sorry.”
Giselle had sat for four days in a darkened house, telling Coco that she had a tummy ache. She’d made brief sojourns to Coco’s preschool in her slippers and pajamas and then gone home and cried for hours.
Roy didn’t call. He didn’t return her messages. She had no idea what had happened.
But then, about a week later, she’d snapped herself back together.
She’d gotten up, gotten a haircut at the most expensive salon she could find, charged it to Roy, gone shopping for the most expensive clothes she could find, charged those to Roy, and then packed up and found a place at a swanky hotel in Indianapolis, where she could still take Coco to school every day but where they could dine in style, on Roy’s dime, and she could think.
She’d called a lawyer. Collected the divorce papers. And then she’d called Lia to ask if they could stay in Sandy Cove for a little while, just to clear her head. Her hands had shaken through every one of these activities, but she did them.
Calling her sisters and her mom had been the hardest part. She knew there’d be an element of “I told you so.” And she didn’t even have a good explanation for why he’d left. She’d always been the responsible oldest sister, the one to do the right thing, the smart thing, to take care of everyone. And admitting that she’d made the most enormous mistake of all—but wasn’t sure what it was—was almost more than she could bear. She had no bank account, no job, no work experience, no skills, not even her own friends. Her Audi wasn’t even in her own name.
But she’d swallowed her pride, made the calls, listened to Noelle’s sighs of pity, listened to Lia’s list of things she would have done to be more financially independent, listened to her mom’s litany of all the reasons she never liked Roy in the first place, and then started packing for Sandy Cove.
Roy stayed oddly away. He tried to contact her only a few times, to see Coco, and always through texts. They arranged for him to pick Coco up after school on a couple of Fridays; then Giselle would pick her up after school on Mondays, so they still didn’t talk. When she caught him answering his phone in real time once, she jumped at the chance to ask him what she most wanted to know: “Why?”
“I can’t explain it,” was all he said. His voice was robotic. He listened to her sobbing and then said they’d talk later, and hung up.
Giselle eventually talked herself into starting over. She didn’t have any answers about what went wrong in her marriage, but she couldn’t stay stagnant forever. Her own mother had divorced twice, and Giselle had always promised herself her life would be different. Her daughter would
never
suffer through a broken home—separate Christmases, competitive birthday gifts, shuffling of weekends. She’d
never
fail her daughter.
But then she did.
And now she had to live with the fact that she’d failed in the only thing she ever wanted to be: a good mother, with a strong family.
“That wasn’t what he wanted to tell you,” Fin said, leaning across the aqua Formica and running the receipt through his fingers.
“What?” Giselle cleared her throat and forced herself out of her reverie.
“I know it was devastating enough, but it wasn’t what he wanted to tell you. He wanted to tell you something else, but he didn’t want me there to hear it.”
His eyes darted toward the counter, waiting for their food. As if on cue, the T-shirt-clad server appeared with two porcelain plates piled high with white rice, black beans, and fish tacos, all covered in bright red salsa.
“Can you autograph this?” she asked shyly, handing him her cap. “To Tilly?”
“I thought I autographed everything in this place already,” Fin said, smiling up at her.
“I’m new.” She handed him a pen.
He scrawled his name across the brim.
“Thank you,” she said breathlessly, flinging her ponytail over her shoulder and sliding away.
Giselle gaped
Giselle had sat for four days in a darkened house, telling Coco that she had a tummy ache. She’d made brief sojourns to Coco’s preschool in her slippers and pajamas and then gone home and cried for hours.
Roy didn’t call. He didn’t return her messages. She had no idea what had happened.
But then, about a week later, she’d snapped herself back together.
She’d gotten up, gotten a haircut at the most expensive salon she could find, charged it to Roy, gone shopping for the most expensive clothes she could find, charged those to Roy, and then packed up and found a place at a swanky hotel in Indianapolis, where she could still take Coco to school every day but where they could dine in style, on Roy’s dime, and she could think.
She’d called a lawyer. Collected the divorce papers. And then she’d called Lia to ask if they could stay in Sandy Cove for a little while, just to clear her head. Her hands had shaken through every one of these activities, but she did them.
Calling her sisters and her mom had been the hardest part. She knew there’d be an element of “I told you so.” And she didn’t even have a good explanation for why he’d left. She’d always been the responsible oldest sister, the one to do the right thing, the smart thing, to take care of everyone. And admitting that she’d made the most enormous mistake of all—but wasn’t sure what it was—was almost more than she could bear. She had no bank account, no job, no work experience, no skills, not even her own friends. Her Audi wasn’t even in her own name.
But she’d swallowed her pride, made the calls, listened to Noelle’s sighs of pity, listened to Lia’s list of things she would have done to be more financially independent, listened to her mom’s litany of all the reasons she never liked Roy in the first place, and then started packing for Sandy Cove.
Roy stayed oddly away. He tried to contact her only a few times, to see Coco, and always through texts. They arranged for him to pick Coco up after school on a couple of Fridays; then Giselle would pick her up after school on Mondays, so they still didn’t talk. When she caught him answering his phone in real time once, she jumped at the chance to ask him what she most wanted to know: “Why?”
“I can’t explain it,” was all he said. His voice was robotic. He listened to her sobbing and then said they’d talk later, and hung up.
Giselle eventually talked herself into starting over. She didn’t have any answers about what went wrong in her marriage, but she couldn’t stay stagnant forever. Her own mother had divorced twice, and Giselle had always promised herself her life would be different. Her daughter would
never
suffer through a broken home—separate Christmases, competitive birthday gifts, shuffling of weekends. She’d
never
fail her daughter.
But then she did.
And now she had to live with the fact that she’d failed in the only thing she ever wanted to be: a good mother, with a strong family.
“That wasn’t what he wanted to tell you,” Fin said, leaning across the aqua Formica and running the receipt through his fingers.
“What?” Giselle cleared her throat and forced herself out of her reverie.
“I know it was devastating enough, but it wasn’t what he wanted to tell you. He wanted to tell you something else, but he didn’t want me there to hear it.”
His eyes darted toward the counter, waiting for their food. As if on cue, the T-shirt-clad server appeared with two porcelain plates piled high with white rice, black beans, and fish tacos, all covered in bright red salsa.
“Can you autograph this?” she asked shyly, handing him her cap. “To Tilly?”
“I thought I autographed everything in this place already,” Fin said, smiling up at her.
“I’m new.” She handed him a pen.
He scrawled his name across the brim.
“Thank you,” she said breathlessly, flinging her ponytail over her shoulder and sliding away.
Giselle gaped
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