Page 3 of Anywhere with You

Florence agreed to open for me the next day, so instead of heading to work Saturday morning, I kissed Badger’s overexcitable little head and went to apologize to Cara Espinoza.

I’d always liked her and Lorenzo’s apartment. The building was surrounded by young trees and flowerpots, and there were always chalk drawings in bright pink and yellow on the sidewalks.

Cara and Lorenzo didn’t have kids, and neither did we. Thank goodness no children would suffer from Bridget and Lorenzo’s betrayal. The two of them could go drive off a cliff or get eaten by alligators, and who would care? No one.

I knocked hesitantly on Cara’s door, and she opened in seconds.

I’d been worried it was too early for a weekend, but she was already dressed in a green T-shirt and jeans with lace at the hem, her hair fixed in its big, beautiful curls, and the faint bit of makeup she wore was already applied.

She really was very pretty, in an uptight schoolteacher kind of way.

I was wearing a black tank top and pants that I’d bought based on their claims to minimize stomach bulge , which is exactly the phrase that every woman wants to read when shopping.

I honestly didn’t worry too much about stomach bulge, in general.

I considered that having a body was an eighty-ish year privilege, if I was lucky, and that if I could spend that time focusing on my awesome guitar calluses and my elbow-length hair, and not my stomach bulge, I’d be much happier.

I tried to stop thinking about stomach bulges because Cara was standing there, waiting for me to speak.

I smiled. She cringed at my smile.

That was happening a lot lately. I really needed to look in a mirror.

“I’m sorry,” I said immediately. One of Dad’s favorite life lessons was to apologize as often as you can, to practice until you’re good at it.

I did much better with that advice than with his other lessons, which were some nonsense about oil changes and filing my taxes early.

Cara was still standing there, not saying anything.

“I brought pastries,” I said.

She eyed the bag. “Mademoiselle Louise Bakery?”

I nodded. I didn’t know Cara’s opinion, but I would forgive Darth Vader for a Mademoiselle Louise croissant.

Apparently, Cara agreed. She opened the door wide, and I went inside.

Cara’s apartment was immaculate. It could’ve been in a TV show about people who have their shit together.

Bridget and I usually hosted dinners in our backyard, but we had visited Cara and Lorenzo before. I always assumed that they made a special effort to clean up before they had guests. I couldn’t have imagined that they lived this way.

I wasn’t a slob, and Bridget was almost not a slob, but our house had nice, uneven stacks of books and coasters on the tables, junk mail on the counter, the occasional sock between the couch cushions, and floors littered with dog toys.

Cara had clean surfaces, straight throw pillows, and no dishes—not a single dish —in the sink. Even the spot under the stovetop burners that is perpetually filthy in every house I’d ever visited was shining, pristine. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear that no one had ever actually lived here.

I followed Cara to the kitchen table, because of course we wouldn’t be shoving pastries into our mouths on the living room couch like commoners, and she told me to have a seat while she grabbed plates.

“Coffee?” she said, gesturing to the already full coffeepot.

“Yes, please.”

She poured the coffee in a porcelain cup and brought creamer in a tiny porcelain pitcher and a matching sugar bowl.

“Dear God, do you always live this way?” I couldn’t help it, but the regret hit me instantly. I had come here to apologize to this woman, not to criticize the way she served coffee.

But she didn’t seem offended. “Didn’t you ever play with fancy tea sets as a kid and think, one day I’ll grow up and have the real thing?”

“No.”

She rolled her eyes and brought over two small plates for our pastries, then sat across from me with her own cup. “Well, I did. And now I have teapots, and cups that don’t advertise John Deere tractors, and really, really good bath towels.”

I had my mouth open for a rebuttal but stopped at that last one.

Really, really good bath towels. I’d always meant to buy some.

That was a luxury, but a luxury I could probably afford.

Maybe they wouldn’t fundamentally enhance my quality of life, nothing that extreme.

But they would improve my enjoyment of it.

Maybe that was her point.

“You’re really smart,” I said.

She snorted, then reached for the pastries. “Maybe. But my husband had been cheating for six months, so I may not be smart about some things.”

A cold feeling crept into my stomach. “Six months?” I breathed.

Cara’s head jerked up to look at me. She didn’t say a word.

I pulled in a shaky breath. “I didn’t know it had been that long. I didn’t think to ask.”

Cara took a pastry, placed it in the center of her plate, and passed the bag to me.

I took the one that looked like it contained the most calories and bit into it, hoping that the sugar and the fat and all the bad stuff would momentarily make me feel better.

I chewed and swallowed and drank my coffee, not tasting any of it.

“When did he tell you he was leaving?” I asked, and I instantly regretted that, too. What was the point of knowing? Was I hoping to compare the length of Cara’s suffering to mine? I took another large bite.

Cara sighed but answered at once, as though she wanted to talk about it, maybe as though she didn’t have two parents and a coworker who were constantly pestering her to talk through her emotions.

“It’s been six weeks or so,” she said. “He said Bridget was doing the same, that same day. I kept thinking that I’d call you or go by, but it wasn’t until yesterday…” She stopped, took a sip of coffee, then cleared her throat and met my eyes. “Yesterday, he called to check on me.”

I cringed and didn’t try to hide it. “Did you tell him to fuck off?”

Cara’s eyes widened, and something about her changed, became more open, like the edges of her mask were slipping. “No,” she said, and it was almost a whine. “Why didn’t I tell him to fuck off? Honey, what’s wrong with me? Can I call him right now and tell him to fuck off?”

I almost laughed. I probably would’ve, but there was a manic edge to Cara. I was a little afraid that the wrong reaction would make her start crying or throwing things.

“You can, if you want,” I said. “But for maximum impact, I’d wait until he calls again.”

“Right. Good thinking. Anyway, he’s been cheating on me since Thanksgiving.” She gave another wide, fake smile, then shook her head. “Maybe he was calling because he really did want to know if I was okay. I don’t know. I’m not sure I care.”

Thanksgiving. This was March.

Maybe I should call Bridget. I could ask her if she looked at our wedding picture every day or if she was, instead, not a pathetic mess of emotion. I could check on her. Or I could just tell her to fuck off, too.

“Bridget did tell you that day, didn’t she? Right after Valentine’s Day?” Cara asked.

I nodded. “Right after Valentine’s Day, but not close enough after so that I could get a bunch of Valentine’s-themed breakup grief candy half off.”

Cara said she’d thought about calling me, but I’d never considered calling her. I’d spent every waking hour in Strings & Things so I didn’t have to be at home, and I cycled through all of Bridget’s social media hourly, at least, because God forbid I missed a detail of her romantic new life.

But no, Cara had never even crossed my mind.

She’d driven across Houston to see me, and I hadn’t even picked up the phone.

“I think there are divorce papers on my desk,” I said, surprising myself. I hadn’t told anyone yet.

“What do you mean you think ?”

“I haven’t opened the envelope.”

Cara shook her head. “I opened mine as soon as they came, standing there in the doorway in front of the process server man or whoever. I had just gotten home, and I had my hands full of bills and junk mail and my keys. I tried to pick it all up after, but I know some of it blew away. I guess they’ll send new bills, won’t they?

It’s not like I missed my only chance with the electric company. ”

“I’m sorry,” I said because there was nothing else to say. Maybe I meant I’m sorry you’re going through all this . Maybe, I’m sorry our spouses are fucking each other . Maybe, I’m sorry that I didn’t call you when I should have .

Maybe all of it.

“I’m sorry, too,” she said.