Page 20 of Rebound

Hearing his voice when we speak on the phone is unsettling. The low rasp of gravel when he works to hide his emotions, the sound of everyday New York life behind him. I was reminded what I’ve lost—of what I’m giving away.

Our last conversation was especially difficult. The anniversary of Verona’s death always hits him hard, hits all of them hard, and even in our current circumstances, I reached out. I had to. They usually visit her graveside, then go out for drinks to toast her memory. I called him later in the evening to ask how it went.

“It was… okay, I suppose,” he said, the pain clear in every word. “I think Maddox struggled. Or maybe he’s the only one of us who shows it so much. I missed you, Amber.”

I never went to the memorial gatherings with him, but I always called a ceasefire and made sure he wasn’t alone that night. “I kept finding myself wondering what my mom would say,” he continued. “About us.”

Of course, I have a pretty damn good idea what she’d say—leave now, son, while you have the chance.But I kept that to myself, and we navigated our way through the phone call with awkward politeness. Our new normal.

He has asked several times if I’m sure this is what I really want. His neutrality is undoubtedly deliberate, for both our sakes, but I hate it. He’s so emotionless when he asks that it feels like he’s going through the motions, ticking a box. It doesn’t make sense for me to be bothered—how can I be the one who asked for a divorce and also be upset that he isn’t fighting for our marriage? I don’t know how, but I am.

Drake has filed the initial paperwork and started drafting up agreements, and the whole process will now take on a life of its own. I arrived in the city this evening, and as agreed, came back to the house in Manhattan. Elijah has moved into a hotel until we decide what happens next.

Now, I’m standing in the vast entryway, suitcase at my feet, looking around at the sweeping staircase and grand chandeliers. It’s spotless, smelling of fresh polish and wax, white lilies beautifully arranged in vases. Vicky has been at work, and Dionne will have stocked the kitchen for me. She’ll have left me a plate of sandwiches, and there will be fruit in the bowl. The wine cellar will be blessedly full, and anything I could possibly want or need will be only a phone call away.

I absolutely hate it here, and I wish I could run straight back to Charleston.

We were happy in this house to start with, Elijah and I, but that happiness has been completely overshadowed. I don’t walk around these rooms and remember better times—I remember fights. My memories are filled with the sounds of slammed doors and cold silences and the occasional thrown glass. I remember the distance that grew between us.

When we moved in, we expected to fill our home with children, to make it our own. Instead, it’s become the place where our marriage died. I’d trade it all for a walk-up in Brooklyn if I thought we could get that love back.

I don’t even like the way the house looks—it’s too smooth, too perfect. I trudge up the stairs, feeling weary. After unpacking, I glance at my phone. Martha sent a message asking if I want to meet up for drinks, and I find myself pleased to hear from her. One of my new lists includes “make real friends.” Maybe I could start with the ones I already have.

In a normal family dynamic, I’d be friends with Melanie and Amelia, but that feels like too much of a stretch. Amelia will see me through Drake’s eyes, but Mel… that’s a different story. No. I need to find my feet outside the James family circle. Martha and I have never been close, but I do enjoy her company. If nothing else, it will fill my night. The thought of being in this house by myself is depressing.

We arrange to meet for drinks, and I take a shower, eat a sandwich, and start getting ready for the night ahead. It’s so strange being here alone. It’s not new—I’ve often been here alone when Elijah stayed with his family or was away on business trips. But on those occasions, it was only temporary. This is permanent—this could be what my future looks like. Me, bouncing off the overly peach-colored walls of the townhouse.

I don’t want that, I decide, grabbing a dusky-pink wrap dress from the closet. I don’t want this house. I’ll discuss it with Drake, and he’ll discuss it with Elijah, and maybe he’ll keep it. Maybe he’ll sell it. I don’t know—I can’t imagine it has happy associations for him either. One way or another, though, I’m going to walk out those doors one day soon and not come back. What I need is a fresh start, and I’m not going to find it here.

Having made that decision, I feel better as I sit down at my vanity. I got out of the habit of doing my hair and face when I was in Charleston. The cosmetics, the treatments, trips to the salon, the fancy clothes and designer shoes—it was all an added layer of protection. They were a way of shielding myself from a world that could sometimes be cruel. Getting ready for an event was like preparing for battle, and my makeup was my armor.

Tonight, I keep it light and natural, practically naked by my standards. I brush my hair until it shines but don’t add any product. On my feet, I go for a pair of dove-gray heels. I do like my heels—if I really were going into battle, at least I’d be able to stab someone with them.

Dammit, what if I eventually meet someone else, and he’s not as tall as Elijah? What if I have to wear flats so he doesn’t feel too short around me?

That, I tell myself, is a problem for another lifetime. At the moment, I have no interest in finding another man. Or, Granny Lucille’s voice reminds me, a woman.

The place where I’m meeting Martha is in Midtown, and I have a moment of confusion before I leave the house. Do I call Gretchen? Who gets custody of her and the Bentley in the divorce? When was the last time I used the subway like a normal person, anyway? I glance down at my heels and decide against that for tonight. Outside, I hail a cab, trying not to think about the night we met sweet Sanjay. My dashing taxi driver with a heart of gold. At least it’s not raining this time.

Through the window of the bar, I see Martha through waiting for me in a booth and pause before I go inside. Elijah asked his brother Mason to draft a brief press release to announce our separation to the world, but at this moment in time, the only people who know are our families. Can I risk telling Martha? Can I actually trust her, or will my business be broadcasted all over Manhattan society by midnight?

Maybe I can trust her, but it’s not my news alone. As I head inside to join her, I decide it isn’t worth the risk. The place is bustling and packed with beautiful people, the bright lights and chatter a stark contrast to the darkness outside. Martha looks up from her phone as I slide into the booth, and her face lights up. She looks genuinely pleased to see me, and I’m sad that I need to lie to her tonight. I make a promise to myself that she will be the first person I contact once the news is out.

“Well, don’t you look fucking marvelous?” she says, her eyes sweeping over me. “I’m liking this new look.”

I didn’t realize it was so noticeable, and my hand goes to my foundation-free face. “Why, thank you, Mrs. Kemp. I’m experimenting with going minimalist.”

She pours me a glass of wine. “Well, I suppose it beats experimenting with meth. You look great. How’s your grandmother? I bumped into Elijah last week, and he said you’d gone to stay with her.”

Hearing Elijah’s name jars me a little, but I simply nod and smile. “Yes. She’s eighty-nine, you know. I needed to spend some quality time with her, and there comes a point where you have to put family first.”

Not a word of what I said is a lie—Grannyiseighty-nine—but the implication is that she’s old and sick and I was looking after her. It was actually the other way around, but I can’t let Martha know that. I’m glad he mentioned it though—it gives me the perfect excuse for why I canceled my upcoming social events.

“So true, darling, so true. I hope my feral offspring have the same attitude when I’m that age. They’re currently at the stage where I can do no right. Even my breathing annoys them. I think they’d quite like it if I stopped doing that altogether.”

Martha has fifteen-year-old twin daughters, and I shudder a little at the thought of all those hormones cooped up in one house. “Moms and daughters are like that,” I say. “For a while anyway. They’ll get through it, I’m sure, and then they’ll see you for the miracle of mothering that you are.”

“From your lips to God’s ears, Amber. So… Did you hear about Nancy Pearson? She crashed her Mercedes into the back of a police patrol car outside the Rockefeller Center. That’s her second DUI.”

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