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I set my phone back down. “Raf got me bookshelves,” I say flatly and let that statement marinate. When Cora doesn’t say anything, I continue. “He’s having them custom-made for his house on Chestnut. For me.”
I turn my head to see her confused expression. “He really wants you to stay with him, doesn’t he?”
“What’s wrong with me? Why do I fold for bookshelves?”
“Because it’s not about the bookshelves. It’s about him. It’s about what he means to you. He could give you a cup of dirt and say this reminded me of you, and you would swoon.”
She’s not wrong.
Swirling the wine, I stare down at it. “You were right, before. When you said he treats me like a wife. I think I’ve—no—I know I’ve been letting him do that. For a long time.” I swallow. “I know I was torturing myself, but with all my inconsequential, painful, terrible dates over the years, having him treat me like that was nice. Comforting. The most reassurance I’ve ever felt. It’s my own fault.”
“Don’t do that,” Cora says, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Whether he knows it or not, he’s been using you too. You’re allowed to feel at fault and guilt, but you’re allowed to be angry at him.” She takes her hand away and seems to refocus. “Tell me everything you’re feeling, regardless of it making sense.”
God, she gets it. She gets that even though I’m a therapist, it doesn’t mean I’m perfect at regulating my emotions. Logic and emotion do not always march hand in hand, especially since I’ve been pregnant.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and take inventory. “Shame. Fear. Guilt. Heartbroken. Anger… Anger,” I repeat.
“Why are you angry?” she says, like she’s opening a door for me.
“I’m angry…because he can’t love me the way I love him. Because he got jealous of Jared and still couldn’t do anything about it. Because I may have just broken whatever relationship we had and it’s going to hurt our kids. Because he would make the best fucking partner in the world if he just got over his stupid fucking commitment issues! Fuck!”
“Yes, Angie. Let it out.”
“How can he be the most committed friend, but he can’t romantically commit? Like, what the fuck? How is it different?” I ask rhetorically.
“He only lets me see the real him,” I say, then take a sip. “And he uses my affection for his own comfort so he doesn’t have to seek it out from anyone else.”
“He told me he had a crush on me in high school. He told me how beautiful and perfect my body was while he worshiped it. He made me feel like our arrangement was more,” I cry out. “I’m fucking mad!”
“That’s it,” she snarls in agreement and gets up to power on her Bluetooth speaker on the shelf and tap away on her phone for a second. “We’re going to let our feminine rage out.”
When the melody to Miley Cyrus’ Wrecking Ball takes over, there is absolutely no stopping me from standing up, taking one more swallow of my pinot, and joining my best friend on the rug. Letting myself succumb to the almost unfairly-accurate ballad, I lean into the dramatics of all—raising my fists to the sky, belting out lyric after lyric next to the woman who’s stayed by my side through everything and let me be there for her too. Through every heartbreak and all-nighter in college, through every death and moment of pure bliss, we have always been there.
As I sing and sob, I think of how Rafael has been that person for me too.
I think about how the relationship between Cora and me is going to change once we have kids. We won’t have the time to see each other like we used to. We’re going to be wrapped up in our own bubble. Will we be able to make the effort to see each other like this?
I think about how I’ve ruined what Raf and I have. I want us to stay friends, not just for the sake of our children, but for ours. I just don’t know how our puzzle will fit together anymore.
I think about my mom and how much I wish she was here now. I wish I had more than her journals. I wish I had that close mother-daughter bond. I wish she was still alive, and I could giggle and agree with other girls when they talk about how annoying their moms are, how they all hate their moms just a little.
I’d rather hate her a little but love her a ton than miss her so much it hurts.
Between verses, I spot Jay barreling down the stairs with Marco stepping behind him. Jay joins the rage-a-thon in solidarity or because it’s just too good of a song not to belt from your lungs. But I think it’s the former.
Marco joins us and he takes my hands in his, stares directly at me and hammers the chorus along with me for a couple of lines—it’s intense and it fuels my emotional fire. I’m caught off guard when he turns behind me, inserting his forearms under my arms and hoisting me like he's a forklift. Squealing, I let a smile cross my face and he twirls me around slowly.
The last of the lyrics are spent with me feeling like Rose on the deck of the Titanic, except it’s not romantic love coursing through my body for the man behind me. It’s a love for all three of them—a love for the kind of people who let you free yourself with ballad rage and join in.
Chapter 30
October 5th
Angie
Tiny kicks from inside wake me up the next morning and I’m greeted by a cat that’s not mine. “Good morning, George,” I mutter, staring at Cora’s gray cat as she sits on the floor watching me like a psycho. “What? Didn’t feel like joining us last night? You seem like someone who’d enjoy a good fem-rage.”
We stayed up until our pregnant hips got too sore to sway and our breath ran out. Last night was exactly what I needed. It doesn’t mean I’m ready to face him though. This time away needs to be spent reevaluating our dynamics and how I’m supposed to move on from him.
