Chương 10
“That is traditionally where hands go.”
Ethan glared at her.
Claire laughed.
Margaret saw them and rolled her eyes.
Robert asked what was funny.
She whispered something.
He laughed too.
Ethan shook his head.
“I hate this.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I strongly dislike it.”
“Better.”
They stood beside the dance floor.
Claire rested her head against his shoulder.
For a while neither spoke.
Then Ethan said, “We never had our first dance.”
Claire lifted her head.
“No.”
“Want one?”
“Here?”
“Why not?”
“This is someone else’s wedding.”
“So?”
Claire looked toward the dance floor.
“No.”
Ethan seemed surprised.
“No?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
She smiled.
“I want ours somewhere nobody is watching.”
The following evening, back in Chicago, they ordered Chinese food.
Ethan complained that the restaurant had forgotten the extra chili oil.
Claire told him to survive.
He put music on from his phone while she cleared cartons from the coffee table.
A slow song came on.
Neither recognized it.
Ethan held out his hand.
Claire looked at him.
“Seriously?”
“Nobody’s watching.”
She took his hand.
They danced barefoot between the sofa and the kitchen.
There was no white dress.
No photographer.
No champagne tower.
Claire’s hair was tied up badly.
Ethan had soy sauce on his shirt.
Halfway through the song, he stepped on her foot.
“Ow.”
“Sorry.”
“You’re terrible at this.”
“You married me.”
“Questionable judgment.”
He pulled her closer.
She rested her cheek against his chest.
His wedding ring pressed lightly against her back.
The feeling was small.
Almost nothing.
Claire noticed it anyway.
Months later, Margaret finally replaced her dishwasher.
Robert installed it badly.
Ethan drove to Ohio to fix it.
Claire went with him.
They spent Thanksgiving in the little house where Ethan had grown up, sleeping in a bedroom with faded baseball trophies on a shelf and a mattress that sagged in the middle.
Margaret burned the rolls.
Robert brought wine.
Ethan survived.
Barely.
After dinner, Claire washed dishes while Margaret dried them.
“You know,” Margaret said, “the machine can do this now.”
“I don’t trust Robert’s plumbing.”
“Smart.”
They worked quietly.
A plate slipped in Claire’s wet hands.
Margaret caught it.
Both froze.
Then Margaret began laughing.
Claire did too.
“What?” Ethan called from the living room.
“Nothing,” they answered together.
Later, Claire found Margaret alone on the back porch.
The night was cold.
Claire brought her coat.
“You’ll freeze.”
“I’m from Ohio.”
“That’s not immunity.”
Margaret accepted the coat.
They stood shoulder to shoulder.
“You miss him,” Claire said.
Margaret did not ask whom she meant.
“Every day.”
“Does Robert make that complicated?”
“Yes.”
Claire waited.
Margaret smiled.
“That’s life, apparently.”
“I’m learning.”
“You’re thirty.”
“Twenty-nine.”
“Same thing.”
Claire looked through the window.
Ethan was arguing with Robert about football.
Neither appeared particularly informed.
“I used to think if I did everything correctly, nothing humiliating could happen to me.”
Margaret pulled the coat tighter.
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It was.”
“And incorrect.”
“Extremely.”
Margaret glanced at her.
“You know I wasn’t trying to humiliate you that day.”
“I know.”
“I was trying to keep champagne off your dress.”
“I know.”
“You were standing in a puddle.”
“I know.”
“I’m just making sure.”
Claire smiled.
“I still have the cloth.”
“The fourteen-dollar linen cloth.”
“The rag.”
Margaret nudged her.
Claire looked down at her hands.
“I’m glad you didn’t forgive me immediately.”
Margaret considered that.
“So am I.”
“I hated you for it.”
“I know.”
“You knew?”
“You called every Sunday pretending to ask about my wrist.”
Claire laughed.
“I did not.”
“You asked about it for three months.”
“It could have gotten worse.”
“It was a sprain.”
“I’m thorough.”
“You’re a pain in the ass.”
Claire laughed harder.
From inside, Ethan looked toward the porch.
He saw his mother and his wife laughing together.
He did not come outside.
That was another thing he had learned.
Not every good moment required his participation.
The following February, almost exactly one year after the wedding that had not happened, Claire and Ethan returned to Colorado alone.
There was no ceremony planned.
No guests.
No photographer.
Claire had suggested the trip because she wanted to ski.
Ethan knew she was lying.
Claire hated skiing.
She spent the first morning falling down a beginner slope while children passed her.
At lunch she announced that winter sports were a conspiracy.
Ethan laughed until she threatened divorce.
“Too soon,” he said.
“Still?”
“Probably forever.”
That evening they walked to the lodge terrace.
Snow fell lightly.
The outdoor firepit was burning.
A server offered them champagne.
Claire accepted two glasses.
She tipped him twenty dollars.
Ethan watched.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
“My face is innocent.”
“It has never been innocent.”
They sat near the fire.
For a while they watched snow disappear in the flames.
Claire wore boots this time.
No heels.
No white dress.
Ethan touched her hand.
“Do you wish we’d had another wedding?”
“No.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you might.”
“I spent fourteen months planning the first one.”
“Eleven.”
“It felt like fourteen.”
He smiled.
Claire looked across the terrace.
“I used to think the wedding was proof.”
“Of what?”
“That we had succeeded.”
“At being married?”
“At life.”
Ethan laughed.
“I know.”
“That’s horrifying.”
“A little.”
She leaned against him.
“What do you think now?”
Claire considered.
“I think success is remembering to buy toilet paper before we run out.”
“Then we are failing.”
She looked at him.
“We’re out?”
“Since this morning.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought you knew.”
“How would I know?”
“I don’t know. Marriage telepathy.”
She laughed.
The server passed again carrying an empty silver tray.
Claire’s eyes followed it.
Ethan noticed.
“You okay?”
She took a breath.
“Yes.”
This time it was true.
Not because she had forgotten.
She had not.
There were things that should not be forgotten.
The sound of Margaret’s hands striking stone.
Ethan’s face.
The ring spinning beside broken glass.
The woman Claire had been in that moment remained part of her.
So did the woman who had spent the next year learning that remorse was not an emotion you felt until you were forgiven.
It was behavior.
Repeated when nobody applauded.
Repeated when the person you hurt remained angry.
Repeated when the internet had forgotten.
Repeated when there was no reward except becoming slightly less likely to hurt someone again.
Ethan squeezed her fingers.
“What?”
“You disappeared.”
“Sorry.”
“Where’d you go?”
Claire looked toward the fire.
“Nowhere.”
He accepted that.
Snow collected on the shoulders of his coat.
Claire brushed it away.
The server returned.
“Can I get you anything else?”
Claire looked at Ethan.
He looked at her.
“We’re good,” she said.
The server smiled.
“Have a nice evening.”
“You too.”
He walked away.
Claire watched the silver tray disappear through the glass doors.
Then she noticed something near the leg of her chair.
A champagne drop had fallen onto her boot.
She stared at it.
Ethan followed her gaze.
Slowly, very carefully, he reached for a napkin.
Claire caught his hand.
His eyebrows rose.
She wiped the drop herself.
“That,” she said, “I can handle.”
Ethan smiled.
Across the terrace, the fire shifted and sent a brief scatter of sparks into the cold air.
Claire folded the napkin once and placed it beside her glass.
May you like
Then she took her husband’s hand again.
This time neither of them let go.
