Life Without You. Liesel Schmidt
feeling a bit unsettled and trying to figure out as many ways as I could to stall. It was a mystery even to me why I had brought up the subject at this point. I had danced myself right in front of the firing squad, so I guess I deserved her pointed question. Not that it really was all that pointed or unreasonable.
In fact, it was more than logical.
For most people, it might have even been a simple question. But right then, I was so confused about what I wanted and how I felt about the whole thing that the most uncomplicated inquiry could send me off-kilter.
I left the glass where it sat, puddling moisture on the tabletop, and traced a finger down the side, keeping my focus fixed on it. Anything to avoid her green-eyed gaze.
I shrugged.
“Come on, Dellie. Really,” she said, exasperation thick in her voice. “How long have I been telling you the same thing? You work too much, and you don’t do anything with anyone anymore.”
My eyes shot up to her face, a protest ready to spring from my lips. “Yes, I—”
“No, you don’t,” she cut in, poking a fry in my direction and shaking it for emphasis. “You don’t. Every time I ask you to come do something with me, you tell me you have work to do.” She pouted, her lipstick still perfect even though she’d eaten her way through half a plate of fries. “I’m beginning to think you don’t like doing things with me.”
“No, Bette,” I said, shaking my head. “That’s not it at all, and you know it.”
She dunked the French fry in a pool of ketchup before popping it into her mouth.
“Well, then you’re going to have to show me. Otherwise, I will not be convinced,” she said, shaking her head. “In the meantime, back to the vacation thing. Your sister thinks it. I think it. And I know your parents think it.” She tilted her head to the side, her jewel-like eyes boring into me. “So why do you seem so…defensive about whole idea? Most people would just say, ‘Yes, I agree,’ or ‘No, go to hell,’ and move on.” She finished chewing and swallowed, pausing thoughtfully. “But you? You act like we’re telling you we think you need to move to Uganda or something.”
I shot her a look.
She shrugged again. “Okay, maybe not Uganda. But something risky or life-altering. We’re talking about a vacation,” she emphasized. “A break, you know? Something most people enjoy and recharge with.”
“Uh-huh, most people,” I shot back, picking up my fork to poke through the lettuce in my salad, in search of peppers. “And when was the last time my life resembled most people’s?”
“So maybe a vacation could be your reset button, and you could start having a somewhat normal life?” she posed.
I speared my salad, giving up on the peppers and shaking my head.
“A vacation isn’t a magical cure-all, Bette. And there are things that I can’t just leave here.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, many things.”
Bette ran a hand through her very thick, very raven hair to tuck it behind a heavily pierced ear.
“Name one.”
I opened my mouth, ready to start my verbal rundown.
“Besides work, Dellie.”
My mouth slammed shut as I thought.
Bette crossed her arms as she settled further into her chair, a smug look on her face.
I narrowed my eyes at her.
“For one thing, my apartment. I can’t just leave my apartment empty for that amount of time.” I shook my head, knowing that I probably sounded like I was grasping at straws. “Maybe it would be different if it was a house, and I had a neighbor I trusted to look after things. But in my apartment?” More headshaking. “Not really the best idea. Somebody might break in, and then what?”
“What am I, chopped liver?” she asked, looking slightly hurt.
“No,” I replied, puzzled. “But you’ve lost me. You live an hour away from my place, so it doesn’t really put you in the best position to keep an eye on things. And besides that, you’ve got work and Steve and—”
“And Steve could use a shake-up of his own,” she broke in, reaching again for her dwindling pile of French fries, now undoubtedly grown cold.
I watched her, a knot of apprehension growing in my gut. “What do you mean?”
She chose a fry and bit into it forcefully, funneling her aggression to the helpless spud.
“Let’s just say that Steve isn’t exactly keeping his priorities straight, and I think we could use some distance for awhile,” she replied. She swallowed. “Not forever, but…he needs to be reminded of some things.”
“Things being?”
“Things being that he has a wife who loves him and a marriage that he’s supposed to be committed to.” She sighed, looking sad.
I stared at her in dismay. “Is he cheating on you?”
Bette shook her head.
“No. Not yet. Not out-and-out cheating,” she said. “But there’s something going on with some woman he works with.” She blinked at the tears that I could see collecting in her eyes. “He just seems so distant all the time, like when he’s with me, he’s not really with me. And every time I try to talk to him about it, he pretty much just shuts down and changes the subject, says he’s got a lot going on at work and he doesn’t want to get into it. So I think a little time apart might do us some good,” she sniffed.
I plucked a paper napkin from the dispenser on the table and held it out to her. I’d never seen Bette get so emotional before, so this was new territory for me. Normally, she was the tough, show-no-fear type. The ball-crusher. And now she was showing a softer side that I wasn’t quite prepared for.
“So…?”
“I could stay at your place,” she said simply, regaining her composure as she dabbed the corners of her eyes with the napkin. “I’ll pay you a month’s worth of rent, and I promise to keep it spic and span.” She smiled. “No wild parties, I promise.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Why does that phrase not reassure me?” I asked.
She spread her arms, shoulders raised toward her earlobes as she gave me a look of innocence. “I have no idea,” she replied. “Who on Earth do you think I would invite to a party?”
I narrowed my eyes.
“Aren’t you running for some new position in the League?”
She cocked her head sideways, still managing to appear angelic, somehow. Her eyes widened in a look of guiltless surprise as authentic as the color of her irises. And those babies were courtesy of 1-800-Contacts.
“Oh, that’s right. The vote’s coming up soon.” She shook her head. “You know, with everything else that’s been going on, I guess I forgot all about it.”
“Uh-huh. And your granny’s famous pecan pie is really a Sara Lee.”
“Don’t go dragging Granny into this, or you’ll regret it,” Bette growled. “Uh-uh, no ma’am,” she cautioned. “And especially don’t be insinuating that she buys her pies.” The last three words were whispered, eyes huge with the scandal of it all. “Uh-uh.”
For a minute, I thought she might actually genuflect and cross herself—even though Bette came from a family as un-Catholic as kosher wine.
Not that she was Jewish, either.
In fact, Bette’s family hadn’t stepped foot