“That’s nice,” he said, not really meaning it. His mother was always with a “new friend,” as she called them. She had so many boyfriends by the time he turned fifteen that he had lost count. And each time she thought they would be the one. But it had been heartbreak after heartbreak, all because she never picked the right guy. It all had started with his father. A married man who never planned to leave his wife for his young mistress, even if that young mistress did get pregnant to force his hand.
She walked over, looking at him with a mix of love and dislike as she placed her hand on his cheek. They had always had such a complicated relationship. He looked so much like his father, and he knew that he reminded her of her biggest failed relationship, reminded her of all her mistakes, reminded her that she wasn’t quite good enough to make a millionaire leave his wife.
She was probably why he had never fallen in love. She had enough broken hearts for the both of them.
“How are you, Derek?” She kissed his cheek.
“I’m fine, Mom. I didn’t realize you were on the island.”
“I’ve been off and on,” she said vaguely.
“I haven’t seen you in a few weeks. I think we should have dinner and catch up.” Things were strained between them. They always had been, and Derek knew that it would just be easier to keep her at arm’s length, but he always made the effort even if it was continually rejected. She was his mother. He felt like she should be in his life.
His aunt Clara had come back into the kitchen, but his focus remained on his mother’s face as he waited for her answer. Her makeup was elaborate, not distasteful, crafted to make her look more youthful. Her hair was cut precisely in some sort of asymmetrical style that was popular with the teenagers in town. She looked more like his older sister than his mother, but that’s what happened when your mother was a teenager when she had you.
“Yeah, maybe next week,” she said noncommittally.
It was like déjà vu, little flashbacks to when he was a kid asking her to come to his band concerts or to see him perform on the debate team, or to one of his championship soccer games when he was in college. She had always made excuses, or promises that she couldn’t keep.
He nodded. Not surprised by her answer, not hurt by it, either, just curious as to what was going on in her head.
“I stopped by to see my mother. Where is she?”
“In the living room with Asa,” he answered.
“See you around, kid.” She winked at him and squeezed Hallie’s arm before she left again.
“My baby.” Aunt Clara practically pounced on him, wrapping him in a tight motherly hug. “I love you so much, Derek,” she whispered. “Just like you came from me.”
He closed his eyes and let himself be hugged. He knew his aunt loved him just like she loved her own child and probably twice as much as his own mother loved him. Maybe that thought should have comforted him, but it didn’t. It made him feel kind of hollow.
* * *
Ava lay in bed all day. She couldn’t remember the last time she had done that. Maybe she never had. She always had something to do, a task to accomplish, a job to complete, but now for the first time there was nothing ahead of her. She found that kind of terrifying.
Her stomach growled angrily at her that evening, forcing her out of bed and into the kitchen.
When she looked in the refrigerator she saw that there was nothing there but spinach and kale. Grilled chicken breasts and low-fat yogurt. It wasn’t the kind of thing a woman wanted to eat after a bad breakup. A pool full of hot fudge sundae with forty gallons of whipped cream was what she needed. Or something heavy and filling, something that would momentarily take away the empty sadness.
Her mother was not coming up from Costa Rica. Ava told her to stay home, that she needed a few days of alone time to think, to regroup. But she should have let her mother come. Her mother would have cooked for her. She would have made her world-famous double chocolate cake with the thick, creamy icing. And empanadas and a huge pot of spaghetti and meatballs like she used to do when she was a child. She couldn’t remember the last time she had had pasta or anything resembling a carb. She had eaten so many leafy greens that she was surprised she hadn’t grown branches.
Good food was another thing that Ava had given up for Max. It was even harder than giving up her great job and the high-paying promotion she was offered just before she quit. But she wanted to look beautiful for Max on their wedding day. She had given up pie on Thanksgiving and eggnog at Christmas and grilled beef in the summer and takeout every weekend. She had lost weight for him. Nearly starved herself to fit into a dress that she didn’t like.
From the kitchen she could still see it hanging on the rack. She hadn’t gotten the chance to fully look at it. Ingrid’s visit had stopped her in her tracks.
She didn’t think it was possible to hate a garment so much, but looking at it then just served as a reminder of all the things she had given up for a man who hadn’t respected her at all.
It had to go.
She walked over to it. Unlike the last time she attempted to view it, she yanked the zipper down and pulled the dress from the bag all in one motion. It was heavy, pounds and pounds of fabric and crystals and a train that would rival a princess’s. Lavish, over the top, unapologetically bold. It was everything Max was, and she felt her blood start to boil. For years she had ignored the little things about him that annoyed her. She had defended him when others called him callous. She had done everything to morph herself into a wife he could be proud of, and more than she was mad at Max, she was mad at herself for being so damn stupid.
She marched out her front door and tossed the monstrous piece of fabric into the yard. It needed to be out of the house, out of her sight. Unable to taunt her, remind her of all her wasted years. But even now that it lay in the sandy dirt, she didn’t feel her anger ease. So much effort had gone into that dress; so much effort had gone into building herself into a perfect woman for a man who didn’t deserve her. It wasn’t enough to have the dress out of the house. She stepped off the porch and kicked the dress, letting out a scream of pure frustration as she did.
It felt good to kick the dress. It felt good to let out some of the pent-up emotion she kept bottled up inside.
Don’t raise your voice.
Don’t be too opinionated.
Don’t ruffle feathers.
Be pleasant.
Be passive.
She kicked the dress again. She stomped on it, like she was stomping all the years of reprogramming she had done to herself. She took pleasure in seeing the pristine white fabric getting stained a greenish brown from the grass and dirt.
But it wasn’t enough.
She reached down and pulled on the bodice of the dress, feeling more satisfaction as she heard the popping of threads, but still that wasn’t enough for her. The damn thing needed to be completely destroyed, all of its bad energy gone for good. She spotted a metal garbage can on the side of the house and a lonely bottle of lighter fluid meant for a charcoal grill. An idea took shape in her head.
She wondered how long it would take to barbeque a wedding dress.
* * *
Derek watched Ava from his window, completely in awe. He had gotten home from a planning meeting just a few minutes ago and was preparing to head into his workshop when he heard a strangled scream. He rushed to his window to see Ava jumping up and down on a massive pile of white fabric. He stood transfixed, unable to move, even though he knew it was wrong to watch such an intensely private moment. The Ava Bradley he had known, the incredibly put-together, icily beautiful woman, had disappeared. He was left looking at a woman so full