I WENT BACK AND forth between the freezer section and the alcohol aisle. As I held a crappy bottle of merlot in my hands, I wasn’t able to hold my tears in any longer.
“Life is too short to drink cheap wine.”
I turned my head to see Harlow standing there holding a basket filled with groceries. “Yeah, I know,” I admitted with a heavy sobbing sniff.
“I can’t let you cry in the middle of the market. Let’s go back to my house, I have many bottles of wine and you can tell me what’s got you so upset.”
“Okay,” I sighed, placing the bottle of wine back onto the shelf.
“Do you have junk food? Like really bad food—I was thinking of picking up a couple of Totino’s Party Pizzas or some of those pizza rolls.” I shuffled along the aisle following Harlow to the olive bar. She added some cheeses and stuffed olives to her basket. “You know what would be really good, some Little Debbie cakes. Do you think they still have the Valentine cakes? You know the ones shaped like pink hearts?”
“We can check on those snacks, whatever you need,” Harlow said, looping her arm with mine.
“Thank you for taking pity on me in the market,” I said, before taking a sip of my wine. “And, you’re right, this is much better than that swill I was about to purchase.”
Harlow slid a plate of pizza rolls in front of me. Even though this food was the least healthy thing on the planet, I gave zero fucks.
“So, what has you so upset?”
I wiped my fingers on the aqua linen napkin. “I . . . my marriage is falling apart. I don’t know why or how it happened, but my husband and I cannot seem to communicate. Not like we used to anyway.”
“Is it the tabloids, and all rumors?” Harlow asked, glancing up from chopping jalapenos.
I waved my hand in front of my face. “Okay, I need to ask—what are you making?”
She laughed, and her auburn waves cascaded over her shoulders. “Spicy cucumber margaritas, it’s a new recipe for the website. Grady is usually my taste tester, but since you’re here, you get the honor.”
“You’re working while I’m breaking down about my marriage?”
“I’m giving you free booze”—she pointed the knife in my direction—“I’m your bartender and therapist.”
“Fair point,” I replied, and had a sad bitter laugh into my glass. “The rumors are hard, probably because there’s a hint of truth in some of them.”
Harlow stopped chopping, leveling her gaze in my direction. “Oh, Tinley, no . . . do you want to talk about those rumors?”
“When Matthew finally came home for Christmas,” I began, running a hand through my hair. “The pictures of us at the airport bar, we were discussing the fact that he didn’t sleep with Georgina Dupree, but he admitted that he wanted to.”
Her blue eyes went wide. “No way. Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack.” I reached for another pizza roll. “I think empanadas or nachos would go better with the margaritas.”
“You want to order some Mexican food?” Harlow asked, adding tequila and lime juice into her blender.
“Yeah, that sounds good,” I said, sliding off the barstool to fetch my phone from my purse. “Where’s Grady?”
“In Los Angeles, he had a campaign shoot and then he and some friends were going out to the Comedy Cellar.” After adding the rest of her ingredients, she hit blend. I perused the menu for Padano’s thinking about some enchiladas and pork tacos. And that was all it took to trigger an avalanche of emotions. Tears slid down my cheeks, and pressed my palm to my mouth.
“Oh no, not again,” Harlow whispered.
I pulled a few tissues from the box on the counter. “God, I am so sorry that I am such a blubbering mess.”
She added the garnish to the drinks and then slid one in front of me. “Put this in your body now.”
I snort laughed. “Thank you, I might be spending the night on your couch.”
“Nonsense,” Harlow said, raising her glass to meet mine. “I have a guest bedroom and you can feel free to pass out in there.”
“I don’t know what to do.” My shoulders slumped as I traced the edge of the glass. “Matthew and I agreed to work on our marriage but our schedules are so packed right now. I feel so empty inside, completely drained. What if I’m losing him?”
Harlow shook her head. “I don’t believe that, I see the way Matthew looks at you. He adores you.”
“Yeah, he adores me, but he doesn’t want to fuck me.”
Harlow squeezed my shoulders. “Matthew is the love of your life and you are his. I heard your wedding vows. Matthew said he promised to always be by your side, or underneath you or on top of you. He loves you.”
I laughed and studied my drink. “You know Matthew used to write me notes on the chalkboard in the kitchen. One of my favorites said: Today’s Menu, you plus me plus naked equals fun.”
We’d stopped communicating altogether. I couldn’t even remember the last time I told my husband that I loved him. Each day we were surrounded by a million people who didn’t know us, but told us how much they loved us and our work. Yet, the two of us hadn’t told each other that in a long time. A shiver rolled through my entire body at my revelation.
“How about the next time Matthew comes home you just jump him?”
“If he even comes home again, ugh.” I dropped my forehead to the butcher’s block.
“What are you talking about?”
“I haven’t talked to him in weeks. I sent him a text and told him I couldn’t do it anymore.”
She sucked in a sharp breath. “Are you thinking separation?”
Tears welled in my eyes. “I don’t know.”
Matthew was everything to me. I wanted him. I wanted our life. I didn’t know where to start. I thought I did, but now I felt so completely broken. The constant pain, the emptiness—all of it was swallowing me whole. If I couldn’t give him a child and a family . . . would Matthew still want me?
“If part of the problem is the media, tune them out or turn the tables on them.”
“It’s been suggested that we play the game,” I murmured.
“Georgina Dupree,” Harlow said her name, and a flash of irritation wound through my bones. “Seriously, does she have the golden pussy of Hollywood or something?”
“No, she’s got that whole single-mom, goodwill ambassador, mysterious beauty thing going for her and she’s a fucking great actress. She’s fucking perfect.”
“You know”—Harlow leaned her hip against the island—“they say that Georgina is really the beauty queen from Vermont who messed up her question in the final round of that pageant years ago.”
My shoulders shook with laughter. “What?”
“Yeah, apparently she had some work done and she’s really a blonde. Rumor has it that she couldn’t leave her house after that, everywhere she went people teased and mocked her, so she became a recluse and then transformed into Georgina Dupree.”
“Now, I feel bad for her,” I said, before guzzling more of my margarita.
“Nah,” Harlow replied, waving her hand in the air. “It’s a total conspiracy theory. Like how Katy Perry is really Jon Benet Ramsey and Taylor Swift is a satanic cult leader.”
“Where do you hear this stuff?”
“The internet, so you know that it’s all true.” She tugged my arm, nodding towards the couch.
“Some internet rumors have a hint of truth,” I whispered, keeping my eyes downcast. “I think I’ve been unfair to Matthew. Every time he brings up the subject of having another baby, I shut him down. My little breakdown in the store today may or may not have had something to do with the fact that I thought I might have been pregnant. We did have one amazing morning before he left.”
“See”—she gestured towards me—“he does want to fuck you.”
Her words loosened the knot in my throat, or perhaps it was the tequila, that stuff was like truth serum. “I’m afraid of trying again. I’m scared, the loss . . . when I lost our baby it was like losing my mother all over again.” My entire body tensed. Harlow had lost her mother too, the last thing I wanted to do was bring up painful memories.
She squeezed my hand. “You and I both know the pain never gets easier, and every day the loss takes a different emotion. Fear, anger, sadness, and sometimes there are flashes of joy. In your case, the joy of finding out that you were pregnant becomes overshadowed by the black cloud of losing your baby.”
I took a long slow drink. The words weren’t easy to hear, but that didn’t mean she was wrong. In fact, she made more sense than anything I’d ever told myself over the last year.
“Talk to Matthew,” she said, nudging my arm. “Tell him exactly how you are feeling. He will understand. Do it now, as soon as you can, because doing it later becomes never.”
I squeezed her hand. “Perhaps, you should take that advice too.”
Harlow let out a long sound that resembled a sighing laugh. “You’re probably right.”
“I think I hear wedding bells,” I said into my glass.