or two went by with nothing further, Jillian couldn't help herself.
Angie, I'm so sorry. I just want you to know that. I was stupid and I'm so, so sorry. And I miss you
.

Jillian paced around the room as she waited for a response. The ticking of the clock in the hallway seemed inordinately loud as she waited for a text notification. Just when she was sure Angie wasn't going to answer, the phone beeped in her hand.

2morrow. We'll talk
.

It had taken every ounce of strength she had not to call Angie.

She sat in Starbucks, at 8:40, nursing a Chai that churned and bubbled like sour milk in her very empty stomach. Eating had been
next to impossible—when she made the attempt, she felt nauseous—and the irony was not lost on her that the only way she'd been able to lose any weight in her adult life was to have Angie move out on her. Jen, the cute barista, gave her the usual flirty wink when Jillian paid for her Chai, and the thought of Angie seeing anything even close to that filled Jillian with a sense of dread and worry that made her stomach give a sour churn. She took a seat at the table farthest from the counter, hoping to avoid Jen's gaze all together, and waited.

When she saw Angie walking across the parking lot, Jillian was immediately filled with a longing and a love so deep and intense it brought tears to her eyes. Those long legs that made for long, purposeful strides. All that dark hair blowing in the wind. The dark, soulful eyes—accented by shadowy half-circles underneath. Apparently, Angie was getting as little sleep as she was. Jillian wasn't sure if that made her feel better or worse.

Entering the store, Angie caught her eyes, then gestured to the counter, indicating she'd get her coffee and be right there. As Angie stood in line, Jillian's stomach increased its roiling speed, forcing her to set down her Chai and swallow down a small bit of bile that had worked its way up. She couldn't remember being quite so nervous ever before. She focused on breathing, just breathing, and waited.

Angie arrived with her latte and sat.

“Hi,” Jillian said.

“Hey,” Angie replied, and then looked away. She fiddled with her cup, the lid to her cup, the sleeve on her cup. She gazed out the window. Jillian watched, a mixture of sadness, guilt, and sympathy coursing through her.

Finally, Jillian cleared her throat and ventured a start to the conversation. “Are you okay?”

“I've been better,” Angie said, edgy.

With a nod, Jillian said, “I know. I know, and I'm so sorry.”

“Do you love her?”

The question was quiet, simple, and such a surprise that Jillian just blinked at Angie for several seconds. “What?”

“Lindsey. Are you in love with her?” Angie stared at her coffee as if she was afraid to look at Jillian when the answer came.

“No.” Jillian didn't hesitate, and put as much strength, as much finality into that one word as she could. “Angie. Look at me.” Angie hesitated, but finally looked up, her eyes filled with tears. “No,” Jillian said again. “No, I am not in love with Lindsey. I do not love Lindsey. I never loved Lindsey. I love you.”

With a scoff, Angie looked away, swiped at her eyes like an embarrassed twelve-year-old.

“Angie.” Jillian waited until Angie looked at her again, then she repeated herself. “I. Love. You. Nobody else. You.”

“You've got a funny way of showing it,” Angie said quietly.

“I know. I know. I fucked up. I fucked up badly, and I'm so sorry about that. I will tell you every single day for the rest of my life how sorry I am if that's what it takes to get you to believe me. I swear to god.”

Angie blew on her coffee, took a sip. Her brows furrowed as she rolled the words around in her head. Then she looked at Jillian and asked simply, “Why?”

“Why?” Jillian asked.

“Yeah. Why? Why did it happen? What pulled you so far away from me that you felt the need to sleep with somebody else?”

The question wasn't a surprise. It made perfect sense, plus she'd asked it already, that night before she left. She had been asking herself the same thing for the past seven days, since Angie had walked out. And the three weeks before that, since Lindsey had had sex with her in her own classroom, since she'd
let
Lindsey do that. And while she didn't have a definitive answer—mostly because there wasn't one—she had an idea.

Jillian inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly, wrapped her hands around her cup, and began to speak. “I don't think it was about you at all. Well, maybe a little bit, but mostly, I think it's about me.” Holding up a hand quickly, she added, “And I know that sounds lame and it's not an excuse. Just a fact.” She rolled her lips in and wet them while she looked for the right words. “I haven't been feeling great about myself lately.”

“Lately?”

“Like, for the past couple of years.”

Surprise was clear on Angie's face. “Seriously? Why?”

With a half-shrug, Jillian tried to explain. “I don't know. I'm starting to feel older. I'm starting to feel like I look older.”

“Jill, you're only thirty-eight.”

“I know. But I remember my mom telling me what a hard time she had when she was closing in on forty. I think I'm going through the same thing, and it's messed with my head.”
God, I wish she was here
, Jillian thought.

“So . . . you needed to have a fling to make yourself feel younger?” The sarcasm in Angie's voice was not lost on her.

“No.” Jillian let the barb go, knowing it was deserved. “But . . .” She sipped some of her Chai, chewed on the inside of her lip.

“But what?”

“But . . .”
Jesus
, she thought. This was not easy to say. She'd rehearsed it a hundred times last night and this morning, but it still sounded ridiculous in her head. She decided on a slightly different tack. “You know how I've always loved it when you tell me I'm beautiful or you think I'm pretty or sexy or whatever?”

Angie nodded.

“You stopped doing that.”

Furrowing her brows, Angie just looked at her.

“A long time ago. You stopped. You started working so much. You stopped complimenting me. Our sex life practically disappeared altogether.” Though the warning look on Angie's face made her pause, Jillian pushed on. “I know you don't want to hear that, but it's true. The combination of that and the crappy way I feel about myself was . . . not good.”

“So because my work got hectic, and I stopped telling you you're pretty, you went and fucked somebody else? This is my fault?”

Fighting to stay calm in the face of Angie's anger, Jillian said quietly, “I didn't say that.”

“You don't get enough attention or enough sex from me. That's what you're saying.”

“Okay, that's not what I'm saying. And stop making me sound like an idiot. I do realize that there's more to a relationship than sex, Angie. I also realize that there's a difference between sex and intimacy—and lately, we've had neither.”

Silence fell as they each absorbed what Jillian had said. The fact that Angie didn't get up and storm out was something, at least.

“Look,” Jillian said, lowering her voice and choosing her words carefully. “None of this is an excuse. Like I said, I fucked up. I know that, and I will regret it for the rest of my life. I take responsibility for this mess. I am to blame. But you asked me why, and I'm giving you the best answer I can. It's vague, I know, because I honestly don't understand the whole of it.” She reached across the table and grabbed Angie's hand, thrilled when she didn't pull away. “I do know that you and I are meant to be together. I am supposed to be with you. You are supposed to be with me. And my stupid mistake doesn't change that. I love you, Angelina.
I love you
. Tell me what I can do to fix this.” Tears filled her eyes, and her throat tightened, but she choked through and continued. “I
need
to fix this. I'm a mess. You're a mess. And I miss you so much. The house isn't home without you there. Tell me what to do. Please. Tell me what to do.”

Again, they sat quietly holding hands across the small table. Finally, Angie spoke up.

“You can't see her again. You can't be her friend.”

Jillian nodded, not surprised. “Okay.”

Angie looked up at her. “I mean it. You'll see her at work. That's bad enough. But you can't go out with her. Even if others are there.”

Jillian nodded again. “Okay.”

As if realizing her request might be overkill, she amended, “I mean, if there's a party or something, that's okay I guess.”

“We can play it by ear,” Jillian suggested, trying not to show too much joy over the fact that she might be getting a chance to have her life back. “I'll always let you know the situation, and you can decide what's okay.”

With one nod, Angie said, “Okay.”

They looked at each other, still holding hands. Jillian said, “So, will you come home?”

Angie swallowed hard, looked out the window at the traffic. When she looked back, she said, “It's not magically better, Jillian. You know that, right?”

“I know that. Believe me, I know that.”

More silence.

“Okay,” Angie said finally. “Then yes. I'll be home tonight.”

Jillian wanted to laugh in delight and clap her hands together in happiness. She wanted to jump up and dance around the Starbucks. She wanted to grab Angie's face across the table and kiss her. Hard. She wanted to do all these things at once. But instead, she kept her cool, grinned, squeezed Angie's hand, and said simply, “Good.”

Angie knocked softly on the doorjamb to Keith's office. When he looked up from his desk, she asked, “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Sure. Come on in. Have a seat.”

She did so and closed the door behind her, which caused him to raise an eyebrow.

Keith Muldoon was a big man. At six feet tall with broad shoulders and the build of a defensive tackle, he had a personality to match: big. If you liked him, he was gregarious and commanded your attention. If you didn't like him, he could suck all the air out of the room. His suits were always impeccable, today's a black pinstripe. The jacket was hanging on a coat rack in the corner of his huge office, but his white dress shirt and red tie still looked freshly pressed, even at this late-afternoon hour. Angie had never really liked Muldoon, but over the years, her grudging respect for him had multiplied. The man could sell ice to Eskimos, he was that good. He had no college education, but he was better at his job and made more money at it than a large percentage of the college-educated people she knew, and that was cause for admiration.