Page 36 of Something Borrowed

Ugh, their stilted, polite-say-nothing back and forth was killing her. Vic perched on the edge of an ornately carved Baroque high-back dining chair with barley twist columns and a red leather seat. Man, she was really picking up the lingo! She tried not to fidget or drum her fingers on the table, but her body almost crackled with nerves.

“Oh, hey, Vic.”

The voice behind her made her jump. Gwen. Here. Obviously back from her trip. Great. Vic winced.

“Hi, Gwen. How was your honeymoon?”

“Amazing.” Gwen sighed happily as if remembering specific details, then came around to the front of the table so she wasn’t talking to Vic’s half-turned head.

“Do you mind if I crash your and Vic’s visit, or would you prefer to chat in private? I understand if you prefer the latter.” Gwen sounded completely sincere, and Vic believed she could send her on her way, and she’d be fine with it. On the other hand, there was zero chance that Madeline hadn’t mentioned her raging inappropriateness and latest behavior debacle to her best friend, especially since Gwen worked at the store too, and having a crazy coworker would affect her.

“You might as well stay.”

Gwen pulled out a chair and sat, folding her long legs to one side. It was uncanny. They were close to thirty-five years older than they’d been when they’d chummed around at school, and Vic knew they looked older. Of course they did. Yet somehow, as soon as more than a few minutes passed, the years fell away. Kind, no-drama Gwen looked the same to Vic as she had all those decades ago.

“Yes, the trip was wonderful,” Gwen continued the original vein of their conversation, no doubt to set Vic at ease, “but it feels even better to be home again.”

“With milk, right?” Madeline carried a tray of three cups and saucers, obviously having heard Gwen was staying—or, equally possibly, having asked her to stay for backup. She set a black-and-green Royal Albert teacup and matching saucer, decorated with delicate gold filigree, in front of Vic. Madeline had made the color of her tea exactly as Vic liked—barely lightened.

“It’s perfect, thank you.”

Madeline took a seat at the end of the table, kitty-corner to Vic. Her tea, in Royal Albert’s most famous design, Old Country Roses, had so much milk, it was almost the color of a latte. Vic couldn’t see the contents of Gwen’s cup, but the cornflower blue porcelain was a near match for her eyes.

“I just wanted to thank you,” Vic started at the exact same time Madeline said, “So . . .”

Madeline looked surprised, as if gratitude wasn’t what she expected Vic to open with.

“Can I—may I—go first?” Vic hoped it wasn’t rude.

Madeline nodded, and Vic exhaled and began. After all, she had nothing to lose.

“I hope what I’m going to say won’t sound like an excuse. I don’t mean it to be. I just—” Vic exhaled and tried to organize the flying monkeys rioting through her brain.

Madeline sipped her tea and waited.

“I’ve always been a bit of a shitshow, but these days, it’s not just a bit. I’m more like 99%.”

Madeline’s mouth twitched, but she didn’t say anything, and her gaze was speculative.

“I recently came out of a bad relationship, one that I’m . . . very ashamed of.” She wanted to bow her head, hide her face, but forced herself to keep looking at them. “When I discovered what Brent and I had was nothing at all like what I’d thought, I still—” She shook her head. Nope. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t tell them how terrible she was. Or at least not yet.

Neither Gwen nor Madeline said anything, but they were listening, and that was the main thing.

“I’m estranged from my adult son, Michael. It’s my fault and I deserve it, but it’s like a weeping sore.” Vic swallowed hard. She wasn’t trying to elicit sympathy. She really wasn’t. She was just trying to explain—to herself as much as to them.

“Even when I try to focus on other things, it’s a constant pain running in the background. He’s polite to me, but that’s the extent of our relationship. He interacts with me the way you do with a social media ‘friend,’ someone you don’t know particularly well, but you don’t actively dislike, so you heart something they say on occasion or give them a thumbs up. Maybe once in a while, you even tag them in a photo.”

Madeline nodded, but her face still unreadable as she took another sip of tea.

“No one can break your heart the way an adult child can,” Gwen said softly, and unlike Madeline’s, her expression was an open book—an open book telling a terribly sad story. Vic felt awful. There was clearly something personal behind Gwen’s comment. She would ask about it sometime—if she got another sometime with these women.

“I’m living with my mother, and—” Vic broke off. She didn’t want to take up too much of Madeline’s time or dive that deep. Finally, she muttered, “Let’s just say she’s, uh, a challenging personality.”

Gwen visibly winced. “Still, hey? I’m sorry.”

Of course, Gwen would remember Audra. Maybe other parents screamed at their kids—in fact, Vic was sure of it—but she’d had the only mother she knew who didn’t keep it behind closed doors. A familiar burn of self-consciousness, rage, and a strange conflicting protectiveness churned through Vic.

Madeline nodded again, still actively listening, still impossible to read.