(excerpt)
Facebook
is weird. It lets you list your favorite movies (Casablanca) and music (Snow
Patrol) and books (Joshilyn Jackson), it shows updates about your
day (another late night at the office, Christopher was asleep by the time I
got home), and yet it fails to capture the very essence that makes you—you.
Growing
up, I wore homemade clothes because my parents couldn’t afford labels or even
store–bought dresses. It made me feel inferior, but also loved beyond belief,
because every garment I wore had been lovingly designed, cut and sewn by my mom.
Where do I write that on Facebook?
My
short–term goal is to work saner hours, my dream is for my son to get to know
his dad, and my secret fantasy involves a happily–ever–after with Luke.
Facebook remains totally oblivious of all that.
I
choose not to confirm Luke as a friend. A Facebook friendship would be so much
less than what we once had.
That
leaves me one option: I have to go to the reunion.
***
The
school hall is dim with ambience lights and the speakers pump out hits from
five years ago. The music was lame then and is even lamer now, and yet a tiny
trickle of nostalgia seeps into my heart.
Luke
and I once danced to that song in the darkest corner of this very hall.
Get
a grip.
I
pass a few people I don’t recognize and wave to those I do. When I spot Clara,
my arm freezes mid–gesture. The guy she’s talking to... I know the shape of
those shoulders, the line of that neck.
Luke.
I
need to speak to him before I lose the courage to do what’s right. Even if he’s
married, he’s entitled to know about his son.
“Glad
you could make it,” Clara says, though I can tell she’s not thrilled to see me.
“How’s Christopher?”
My
cheeks grow hot. I dare not glance at Luke. “Fine. He’s gone to Jemima for the
night.”
Clara
has no idea how I feel about Luke but she does know how I feel about Jemima the
nanny, the ‘other woman’ in Christopher’s life. “You all right with it?”
“Sure.”
Not really, but I don’t have a choice. A modern mom is supposed to leave her
child and earn a living, especially if she’s a single mom. And after she pays
childcare and transport and taxes, she’s actually worse off financially than if
she were getting financial support from the government. Meanwhile, her child is
raised by strangers. One day somebody will explain how that makes sense.
“Abby.
You remember Luke Taylor?”
“Sure,”
I say again. I remember every moment.
My
head is so empty and light, I feel I’m about to float away. Right now, that
would suit me fine. I don’t know how to greet him. Should I give him a hug? A
peck on the cheek? Five years.
“Abigail.”
“Hello,
Luke.” My tongue grates on the sandpaper of my palate. Talking hurts.
Swallowing hurts. Looking at him hurts the most.
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