Page 6 of One Week
I wince. “It depends on if John is around, and if not, whether Anna is available.”
Maeve smirks. “Well, hopefully, you can make it.”
I hate this. I love my kids, but sometimes, I feel trapped. Like I’m in a prison. A beautiful prison with designer furniture, gleaming floors, crown molding, a luxury bathroom with a soaker tub, and a sixty-five inch wide screen television, but a prison all the same.
Kayla sneaks up on us. She’s flushed, straight from the gym, and full of energy as always. She and Maeve always seem so full of energy, but then again, they’re a lot younger than me, and haven’t had kids yet. Maeve is twenty-seven, and Kayla is twenty-eight. Kayla hugs us both, and heads off to the counter to order her tea. “Can I get yours, Maeve?” she offers. Maeve shakes her head, and joins her.
Out of habit, and possibly boredom, I check my phone again. My heart practically leaps out of my ribcage. There’s a new message from him. I’m eager as I check it. The rest of the world has disappeared — there is only me, and my phone.
What do you think?!it reads.
There’s a photo of his living room, just below the message. It looks like a photo out of an Ikea catalogue, all light colors and clean lines. A modern sky blue sofa centers the space, and a yellow cushion and lamp adds a dash of color. The geometric area rug and wicker ottoman adds interest to the space. It’s gorgeous. And right there over the sofa, tying everything together, is my painting, the one of the cow. He’s digitally inserted it in. It looks fabulous — the yellow accents tie in with his cushion and lamp. Now, I’m starting to understand why he said the painting would look great over his sofa.
I’m smiling so hard, my face hurts.
“What’s so funny?” Maeve asks, latte in hand. She and Kayla take a seat at the round table. A chair sits empty, waiting for Corrie.
I smile. “Oh, it’s nothing… a friend of mine digitally inserted one of my paintings into… their living room.” I don’t sayhisliving room. I don’t know why. A small part of me already feels guilty, and I’ve done absolutely nothing wrong.
“Let me see,” Kayla grabs my phone. “Oh wow, it looks amazing. Your friend has nice taste.” She hands the phone to Maeve.
“Gorgeous,” Maeve says. “Who’s this friend? Anyone we know?”
“Oh, nobody you’d know,” I say casually, grab my phone back, and slip it into my oversized purse. I pull out my journal. I have something to share today.
Corrie eventually shows up, flustered as always. We chat for a bit. We talk about Maeve’s wedding plans, and Corrie’s most recent disastrous date. The guy wore clogs and socks, in October! The date was over before it began.
“So, who has anything to share today?” Kayla asks. “I’m empty handed, I’m afraid. I’ve been swamped with classes and shifts at the spa.”
Maeve perks up. “Well, I’ve got a little something.”
We all smile as she starts reading. It’s an upbeat piece, all about the current transition in her life. Going from ‘single’ to ‘married’, starting a new chapter. You can tell how happy she is, and I envy her. She keeps reading, and her words fade as I’m brought back to twelve years ago.
Twelve years ago, when John asked me to marry him. It seems like such a long time ago. I was still working at the time, and his first novel had recently hit the New York Times Bestseller list. We were both on a high, the world at our feet. I didn’t think it was possible to be this happy. He’d taken me on a romantic getaway, and following a walk by the water, he got on his knee, and presented me with the biggest diamond I’d ever seen.
“Gabriella, you are the love of my life,” he’d said. “Will you marry me?”
Not too wordy, but then again, John has always been efficient with his words. He’s a fast paced writer, a modern day Ernest Hemingway.
I was so happy, I was crying.
I’m brought back to Maeve’s words. I missed a few, but I get the gist. She’s getting married, she’s happy. I’m thrilled for her, I really am. If anyone deserves to be happy, it’s Maeve — she’s such a sweetheart. And I hope Peter treats her well, today and always.
Everyone claps when she’s done. “That was great,” Corrie says. “Anyone else?” Again, she doesn’t contribute herself. Corrie rarely contributes journal entries, but when she does, they’re “entertaining as fuck” as Kayla would say. They’re usually snarky rants about life, and we love that shit. Every gal group needs a snarky bitch, and Corrie is ours, and we adore her to bits.
I admit, my journal entries tend to be a little sappy. What can I say? I’m an emotional woman. And sometimes my entries are sweet, sometimes they’re a little dark, and occasionally, just plain sad. “I’ve got something…” I tell them, not quite sure I want to share. But it always feels good when I do. These are my best friends, and I feel like I can share anything with them.
I swallow as I turn the pages of my notebook. My throat is dry and my heart is pounding. They sit silently, awaiting my words.
“I call thisJust Us,” I tell them, and draw a deep breath. My voice trembles a bit when I start, like it always does. I read slowly, softly.
The hands on my kitchen clock tick slowly.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
His smile is infectious, it draws me in.
I ask him about his day.
