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My pride still stinging from this nonstop assault on my actions, I take a moment to channel my breathing and take in Merritt’s living room. I need to focus on something for a moment that isn’t my very obvious list of shortcomings as a human.
This is my first time back at Merritt’s since she and Hunter got married, and she’s done a lot to make his house feel as much like her as it does him. There are vibrant splashes of color everywhere, from Mer’s paintings hanging on the wall to the throw pillow she looks like she’s trying to murder. Betteritthan me.
But the house is also spotless, neat and orderly and very Merritt. I love the juxtaposition of her two halves. The order she craves, and the artistic expression that keeps her sanedespitethat order. Hunter, who is currently sleeping in their room down the hall, has softened Merritt’s edges. At least, some of them. Clearly, she’s still got some that are quite sharp, all currently directed my way.
“Sadie,” Eloise says, forcibly dragging me back to the conversation at hand. “I just want you to think about how it looked to Ben. Maybe you didn’t mean to leave for good. Maybe you did want space and planned to talk to him later.” Merritt scoffs at this, and Lo flinches. “But whatyouwere thinking doesn’t matter because you didn’t say any of this to Ben. To him, it looks like you ran. It looks like rejection.”
Her voice is much softer than Merritt’s but the words cut more deeply. Ididrun. I know it. Even if I’m not admitting it out loud to them.
Running has always been my go-to. When our parents fought. When I went through a breakup. When I was feeling alone or upset about anything at all. At some point, running away shifted to running and hiding. Not the typical kind of hiding, like in a dark corner, but staying in the shadows to watch. I may have taken some inspiration fromHarriet the Spy, still one of my favorite books. Then, my running didn’t feel so cowardly.
Not like it feels now.
I hate that at almost twenty-seven, I’m still turning to unhealthy coping mechanisms I used as a kid. I’ve been through therapy, for crying out loud! Shouldn’t I be better about things like this?
And I know Eloise is completely right. I have to close my eyes when I picture Ben, waking up and probably walking across the hall first thing, barefoot, shirtless, and sleep rumpled. Wearing that smirky, self-satisfied grin—the one I give him a hard time about but secretly love.
I didn’t think about hurting him. I only thought about myself.
The longer we talk, the more disgusted I feel with myself. As though he agrees, Banjo hops off my lap and scurries off to sit by Eloise’s feet, where he begs until she laughs and hands him a saltine cracker from her stash.
Thanks for having my back, pal. Can’t even count on a raccoon these days.
Just like Ben couldn’t count on you.
Argh! It’s totally not fair when even my internal monologue turns against me.
“You told him you needed space,” Eloise continues, clearly not done putting me through the wringer. “And then you disappeared without an explanation.” She pauses, purses her lips, then continues, almost apologetically. “You do know his mom died, right? And his dad only cares about the possibility of getting some of that family money. Ben has dealt with a lot of abandonment.”
“Wow. Sounds like you two got close this year.”
Right now, my sarcasm is not making very good armor. It’s thin and ugly and full of holes. It makes me sound mean. Uncaring. Like Lo’s words aren’t tearing me apart inside. Like I don’t want to steal one of my sisters’ car keys and break all of Oakley’s speeding laws to get back to Ben. To explain.
But I can’t bring myself to shed my sarcastic suit of armor in exchange for healthier, more emotionally mature responses. Not yet.
What would I even say to Ben? Would he even want to see me after this? Or did my running away make it super clear how unfit I am to be in a relationship? He’s probably lounging by the pool thinking he sure dodged a bullet with me.
“For all you know, he doesn’t even know if you’re still on Oakley,” Merritt says. “He could think you’re already back in Atlanta.”
I shift, sitting up a little taller. “Does he not know I’m here? Your husbands both talk to him on the daily, so don’t pretend like you don’t know if they told him.”
Hunter’s and Jake’s friendship with Ben is why, in the back of my mind, I assumed that Eloise or Jake would have let him know I’m still here. Relying on them to tell him is pretty cowardly, but then we’ve already established how good I am at the whole running-in-fear thing.
Eloise’s eyes dart to Merritt, and she shrugs before saying, “I don’t know. Honestly. But even if hedoesknow, he still needsto hear from you, Sadie. Being here andnottalking to him is almost worse than leaving.”
I sink back onto the cushions with a weary grumble, disturbing Banjo enough that he leaves Eloise and her crackers, scurrying over to a basket of blankets next to the fireplace. He burrows under the top blanket, then pulls it over himself in a gesture that looks uncomfortably human.
And it feels distinctly familiar. Because am I not doing exactly that in a figurative sense? You know you’re in a bad place when you’re drawing parallels between yourself and a raccoon.
There are a million questions running through my brain. Ones I just have no answers to. What would it look like to be in a relationship with Ben?
There’s my two-year lease. My lack of desire to leave a city I just got to. The lack of security about my job after what I did. That’s a whole lot of uncertainty right there.
If I were in a relationship with Ben, would I stay in Atlanta? Would he be willing to move or do long-distance stuff, or would he rather I live on Oakley full time?
There’s something nostalgic and hopeful about that thought, buoyed by the very real fact that both of my sisters are alreadyonOakley, happily married and settled. I moved away from DC because I wanted to be closer to them, but to be on the island itself full-time?
Of course, if I’m with Ben, I wouldn’t even need to work. If the numbers I dug up on the internet are even close to correct, he probably makes what I make in a year in a single afternoon, just in interest. Men with megayachts don’t need their wives to work.
