“I can’t do this,” Chuck mutters, backing away from my weeping sister.
“Is it another woman?” Lauren asks, her voice breaking with a pain I feel cut right through my own chest. I want to go to her and wrap her up in my arms and hold her tight—after I kick Chuck in the balls—but I stay hidden, knowing she’ll be even more upset if she knows I’ve heard everything. “Is that why you don’t want to touch me anymore?”
Chuck pulls in a deep breath and lets it out slowly, his chin still tucked to his chest. Finally, after a long beat, he looks up, his expression weary, but resigned. “You and I both know things haven’t been good since you insisted that we have another baby, Lore. I didn’t want a third kid. I was happy with just you and the girls. And sure, now that he’s here, I fuckin’ love Keith. So much. Of course, I do. And I wouldn’t undo having him, even if I could, but…”
“But you don’t love me anymore?” Lauren’s bottom lip is trembling and the tears are coming faster now, making her shoulders shake.
“I do love you,” Chuck says. “But it’s my turn to get what I want. You got Keith and the kitchen remodel we couldn’t afford and ballet lessons for Kiki. Now, I’m going to spend some of our time and money doing things I like to do. I’m meeting some friends from high school for a concert in the city, then we’re staying at a hotel in midtown after. I’ll be home before you and the kids tomorrow, and we’ll have a pizza night. It’ll be fun.”
“Yeah, sure.” Lauren swipes at her face with sharp jerks of her right hand. “I guess we’ll see you then.”
Chuck pulls in an easier breath. “Totally. Have a great last day with your family and the kids. Just tell them I had to do the invoicing. They won’t know you did it already.” He steps in, kissing Lauren on the forehead. “Bye, baby. Thanks for being the best, and we’ll have a date night soon, okay? After Christmas or something. Maybe we can get a sitter for New Year’s Eve and go dancing like we used to.”
Lauren nods but keeps her gaze on the flowered carpet. “Sure. Drive safe.”
“Will do,” Chuck says and then he’s on the move, hurrying past the front desk and out the sliding doors to the truck.
I look back to my sister in time to see her face crumple into a mask of such utter misery, I decide I have to go to her—fuck her pride.
She doesn’t need pride right now. She needs a sister to hug her tight and tell her everything Chuck just did was total bullshit, from lying about where he was going to the guilt trip about a child it took two of them to create to acting like replacing their death trap of a kitchen was some luxury Lauren lavished on herself while she sat around eating bonbons.
I stuff my notepad and pen into my purse and tug my hoodie off my head, but by the time I stand, Lauren has already started back down the hallway leading to the east wing. She’s moving fast, with her head high, her shoulders back, and her own ponytail swishing with purpose, the way it always does. She’s back in supermom mode, probably on her way to her room to make sure she’s there before the kids wake up.
She’ll dress them in adorable matching outfits, herd them down to breakfast, and laugh off Chuck’s nonsense with such ease no one will ever guess how hurt she is.
I wouldn’t have guessed. I’ve always assumed the façade was real.
Now, I know better.
I know my sister isn’t as happy in her marriage as she pretends to be. But I also know that she’ll never leave Chuck. That would be admitting defeat and Lauren doesn’t so that. Ever.
Once, when we were kids, she walked miles with bloodied heels after she’d insisted on wearing her new ballet flats to the theme park. Mom had warned her that she’d have blisters in ten minutes and should wear her tennis shoes, instead, but Lauren was going to do what Lauren was going to do. And when Mom’s prophecy came true, she kept walking until she had tears streaming down her face from the pain but refused to admit Mom was right or beg her to take us home early.
Sad as it is, I imagine Lauren is up for a lifetime of similarly painful interactions with Chuck. She’s not the type to seek therapy and leaving him would be admitting our parents were right when they said she was too young to get married at eighteen.
But I don’t have to go down the same road.
It’s not too late for me.