Page 48 of Good Days Bad Days

Charlie

Present Day

“I’m sorry that took so long. I hope you found something in the fridge . . .” I call out to Olivia, tearing off my sweatshirt and sweatpants as soon as I get inside the house. I need to get out of these tainted garments, spoiled both by blood and by the fight with my dad.

Using my toes, I flip the pants off the living room floor into my arms, preparing to scurry to the bedroom, when a low cough mixed with a laugh comes from the kitchen.

Startled, I swerve around to see Ian standing in the corner by the painted gray circular pedestal table.

He’s dressed in a full suit—blue single-breasted jacket with a white shirt unbuttoned at the collar and a tan belt.

In his hands he holds an oversized bouquet of white tulips.

His beard is neatly trimmed, and his hair is cut in a tight taper up to a sharp part on the right side, held in place with pomade.

My heart skips a beat like it always used to when I saw him on set, before he asked me out for drinks seven years ago. Who am I kidding? The heart thing never went away. I’ve always been insanely attracted to my husband, even when I don’t want to be.

When Ian’s formal attire registers, I squeal and clutch the crumpled sweats in front of me, remembering I’m standing in the hallway in my underwear.

“Ian! What the hell are you doing?” I shriek. His rich laugh fills the room, and he doesn’t even pretend to avert his gaze.

“Olivia let me in. Call me crazy, but I thought you’d be dressed when you walked in the front door . . .”

“Olivia. Of course.” I roll my eyes, saying her name like a curse word. Her meddling is growing untenable. “Where is she?”

“Took an Uber over to visit your mom, I think. Also mentioned something about going out with one of the nurses afterward, a local girl.”

“Let me guess. She said she’ll be out late, and she knew about—this.” I gesture at his impeccable hair, pressed suit, polished Italian leather loafers.

“She dressed me.”

“She’s lost her mind,” I mutter, unsure of my next move. “Turn around. I need to change.”

“Do I have to?” he asks with a flirtatious smirk.

“Ian McFadden. Yes. Turn around.”

“Yes, ma’am.” His southern upbringing comes out, and I can’t help but smile. Once his back is to me, I run into my room, but inside I find another surprise. A red dress in a clear garment bag hangs from the overhead fan, and a shoebox sits on the bed. “Shit.”

My phone buzzes. The messages are from Ian in the living room.

Ian: The dress was my idea. Let me take you out.

Ian: Please.

The gown is a beautiful halter dress with a pleated skirt. Not cheap and my exact size. I lift the shoebox lid and peek inside. The shoes have six-inch heels, and I think of all the times I’ve dressed up and stood beside Ian, held his hand, felt proud to be his wife.

My left hand is still bare, my heart still sore, but instead of tearing the dress down and telling Ian to back off like I would’ve a week ago, I caress the silky material and consider the offer.

Ian made a mistake, but unlike my parents, he didn’t give me away.

He apologized, he begged for forgiveness, he showed up here.

He is choosing me. I think of Olivia, the twins, and all the years we’ve given to one another, and type a response.

Charlie: Where are you taking me?

Ian: It’s a surprise.

Ian said our reservation was at six thirty, and that’s all I knew until we turned into the front gate of the Grand Geneva.

The road winds past smaller hotels, patches of budding trees, and a palatial par-72 golf course.

Thankfully, the drive took only fifteen minutes, and we spent most of it talking about the twins and generalities of the renovation.

As we pull under the pavilion covering the entrance, Ian puts the car into park and turns to face me.

“Thanks for saying yes,” he says genuinely.

Recently, I’ve felt like something’s missing from our off-camera connection.

Every interaction plays out like we have a lens shoved in our faces, even when we’re alone.

Tonight, that’s all stripped away. There’s something alluring about wearing a dress he chose for my body and trusting Ian to drive us to an unknown destination.

As he helps me down from my elevated seat in the SUV, I let his hand linger on my waist. Chills run up my spine as his thumb grazes a bare spot between my wrap and dress on my lower back.

“You look so beautiful,” he says as the valet drives away with the car and we stride through the automatic sliding doors.

“You dressed me,” I say back, taking in the two-story lobby.

My eye is drawn to the floor-to-ceiling tan brick fireplace, hunting lodge chandeliers, white furniture, and a long bar on the main floor.

A pianist plays the grand piano. A glass wall offers a view to the busy Ristorantè Brissago on the second floor.

It’s not the most glamorous place we’ve stayed or the most memorable, but it’s perfect.

“I love this,” I say, running my fingers over the roughcast stone that lines the walls as we take the short flight of stairs to the next level.

“I knew you would. It reminded me of . . .”

“Frank Lloyd Wright.” I finish his sentence in a synchronicity I haven’t felt with Ian in a while.

“Yeah, exactly. Inspired by Frank Lloyd Wright. Prairie style. They kept a lot of the original design details,” he says as we approach the glass-encased restaurant.

We’re led to a table against the window.

From here we can see the bustling lobby bar, but the sounds from below are muted other than the tinkling of the highest notes floating up from the grand piano.

I’m reminded of how publicly perched our relationship is.

Our every move draws the public eye, and they watch with fascination, as though our lives exist solely for their entertainment.

I turn away from the hotel patrons, a little dizzy.

Ian orders our drinks and grins at me across the table, his smile stabilizing me. It looks like he’s going to say something important, something he’s been rehearsing in his mind.

“Did you know my mom worked here?” I blurt, dodging his serious topic.

“There was a picture at Thumbs. Sorry, Thumbs Up is a bar in town. I went with my friends on one of my first nights here, and it was like Bunny night. Everyone was dressed in corsets and ears and the guys in smoking jackets . . .” I babble, trying to explain everything at once, and Ian’s eyebrows rise.

“You wore a Playboy Bunny costume to a bar?” Our drinks are delivered, and I giggle at the misunderstanding.

“Oh, God, no. No,” I say, taking a sizable sip of my lemon drop martini and enjoying the nearly immediate headiness of the first taste.

“Lacey had no idea—just a friend reunion kind of thing. And there was this wall of pictures from when this was the club. They had a picture from the first group of Bunnies, and my mom was there right in the front row. Almost didn’t recognize her, but I’d found this name tag in her things that matched the ones in the picture . . .”

I’m rambling, and Ian doesn’t wait for the rest of my story before asking, “Is that where you saw Cam? Cameron. Your ‘friend’?” He bristles at his own mention of the man he left in my house a few nights ago.

I wondered when this would come up. I take a deep breath and search for the right approach. Honesty couldn’t hurt. I start poking at my newly delivered salad, no longer hungry.

“We ran into him there, actually. He was with some guys from high school.”

“Ah, simply getting wasted at a bar with his buddies on Playboy night,” he says, sounding uncharacteristically judgmental. I cock my head and narrow my eyes.

“No, actually. He was the designated driver. And he’s not some barfly. He’s a dentist.”

“A dentist. OK. Happily married?” His jealousy becomes very obvious as he ferociously chews a bite of lettuce.

He doesn’t even like salad. More of a meat-and-potatoes kind of a guy, but today he’s eating salad.

Clearly, he’s experiencing something. For a moment I feel disloyal, like I’m a cheater.

But then I remind myself that Ian and I are separated.

Even if we weren’t, it’s not like I crossed any lines with Cam.

“He’s divorced,” I state flatly.

“And you?” he asks, looking at my left hand, my ring still absent. I fiddle with the utensils and then clasp my hands under the table.

“I don’t know, Ian. I don’t know what we are.”

A substantial weight sits on my chest as I gaze through the glass at the full lobby.

I should’ve worn the ring in case people recognized us and posted photos on social media.

I should act like my half of the happy couple, but I don’t know how to hold it all inside anymore.

I feel like my mother’s house, bursting at the seams, threatening to collapse under the pressure of all the retained pains and memories.

I should’ve learned by now that if a mess is ignored for too long, there will be unexpected consequences.

Caleb, our waiter, approaches during my pregnant pause.

He’s figured out who we are and is trying not to let on.

He brings Ian’s T-bone steak and my barramundi.

He replaces my martini with a fresh one and slides a full glass of scotch across the table without asking if we’d like another round.

I can’t imagine eating right now, but I pick up my fork and go through the motions as Caleb leaves.

“Are you in love with him?” Ian asks in a low mutter.