Nineteen years ago
At sunrise, I feel my eyes flutter open. It’s here—it’s finally here. My thirteenth birthday.
I prop myself on my elbows as I sweep my gaze across the room. It looks the same as it did yesterday morning: cool and tidy, a soft amber glow filtering through the blinds. Cassie asleep to my left. Slowly, I sit up and kneel over to the window. I lift one of the slats with my index finger.
“Is it time?” Cassie’s voice is slow and groggy.
I nod, making a wave with my hand, thrilled that she’s awake. “Come on.”
Cassie stumbles over to my bed and flings her long arms around me. “Happy Birthday, Jul,” she whispers in my ear. My face is buried in her thick, red mane. “Thirteen. My sister is an old lady.”
“Hurry up, OK?” It’s what I tell her every year on my birthday. I usually don’t like it, being a different age than Cassie for two whole weeks. I wish we’d been born on the exact same day, like twins. But today I don’t mind. I’ve been dreaming about turning thirteen for as long as I can remember. It’s a big deal—I’m a teenager now.
“Yeah, yeah.” Cassie releases me and begins pulling the blinds open. “Wow,” she says, under her breath. I follow her gaze towards the orange-red sphere rising in the distance. The effect is magical, like the sun is defying gravity. “You were right. It’s beautiful.” She leans forward so that her nose is glued to the window.
“Told you,” I singsong. Cassie is usually asleep at sunrise.
We’re quiet for a moment, both of us hypnotized by the view.
“Do you regret it,” she begins, her voice low. “Not traveling with our father and your mom?”
I frown. “Are you kidding me?” Where is this coming from?
“This is nice, but…” She turns to face me. “It’s not Paris.”
“I wouldn’t trade it for the world.” It’s true: I don’t take Montauk for granted. I know how lucky I am to spend summers with my sister and grandmother. Three years ago, I didn’t have them in my life. Cassie didn’t even know I existed.
“Let’s promise we’ll always come here for the summer,” she says, her eyes wide and resolute. Cassie loves making plans. “Even when we’re adults.”
“Sounds good to me.” I don’t point out that she’s giving up a lot more than I am. Daddy didn’t invite her along on his trip with Sophie (obviously). But I’m sure her mom would agree to send her anywhere in the world. Whenever, wherever. They can afford it.
She extends her pinkie. “Summer together, forever.”
“Summer together forever,” I repeat, locking my little finger in hers.
Monday, June 18th
The lawyer is a lot younger than I expected.
Over the phone, I pictured an older man because, really, who would name their child Norman these days? I wonder whether he was picked on as a boy. And whether his wife feels silly crying out his name when they’re in bed. Because that’s another thing I’ve noticed: Norman-the-lawyer—surely just fresh out of law school, with those baby cheeks and rosy complexion—wears a wedding band.
This is a new habit. As a young girl, I promised myself I would never walk down the aisle, and so I’ve spent the greater part of my life barely acknowledging left hands.
What’s that saying about making life laugh by telling it your plans?
It’s my saying, too. I share it with my patients all the time: Never say never and Be careful what you wish for. Clichés, but fitting ones—sentiments I tap into to remind my patients not to close themselves off, to face the future with an open mind. And yet here I am: thirty-one years old, unmarried, yes, and in love with a man who couldn’t make me his wife even if I wanted him to.
Which I don’t. I really don’t.
But it is ironic.
“Your sister should be here any minute now,” Norman says, sensing my impatience.
I nod as I scan the conference room: oval-shaped table, wood-paneled walls, identical leather-bound tomes neatly lined on a built-in bookshelf to the far left. The space is generic and elegant, not unlike Norman-the-lawyer, who is wearing a sharp, navy-blue suit, probably Italian. Not that I can tell.
Julie would know. Her mother read her Posh articles in lieu of bedtime stories. Julie’s indoctrination on All Things Designer probably began in the womb. And she is her mother’s daughter, after all. The apple never falls far from the tree.
That’s a saying I don’t use with my patients. Instead, I encourage them to forge their own identities, to break free from the stereotypes of their childhoods. You can’t change the past, but you can write your own story from here on, I say.
Ha! If they could see me now, they’d find a new therapist.
“Ms. Meyers, I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but my wife is a huge fan. She watches your show every week. And she’s read your book twice.”
I’m about to tell Norman-the-lawyer that it isn’t my show when I hear the sound of a door opening behind me.
“I’m so sorry to be late.”
That voice. It’s been over a decade, but I’d recognize it anywhere.
I don’t turn around. I want to, but it’s important to keep my cool. Part of me is hoping that she’s gained weight, or at least developed an adult acne problem.
“Ms. Meyers!” Norman exclaims. Why is he using her maiden name? “So glad to see you.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes as I watch Norman all but drool over her. He has forgotten all about me. Probably just forgot about his wife, too. The familiar tug of jealousy drums inside my chest. I’m betting he wishes that I’d been the one to arrive late. Story of my life.
“Please, call me Julie,” she says.
I take note of this: she hasn’t changed her galling habit of pronouncing her name with a soft j, in the French fashion.
“Hello, Cassie,” she says, turning to me.
I give her a slight nod but nothing else.
She is unchanged: slim and petite, with cheekbones that could cause a paper cut, a heart-shaped face, and pouty lips. But her look is different: instead of the colorful, funky outfits she wore as a teenager, she is donned in an elegant, asymmetrical black-and-white pencil skirt, white silk blouse, and black stilettos. I can’t help but wonder if Nana saw this transformation. They shared the same fashion sense—Julie began dressing like Nana on the very first summer they met. Nana would’ve been disappointed to see Julie in clothes that are so…unoriginal.
“How are you?” she asks, still looking at me.
I wonder what will happen if I answer truthfully.
I take a deep breath and focus on the fact that, while I do have to be in the same room as Julie, at least our father isn’t here. Apparently, even Nana thought that would be too cruel.
“Should we get started?” I ask, turning to Norman.
“Yes, of course,” Norman continues, composing himself. “As discussed on the phone, our firm handled your grandmother’s affairs and she requested that you both be present during the reading of the will. Her final wishes were quite straightforward.” Norman opens a cream-colored folder and clears his throat. “I, Bernadette Patricia Meyers, being of sound mind, declare this to be my Last Will and Testament…”
I feel a soreness in my throat as I listen to the officious legalese that sounds nothing like my spirited, creative grandmother. This is my first time at a reading of a will—my mom died without one.
Thinking of my mother sends a shiver down my spine. “Your father’s bastard child” is what she called Julie when she was being nice. When she was sober.
I am aware of Norman’s voice in the background, but my mind is too restless to process his words. “I hope they keep the house in the family, but they are free to sell it as they see fit and share the proceeds from the sale equally, provided that the conditions herein are fulfilled.”
Norman puts down the folder, his eyes fixed on Julie. It’s like I’m not even in the room. I should have remembered this—and not only because she’s gorgeous. All my life I’ve wanted to have her magnetism, her charisma—the invisible stuff that made her so irresistible to everyone, even to our father. She was the beautiful daughter: sophisticated, exotic, fun. I was the plain one: sensible and levelheaded.
I will myself to pay attention, but I must have a faraway look on my face because Norman narrows his gaze in my direction and speaks in a low, clipped voice. “In summary, she’s leaving you the house and all her money if you both spend thirty consecutive days there this summer.”
“Together,” Julie whispers.
Wait…what?
“Yes.” Norman nods.
The words Norman read only a few minutes ago begin to sink in. A wave of panic hits me. Julie and I are required to spend one month in the Montauk house?
“Is this a joke?” I blurt out.
“No.” Norman’s tone is sober. “These are your grandmother’s last wishes.”
“But is this even legal?” I say. “Making two people spend time together like that?” Surely, this kind of thing only happens in cheesy romcoms.
“It’s perfectly legal, I assure you.”
“What happens if one of us refuses?” I ask, leaning forward in my seat.
“Yes, what if one of us refuses?”
I roll my eyes. New look, still the same parrot of a girl.
“I have plans for this summer,” Julie adds, her voice still barely above a whisper.
“If one or both of you refuse the conditions, the money goes to a charity that your grandmother wished to remain confidential,” Norman says. “I strongly urge you to accept her conditions. The house in Montauk should be worth a significant sum of money.”
And Nana realized this, which is why she decided to use it as leverage.
“What should we do?” Julie’s head whips in my direction. She looks bewildered, lost. Like an actor who’s forgotten their lines on opening night.
I remind myself that I am a trained psychologist—keeping my cool during stressful situations is a huge part of my job.
“We need to think about it.” I say, still looking at Norman. “How long do we have to decide?”
“By June 25th,” he answers.
“All right,” I say. That gives us a week. “We’ll get back to you then.”
As I am leaving the offices of Katz & Kline, I retrieve my cell phone from my bag. Five missed calls and one new voicemail, all from the same number. I am about to listen to the recorded message when another call from the same number comes through. I answer on the first ring.
“Is this Cassie Meyers?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Mrs. Meyers, my name is Melissa Thompson. I’m calling from Massachusetts General Hospital. We need you to come in right away, ma’am. Your husband has just checked into the Intensive Care Unit. He may have had a heart attack.”
“My husband?”
“Is this Daniel O’Riley’s wife?”
A pause. “Yes. Yes, that’s me,” I lie. “I’ll be right there.”
Monday, June 18th
It’s coronation day, and the princess is late.
No, that won’t work. Coronations are happy occasions.
It is the day of the great unveiling of the Queen Mother’s last wishes, words that were carved in stone and will soon be presented to the entire kingdom, but mostly to the princess, who is running late because…
Well, because traffic in Boston sucks, that’s why.
OK, so this story needs work. They all do at first.
I open a new Note on my phone and write the general premise of the tale. I’ll have fun with it later.
Normally, I’d text Patrick a quick I love you, but not today. Not after last night.
The driver tells me I’ve reached my destination: a mirrored-glass high-rise in the Financial District. I silently pray that none of Patrick’s friends work here because I make a run for it, thanking the driver, and scuttling inside. Very unladylike.
As I step out of the elevator, I take a moment to steady my breathing before introducing myself to a sleepy-eyed receptionist. My Louboutin heels click on the marble floors as I am escorted down a corridor lined with conference rooms. I know which one I’m headed to before the receptionist reaches for the door handle.
I recognize her red leonine hair through the frosted glass walls. My legs turn watery.
My sister.
The Fire Princess has porcelain skin and a red mane made of solar flare, gamma rays, and meteorites. The Sky Princess hasn’t seen her in fourteen years.
(Watching her counsel people on TV for a few minutes every week does not count.)
“I’m so sorry to be late,” I say, entering the room.
The lawyer shakes my hand and introduces himself, but I don’t catch his name.
Cassie doesn’t even bother to acknowledge my presence. Her hair looks different—on East Coast Coffee she always has it up in a bun, but it’s untamed now, curly and free. I can tell she doesn’t like her haircut by the way she’s holding herself. I want to tell her to get a Brazilian Blowout—it does wonders for frizzy hair—but, of course, I don’t. She’s wearing dark jeans, a crisp, white dress shirt, and ballet flats. I wonder if she still hasn’t gotten over her insecurity about her height. She would look stunning in heels. She definitely has the legs for it.
In my stories, the Fire Princess has a closet full of heels.
“Hello, Cassie,” I say. Maybe all I need to do is extend an olive branch. Show her that I want to be civil.
Nothing.
“How are you?” I continue.
“Should we get started?” she asks the lawyer.
I wonder if she would’ve spoken to me if we’d run into each other in the waiting area. I chide myself again for my tardiness. I’ve never been punctual, but I’ve gotten so much worse, probably because it’s a habit of mine that Patrick doesn’t mind—a rarity. “Only Americans believe in punctuality,” Patrick says when we’re out. “The French consider it terribly unfashionable to be precisely on time.” Patrick loves accentuating my European eccentricities.
I must look ridiculous staring at Cassie while the lawyer reads Nana’s will. Her neck is stiff, as if she is purposefully avoiding returning my gaze. What did I expect?
The legal jargon is tedious, but one line stands out.
“The condition that I ask of my granddaughters is that they spend a final month in the Montauk house in the summer following my passing, just the two of them,” he reads.
Oh, Nana. Is this your plan? Do you really think it’ll work? Or is this your way of getting me to leave Patrick, if only for a month? You’ve never liked him.
Like me, Nana was heartbroken that Cassie and I had become estranged. She had promised that she would find a way to make us reconnect, even if it was the last thing she ever did. I believed her. But seeing Cassie now—sensing the mercilessness of her resentment after all this time—makes me think that some things can’t be fixed. I can’t even begin to imagine how she’d feel towards me if she knew the full story. Nana did—but she took my secret to the grave.
Cassie is now asking the lawyer—what is his name? Really, they should wear name tags—if we can think this over.
I make sure to chime in, claiming to be busy. I can’t be the loser with no plans, not when she’s clearly unhappy about our predicament. Still, I feel a flicker of hope. She’s not saying no to Nana’s request—a small miracle. Cassie isn’t shy about turning people down.
My therapist once suggested that I fell in love with Patrick because he reminded me of Cassie. I met Patrick shortly after Cassie and I had our falling out. Her absence had left a void in my life, a space I looked to fill with someone who instinctively takes charge, someone with a Type-A personality. Patrick made me quit going to therapy after that.
I used to think that meeting Patrick was kismet, but after last night I wonder if we got married too quickly. Was I really in love with him or was it just the idea of him?
I shouldn’t be thinking about this, not now. I need to focus on the lawyer and Cassie and on Nana’s crazy plan. Today is not the day to dwell on recent doubts surrounding my marriage.
I ignore the voice in my mind telling me they’re not recent.
Tuesday, June 19th
Daniel is an idiot. I make it a point to tell him as much now.
“Is this any way to treat your boyfriend after he’s had a heart attack?” he asks.
I bring my index finger to my mouth and let out a low, shushing sound. “No talking, doctor’s orders. And you didn’t have a heart attack. You suffered something called unstable angina.”
“I’m too young to have something that sounds so ominous.” He holds on to the bed’s side rails and sits up. His face is sunken and ashen, but his brown eyes are bright, luminous. Eyes of the man I love.
“You heard the doctor. It can happen at any age, even thirty-eight. It’s no joke, which is why you need to rest. So no talking. Just listen.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“As I was saying…you’re an idiot. An idiot for not taking proper care of yourself. For working too hard. And for eating way too much clam chowder. From now on, I’m putting you on a healthy diet.”
I try to steady my breathing as I prop myself on the edge of his bed. It isn’t easy for me to be here, inside a hospital, especially given that I spent the night. Usually, I’d stave off my anxiety by focusing on my breath and noting my surroundings, but today that won’t work. The bleach-like scent of the room. The sterile whiteness the walls. The humming of unfamiliar machines. This space will always be a trigger for me.
“All I need is you.”
“You have me. I’m here.”
“Thank you. For being here.” He squeezes my hand.
“Thank you for telling the doctors I’m your wife. They wouldn’t have let me in otherwise.”
“I’m just grateful they didn’t recognize you.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not like I’m famous.” And then, because I know that a hospital is probably filled with people watching daytime TV, I add, “It’s the hairstyle.” Although, of course, it’s a lot more than that. It’s the makeup and wardrobe—and a dozen other television tricks that make me look so different in real life. But mostly it’s the hair.
“I like it like this.” He runs his fingers through my wild mane. “Reminds me of Leo the Lion from Angie’s favorite goodnight story.”
A knot forms in my throat. If Sam and Angie were in town, I wouldn’t be able to be here. They don’t know about me. Obviously.
“Do you need me to call Bella?”
He shakes his head. “You know my sister. She won’t be able to keep her big mouth shut. I don’t want to scare them. Let them enjoy their summer break.” He lifts a finger in the air. “What’s that?”
I cock my head to the side. I can hear it, too. A loud, thundering voice coming from the halls.
“Daniel O’Riley. I’m looking for Daniel O’Riley. Where is his room?”
It’s a voice I know well—authoritative, emphatic. One I would almost admire if I didn’t know better, if I hadn’t treated her for months.
Tatiana is here. Daniel’s wife.
“I should go,” I whisper.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
I look at my boyfriend, lying on a hospital bed, dressed in a generic white gown. His usual larger-than-life presence, brought by his muscular, squared-shoulders and imposing height, seems strangely fragile.
“You’re supposed to be avoiding stress,” I say.
“I’ll handle her, Cass. I need you here—”
“You!” Tatiana shouts as she opens the door to the private room where Daniel and I have been since last night. “You seriously brought her here?”
“Tatiana, please lower your voice,” Daniel says. He’s wincing. Is it annoyance or could he be in pain?
“What the hell is she doing here?” She waves her arms frantically. Her tone is still loud. Louder, if that’s even possible. “This isn’t what we agreed on.”
“Excuse me.” A short, red-haired nurse holding a clipboard walks in, her freckled forehead scrunched up in a frown. “Ladies, this is a place with sick people in need of rest, including this gentleman right here.” She points to Daniel. “Now whatever is going on here, take it outside.”
“Excuse me, but I’m his wife!” Tatiana takes a step in the nurse’s direction. “I have every right to be here.”
“Not if you’re causing a disturbance. Now, do I have to call security?”
I search the nurse’s eyes for a flicker of recognition, but I see none. I’m actually thankful I didn’t manage to sleep last night—who can sleep in a hospital?—since the dark circles under my eyes help keep me incognito.
“Come on, Tatiana.” I gesture to the door.
Tatiana hesitates for a moment, darting her eyes between the nurse and Daniel. Finally she lets out a heavy sigh and follows me out the door. I’m surprised—I thought she’d put up more of a fight.
I lead the way, taking us to the hospital cafeteria. It smells of stale bagels and bad coffee.
“What’s wrong with you, Cassie?” she asks, giving me a once-over. I’m grateful she’s no longer yelling. “Do you know how inappropriate it is for you to be here?”
I meet her gaze. I can practically hear her judgmental thoughts as she takes in my wrinkled, day-old clothes, no doubt wondering what Daniel sees in me. Tatiana—who did not spend the night on the world’s most uncomfortable foldout bed—is wearing a perfectly ironed V-cut purple dress and a long string of pearls. Her white-blond hair is pulled up in a stylish high ponytail and her skin is poreless and dewy. She looks like she always does: buffed and polished and perfect. Next to her, I look like an awkward, gangly giant.
“You want to talk about inappropriate?” I say. “Your husband had a heart attack yesterday and you didn’t come to see him until today.” I’m being unfair, choosing the more ominous term. Does she know enough to pick up on this?
If so, she doesn’t let on. Instead, Tatiana looks like she’s been slapped. Good.
“What business is it of yours? You’re not our therapist anymore, Cassie.”
“I’m not here as your therapist.”
“No, you’re here as his whore.” A sneer.
“Call me whatever you want, Tatiana.” I pause, crossing my arms over my chest. I know my measured tone is enervating. “We both know that if you cared about him, you would’ve been here yesterday.”
“I don’t have to explain myself to you.” Her lips curl into a half smile. “And you better watch it. Have you forgotten what I know? Have you forgotten that I can destroy your precious little career? How many books do you think you’ll sell once word gets out that TV’s Cassie the Couples’ Counselor ruined my marriage?”
I haven’t forgotten. This isn’t the first time she’s threatened me.
“You know that’s not what happened.” I sound cool and in control, which is the opposite of how I feel.
“Were you not our counselor?” She takes a step closer. Even though she’s wearing eight-inch heels, I’m still taller than she is.
“Daniel and I were never involved when—”
“Good luck getting people to believe that.” Her tone is unremorseful. Defiant.
“You’re right.” A pause. I register the surprise in her eyes. “I was your counselor. Which is why I know you won’t say a word. Because that would mean people would talk— and you can’t have that.”
She presses her lips into a thin line. From the outside, we probably look like two women engaged in a staredown. This isn’t what I want, to be arguing with another woman over a man. This has never been what I wanted.
I gather my thoughts. I know what I need to do.
“Tell me you love him,” I say in a slow, deliberate tone. I am thankful the cafeteria is empty. The last thing I need is to have someone record this and post it online.
“What?” she asks, confused.
“Tell me you love him. Tell me you want to be with him. Tell me you want to make your marriage work, and I’ll walk away. You’ll never see me again.”
A stretch of silence. For a moment, I wonder if she’ll prove me wrong.
I hold my breath. The thought of never seeing Daniel again is enough to send cracks through the surface of my heart. The pull I feel towards him is intense, magnetic. So powerful, it aches. What we have is once-in-a-lifetime: I know I’ll never love anyone like I love Daniel.
But I also know this: I’m not bluffing. I really will walk away. If Tatiana loves him—truly loves him—I won’t stand in the way of their marriage. No matter how much it hurts.
But Tatiana says nothing. She continues to stare me down with her imperious gaze.
“Do you even care about him?” I ask. An underlying sense of relief settles in me.
“I’ll tell you what I do care about, Cassie.” She takes a step forward. “I don’t want you to have him.”
I take a deep breath. Her words sting, though I’m not sure why. I’ve known how she feels for a long time now.
“You need help, Tatiana. I’m sorry I couldn’t give it to you.”
I turn on my heel and leave.
My heart hammers inside my chest as I hurry back to Daniel’s room. I’m annoyed at myself for allowing Tatiana to take up so much of my time with him. What if he’s had another angina? Or worse—an actual heart attack?
A thought leaps to the front of my mind, one that’s been stirring inside my brain since I first saw Daniel in the hospital.
What if I lost him before ever really having him?
Sunday, June 24th
I run a quick body scan in front of my closet’s floor-length mirror: hair (down), eyelashes (brushed, no loose ones), breath (minty), nails (no chips), outfit (cream linen jumpsuit), shoes (patent leather ballet flats, one of the two pairs I only wear indoors). All good.
Patrick doesn’t look up when I walk in. He’s sitting in his favorite espresso-brown, distressed leather armchair, tapping on his iPad. Classical music floats softly from the built-in speakers. A tune I don’t recognize, possibly Vivaldi. At the bar cart, I fix him a Scotch, making sure to get it exactly right: two fingers, neat, served in a crystal-cut glass.
I place the Scotch on the antique wood table to his right. I remember to use a coaster. Still no eye contact.
I take two steps back.
“We should have a baby,” I say.
This catches his attention. He looks up and meets my gaze.
I wrap my arms around my waist. A reflexive gesture.
“This again?” His tone is sharp. An exhale. “Is this because of your grandmother?”
“No.” I clear my throat and move closer to him, just an inch. “This is because I want a baby.”
The Sky Princess is resolute: she wants an heir to the throne. The king is reluctant, but the princess will not be dissuaded. She has procured a rare potion from a sharp-toothed fairy, an elixir that will instantly put the king in a good mood while she persuades him to grant her wish.
The magical potion is—obviously—the Scotch. Alcohol is the closest thing the real world has to magic potions.
“Asked and answered, Julie,” he says. I hate it when he gets all lawyerly on me. “You knew I didn’t want any more kids when we got married.”
He had told me two days before our wedding. Two days.
“And you knew I wanted kids,” I say.
“We have Nate,” he replies.
I perch on the couch to his left, purposefully crossing my legs at the ankle, like a proper lady. I can’t afford to do anything to displease him today. (There are many things that displease Patrick.) I catch a glimpse of his iPad’s screen. The Economist. No surprise there. It’s Sunday evening. Patrick is a creature of habit.
“Nate is your son,” I say. “And I love him, I do. But he lives in LA with his mom. We’re lucky if we see him once a year for, what, a week?” Last time, it had been for five days. Two years ago. “Last week was Father’s Day and he wasn’t even here.”
“I didn’t see you flying across the country to spend the day with your father.”
At this, I wince. Patrick knows I would’ve loved nothing more than to spent the day with my dad, that I would’ve gladly have made the trip to Seattle for the weekend. “That was the day of the benefit dinner,” I say. It’s why I chose today to have this conversation with him yet again: it’s been one whole week since he acted like a monster. I’m hoping that by now he feels remorse. Enough remorse to mollify his stubbornness.
But he doesn’t seem the least bit moved. “I’ve done the baby thing.” Patrick’s tone isn’t cruel, but it is indifferent. “I don’t want to do it again.” Does he know he’s breaking my heart?
“Don’t you want us to be a family?”
I’ve asked him this question more times than I can count. And every time the words leave my mouth, I feel a flicker of hope. I think to myself, Maybe today he’ll say yes. Instead, he reminds me, once again, that I knew what I was getting into when I married him. My heart shrinks.
Patrick isn’t wrong: he did tell me he didn’t want kids. I was surprised—shocked is probably a more accurate description—and I did consider calling off the wedding. But I didn’t do that because, in my heart, I didn’t believe him. I had faith that, in time, he’d change his mind. I wasn’t in a hurry: I was tw. . .
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