Page 47 of The Girl He Loves
Brian had taken a few days leave to be there for me, but once he had to go back to work, I felt so overwhelmed, so low. I was convinced that I was just not meant to be a mother, that I had made a grave mistake. I should have been filled with joy, but all I wanted was to escape my life. I cried all the time, I slept as much as I could, and I could barely eat.
Brian ended up taking a leave from work to be there for me. With the help of medication and the support of his family, we got through it. He and his mom helped with Trevor. They also made the meals and cleaned up the house. All the while, I wondered if Gina thought her son could have done better, but she never let on. She always had a smile on her face and a reassuring word.
The depression lasted about four months, and it was like the flick of a switch. Suddenly, I saw the joy in my beautiful son; his sweet gummy smile, his little belly giggles. I loved to watch him stretch his little head to observe his surroundings, recognizing those around him and reacting to the world. Suddenly, he was a little person, a person I loved more than life itself.
* * *
Those Louboutins are callingto me, after all. I have no idea when I’ll ever wear them. They’re too glitzy for everyday wear, and Brian and I never go anywhere anymore. But they’d look fabulous paired with ripped skinny jeans and my old Nirvana t-shirt. Brian and I could go out for a date night… and perhaps, talk.
I know I shouldn’t. I should stay away from all three of them. Should I forget all about Ava? Forget that I’ve ever discovered her existence? I still don’t know for certain if she really is Brian’s. But how can she not be? Her photo was hidden in a frame in our bedroom. His Facebook history is full of her. She looks exactly like him. And nineteen years ago, her mother’s path crossed Brian’s. She has to be.
I’m fascinated with this woman; the one who stole Joel’s heart. The one who stole Brian’s too, perhaps just for a night. Even without our shared history, I’d still be enamored with her — she is what Hollywood starlets are made of; beautiful, glamorous, sexy, and perfect.
I’d compare myself to her, but she and I are so completely different, it’s almost impossible to. I wonder if Joel could possibly be attracted to me, when he comes home to her. I’m probably just imagining everything when it comes to Joel and I, as I tend to do, as I’ve done in the past.
I’ve dressed stylishly today; ripped American Eagle jeans, a silk top, and sparkly Steve Madden booties. My hair is down. I want Renee to approve. I want her to think I’m stylish, that I’m someone who could be her friend, who could shoot the breeze over cosmos or margaritas or whatever cocktails hip women drink when they go out with their girlfriends. Me and my friends mostly drink tea or coffee at each other’s apartments, because we don’t have the time or money or inclination to go out to bars. And we’re just not as cool as Renee.
When I finally get to Renee’s shop, following a not-so-pleasant bus ride, I’m thrilled to see two women walking in. I nip at their heels, and I feel inconspicuous as I hide behind them and slip into the shop. Renee is nowhere in sight. There’s a man at the counter — a handsome silver fox, the same one I saw on her Facebook feed.
I head straight for the skirts. Skirts are my go-to when I want to dress up a little. I flip through them and I’m pleased by the fact that they are organized by color and pattern. There’s a wide selection of black ones, and when I spot an A-line leather skirt, I pull it out.
All the while, I’m scanning the space, looking for her. Perhaps, she’s not in today. The thought of that upsets me. I’ve come all the way to catch a glimpse of her, perhaps get a chance to talk to her. There are five of us shopping, including myself and the two women who came in before me. It’s a lot busier than it was last time.
I check the waistline on the skirt and press it against myself. The hem falls just above the knee — looks like a perfect fit. I continue skimming the racks leisurely; skirts, tops, capris…
My breath hitches when I see Renee come in from the back. She’s saying something to the silver fox. I don’t catch anything, save for his name. Grant.
My heart pounds as I venture closer, three items of clothing draped over my arm, my handbag over my shoulder — I’m just another fashionista indulging in a little shopping.
Oh, how I wish that were true. Unfortunately, I’m so much more complicated than that.
The two women who came in just before me are very yappy. I hear their entire conversation without really wanting to. Apparently, the brunette’s daughter is dating a boy she doesn’t approve of. She’s sure he’ll break her heart. Her friend tells her she should just let her be a young girl in love, that everyone needs to face heartbreak at one point or another.
No, they don’t, I want to say. Of course I don’t utter a word. Her daughter will probably end up pregnant and dumped.
I’ve moved on to the handbags. I already have about a million of them, and the last thing I need is another purse. But standing here allows for a much better view of Renee. She’s still chatting with Grant, and he smiles warmly at her. He has nice blue eyes and a charming playful grin. When he walks by her, he presses a hand on her hip, and it lingers there. She doesn’t react at all, she doesn’t object. It’s the touch of a lover — there’s no mistaking it. It’s a passing moment between two people who know each other very well.
My pulse races as I tear my gaze away and focus on the dusty rose Nine West hand bag in my hands. I pretend to be fascinated by the gold chain handles and the stitching. Could Renee be having an affair? Could their marriage be in trouble? Or am I just imagining what I want to be real? Dr. Russell and I have discussed this at length — it’s so easy to see things that aren’t there if we desperately want them to be.
I shake my head, and pad slowly to the jewelry section. A gorgeous Betsey Johnson necklace catches my eye and I study its details for a long moment; pearls, pretty sparkly charms. It’s only ten dollars.
I’ve been here about ten minutes now, and she still hasn’t noticed me. I consider throwing the items back on a rack, and quietly sneaking out of there. Just as I’m considering the logistics of this, she finally spots me.
Her reaction is not at all what I’d imagined. There’s no friendly smile, no expression of fond recollection. She eyes me with confusion, with suspicion.
I’m breathless, but determined to appear as normal as possible. “Oh, hello again,” I say as I near the counter. “Nice to see you again.”
She nods and forces a smile. “How can we help you today?”
“Oh, I just came in… I had my eye on those sparkly Louboutins I saw on your Instagram,” I explain. My gaze darts past her to the shelving on the wall — it’s where all the high end designer handbags and shoes are kept, secure behind the cash. “They’re size seven, right?”
She turns to them. “Yes.” The sheer sleeves of her flowy top sway as she reaches for them — they are kept up high on the top shelf, but being so tall, she reaches them easily. I admire her long lean frame as she fetches them.
She brings them to the counter. “The soles are a little scuffed, but other than that, they’re in mint condition, but there’s no box. Still a great deal for Black Diamond Christian Louboutins. They’re 100 mm… very comfy, I was told.”
“Yes, they’re beautiful.” I’ve never bought previously worn shoes before, and the thought of it makes me a little uneasy. Yet, I’ve always wanted Louboutins and never had the heart to spend a thousand dollars, when I could spend that money on the boys.
I study them carefully, making sure there’s not a single knick on them. She was right — in mint condition. I slide my finger along the red sole and picture myself in them.
