Work Text:
She makes it to Paris, somehow. Their honeymoon was in Hawaii, something Jeremiah brought up and Belly agreed to, the way she agreed to a lot of ideas Jeremiah had, turned easygoing instead of high maintenance, doing her best to make their marriage perfect. She didn’t make it to Paris for studying abroad, or any of the vacations they took in the six years since, but nothing inspires a European vacation more than a total upheaval of your perfect, stable life.
The city is what she dreamed of for the near-three decades of her life. It’s charming, with the old architecture, the centuries of history scribbled onto every stone. It’s overwhelming, too; Belly took Spanish as her language requirement, her mom spoke Korean while she was growing up but only a few phrases are etched in her brain. She’s in a city she doesn’t know, surrounded by people who don’t speak her language, and she doesn’t speak theirs. It’s alienating. It’s thrilling, in a way.
Belly gets used to it, picking up some phrases like please and thank you, and gets used to everyone ignoring each other on the street. She gets used to hearing accented English, the barista at the cafe she ends up frequenting saying the words with a ribbon of disgust like the language is beneath her. It would make for a good novel, she thinks, and then her mom’s voice floats through her head, wry and wine-drunk: It’s a little cliche, don’t you think? An American in Paris, aimless after a divorce. If it were a cliche, then Belly would at least have a roadmap to get where she wants to go.
She made it to Paris. And after that, she doesn’t know.
For her first two weeks, she feels like a ghost haunting the streets. Belly likes it that way, passing through the crowds of tourists, feeling detached from their wonder, and a subject of disdain for the Parisians. She’s a tourist herself, she knows, but the note of misery accompanying her makes the city feel less like a vacation and more like a work trip. She disappears into the crowd, the slip of language melting around her, which makes it a surprise when a voice calls out, familiar and clear:
“Belly?”
She jerks her head up. The voice is familiar, one she’s known for half her life. Conrad always had a soft voice, gentle and quiet, especially compared to Jeremiah’s harsh one, the brash way he would cut into any conversation. It’s Conrad in front of her, six years older, six years since the last time she’s seen him, but it feels like no time has passed at all.
“You’re going to stand there next to Jeremiah,” Belly told Conrad, her voice clear but trembling, anger and grief swirling together. “You’re going to— And when the wedding is over, I never want to see you again. Fuck off to California, wherever. Just don’t— Don’t come near me again.”
“Belly,” Conrad said, his voice pleading, the way he sounded when he was trying to wheedle something out of her. “That’s going to be a little hard. You’re marrying my brother.” He laughed, stilted, like the idea of the wedding was still a joke to him.
“Yeah, I’m marrying your brother,” Belly repeated. “And I should tell him about this. I should tell Jere that his brother wants me to, what? Call off the wedding and run away with you? But that would destroy him. God, Conrad, you’d really do that to him? Ruin this for him, for both of us?”
Conrad stared at her, his mouth parted slightly, hair in front of his eyes. He never styled it anymore, letting the bedhead persist through the day. It was cute, almost, but now, Belly thought, it was an attempt to let no one see his eyes, read his emotions. They’ve known each other for their entire lives, distilled into summers that felt like they lasted years. Conrad really didn’t change.
“I’m not trying to ruin anything,” he said softly. “I just wanted—”
“I don’t care what you want,” Belly snapped, before she could hear the rest of that sentence. “What I want is for this wedding to happen without any problems and then you just disappear from our lives.”
The words sat between them, hanging in the air. Slowly, Conrad nodded, his entire body stiff. “Okay,” he said, still with that soft voice, the damn gentleness. It would be easy to give into it, to let Conrad have his way, Belly torn between the two brothers the way she had been for her whole life.
That second of hesitation, though, made Belly straighten her spine. The vague unease that followed her this entire summer, the doubts she had, the reluctance that laid in her bones, she couldn’t let it win, couldn’t let Conrad win. She was going to marry Jeremiah. It’s what she wanted, after all.
“Okay,” she repeated, and then left the kitchen, the house, before the past could rise up.
Six years since she’s seen Conrad standing at Jeremiah’s shoulder during the service, giving his best man speech in tandem with Steven, and then disappearing. On holidays, their families squashed around a table in Boston, Adam would say, “Ah, Connie’s swamped with work,” and the conversation would steer away from him. Belly saw a picture of him, a few years back, from Skye’s instagram. Conrad must be joining them and Julia for holidays, she had figured, and spent too long looking at the picture, the way Conrad’s boyishness seemed to have faded from his cheekbones, his hair tamed and styled now.
“Belly, oh my god,” Conrad continues, his expression almost comically shocked: eyes wide, mouth dropped open. He moves towards where she’s frozen in place, a deer in the headlights, a rabbit whose heart is racing into overdrive. “Are you— What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same,” she manages, only a little thickness in her throat. She doesn’t want to say it just yet. Only two months since the ink has dried, the papers filed, and Isabel Fisher is back to Isabel Conklin. She doesn’t know if Conrad knows, estranged as he is from the family.
“There’s a conference,” he says easily with a little shrug.
His hair is longer, scruff along his jaw. He looks older, more settled, like the six years of separation has been nothing but good to him. Belly doesn’t know how she looks. Defeated, maybe. She hasn’t dressed up for Paris, choosing comfort over style, and for a split second she regrets that.
He steps closer, because the crowd is growing thick and louder, and Belly still has to tilt her head up to look at him. He looks good, she notes, somewhere distant in the back of her head. Maybe that’s the decades-old crush, the way it’s engrained into her bones to think about him. Maybe Belly hasn’t changed the way she thought she did, the way she wanted to.
“And you?” he asks, persistent.
Belly works her jaw. “Just on vacation,” she says lightly.
“Is Jere here?” he asks next, completely oblivious.
It makes Belly laugh, a staccato burst that she can’t control. He doesn’t know. The one person in the world that would care, that might’ve wanted it more than Belly did, and he doesn’t even know.
“I hope not,” she says, unable to stop the bitter note creeping in. She takes a deep breath, wills her expression and her voice to stay neutral, and says, “We got a divorce, actually.”
Belly fled Boston as if she was outrunning a tsunami, only grabbing her purse after she and Jeremiah spat venom at each other. She didn’t have a car in Boston. It was too expensive, parking and taxes, and Jeremiah had the sporty BMW he traded in the Jeep for, and Belly grew used to the subway. It was a five hour train ride, her phone turned off, staring out the window as afternoon gave way to night. It was a thirty minute Uber ride from there to her mom’s house, Laurel stepping onto the porch with a robe wrapped around her, face pinched with worry.
“Belly?” she asked, crossing the distance between the sidewalk as Belly stood there, dumbstruck and feeling years younger than she was. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m getting a divorce,” she said, and then burst into tears.
Laurel wrapped her in a hug immediately, tucked Belly’s head into the crook of her neck like she used to when Belly was younger and had smaller worries. They made it inside somehow, once Belly’s tears dried out, and they ended up on the couch with two glasses of red wine.
Her parents divorced when Belly was 15. They married young—it had been one of Laurel’s protests, the summer of the wedding, not wanting Belly to make the same mistakes. Belly had laughed at the idea back then. She wanted to marry Jeremiah, saw a future there, saw forever there, but that future turned out to be different than the one she dreamed of, where she felt like an outsider in her own life.
On the couch, wine-drunk with her mom, Belly confessed, “I don’t think I love him like I’m supposed to. It’s like I’m going through the motions, right? Like, like I’m expected to, not because I want to.”
“Whose expectations?” Laurel asked, because she turned philosophical when tipsy. “You don’t have to prove your relationship to anybody, honey.”
It felt like a lie. A platitude, to keep Belly from breaking apart in her childhood home. Laurel almost sold it a few years back, with Belly in Boston and Steven in New York. There was a trendy apartment in Fish Town; something smaller, because the house meant for a four-person family felt lonely with only one person in it. Belly and Steven begged her not to sell, started coming down for more visits, but maybe Belly should’ve let Laurel move on.
“To myself,” she answered after draining the rest of her glass. “I had to make it perfect, so no one would think I—”
She cut herself off before she said it, but Laurel could read it in her face. Everyone could, Belly thought, because the idea has haunted her for nearly a decade.
So no one would think I chose the wrong one.
Conrad doesn’t say anything, not that Belly expects him to. She looks away, over his shoulder at a group of tourists trying to understand the Métro sign, so she doesn’t have to watch his expression. She doesn’t want to see the shock, or worse, the excitement. She forces herself to smile, continuing with an awkward laugh, “So, I’m in Paris alone. What about you, what’s your conference about?”
It’s an obvious switch in topics, but Conrad lets her have it. “Medical professionals giving presentations, the usual. It’s filled with a bunch of uptights, though, so I wanted to escape and find some actual good food.” He pauses for a moment, like he’s searching for more words, folding his arms across his chest. “Do you want to, um, grab something to eat with me?”
“Yeah.” Her answer shocks both of them, a pause before she rallies. It’s been six years since they’ve seen each other, the closest thing they’ve had to correspondence being in the same group chat for holiday plans. “It’d be nice to catch up,” she finishes with a small smile, and she finds she means it.
Conrad smiles back at her, a little crooked and awkward, the same as it’s always been, and something in Belly relaxes. He hasn’t changed all that much, then. Belly feels like she’s spent the last six years in stasis; it’s nice to know not everything has shifted around her.
They find a cafe a few streets down that isn’t crowded, taking their seats at a small table. Their legs knock together and Conrad apologizes, shifts away, but Belly finds she misses the brief warmth of him. It would be too much to reach out, though, so she tucks her legs beneath her.
“So,” she starts, eyes scanning down the menu and trying to pick out familiar words, “how’s work? Last I heard you were at a hospital in San Francisco?” She heard it from Adam, mentioned off-hand during one of the family dinners he and Jeremiah like to have a few times a month. Most of the time, the two of them talk about work and Kayleigh tries to find familiar ground with Belly.
“I did, I matched to the same hospital I was doing my rotations in. It wasn’t my top choice, but,” he shrugs, lets the words trail off. “It’s been good, though. I decided to go into emergency medicine.”
“Not oncology?” Belly asks before she can stop herself. It’s what Conrad had talked about years ago. It’s why he wanted to be a doctor, after all, Susannah’s battle with cancer one of his biggest motivators.
“I thought about it, yeah, but I don’t think I’d have the guts for it. Watching Mom… It was hard enough the once. I don’t want to lose more people to the same disease.” There isn’t annoyance in his voice. It’s a touch wistful, maybe, muted with grief.
“Sorry,” Belly mutters.
“No, it’s fine. You wouldn’t know,” he says and then winces.
She wouldn’t. Ever since the wedding, Conrad had turned into an orbiting figure in the Conklin-Fisher family. He sends gifts on holidays, cards on birthdays, but his presence in their lives is just a shadow. Jeremiah never questioned it. Belly should’ve realized that was a tell.
“What about you?” he asks, turning his attention on her. His eyes are hazel, the flecks of green shining in the light. It’s piercing, but not like the way Jeremiah’s blue eyes are. Conrad’s have always been warm, never turned icy like Jeremiah’s would. “Sorry, I don’t know what you’re doing…”
“I work in HR,” she says, expression dour. It’s not the job she wanted, but she graduated from Finch and moved to Boston, and it was easier to start working than think about going for a masters. “Definitely not as exciting as emergency medicine.”
Conrad laughs, a bright noise. “It’s not all that fun,” he says with humor. “C’mon, HR? I can’t imagine you sitting at a desk all day.”
She can barely imagine herself doing it, and it’s been her life for the last five years. It’s embarrassing, the thought that she hasn’t changed, that a man she hasn’t seen for so long knows her so well, but it’s warming, too. Conrad can read her so easily despite the years.
Their server arrives, finally, and after a glance at Belly, Conrad orders a martini. Her face feels warm, her cheeks hurt from smiling more than she has in the past few months. She orders a cocktail to match, and their knees knock under the table.
For the first year of their marriage, Jeremiah lived in Boston while Belly lived in the apartment they toured together. He tried to commute for the first few weeks, with Finch only a couple hours from Boston, but the long drive wore on him. He crashed with Steven for a few weeks, and Belly tried not to get jealous over her brother seeing her husband more than Belly did. She would go to Boston for weekends, or Jeremiah would come down, but it wasn’t the life she wanted as a newlywed.
She moved to Boston after graduation, sick of the distance. Jeremiah made enough for a nice apartment in the city. Belly looked for jobs, thought about applying to masters programs in the area or online, but Jeremiah took out a loan on his BMW and Belly decided a job was smarter. Something corporate, something stuffy and stationary. She got along with her coworkers, went to happy hours, cooked dinner for two even when Jeremiah was late, and tried to make Boston fit.
They still went to Cousins in the summer. Never for long, though. After two years, Jeremiah made partner with his dad’s company, and with the pay bump, Belly wouldn’t have to work, he said. She could stay in Cousins for a full summer, live the life Susannah did, but Belly hadn’t felt so out of place in Cousins since the summer she was a debutante. It changed around her, houses selling and new families moving in. Jeremiah had a membership with the country club, and Belly would look at the mail they sent, about donations and fundraisers and galas.
The differences between the Conklins and Fishers hadn’t seemed like much when she was younger. Belly was aware of their different tax brackets. She would ask Laurel for the newest phone, tickets to a concert, new clothes because hers were dated and Laurel would sigh, rub her temple, and say, “I’ll try to figure it out.” The summers in Cousins were on Susannah—if Belly saw an overpriced trinket in a tourist shop, she’d get it.
(Most of the time, it’d be Conrad who would notice her wanting eyes. He’d pay for it, slip the glass elephant or intricate bracelet into her room. Belly saw him do it one year, and butterflies had exploded in her stomach.)
It wasn’t obvious in college, either, even though Jeremiah’s frat dues, his tuition and meal plan, their dates were all paid by Adam. Belly worked through the four years, a waitressing job at a restaurant downtown. She tucked money away; Jeremiah spent it.
Being a housewife didn’t sit neatly on her shoulders, not the way it did for Susannah. Belly couldn’t do it, could barely spend the month of vacation in Cousins without going near-crazy from lack of structure. Jeremiah would take work calls by the pool while she’d sit on the beach reading, looking at the surfers and sailboats in the water, and still, her mind would think about Conrad.
They have two cocktails each during their late lunch, laughing to each other as Conrad recounts stories from his ER, as Belly retells the disastrous girls’ trip she and Taylor took to Chicago. By the time their plates are cleared, check paid—Conrad dropping his credit card on the platter before Belly could get her wallet out—their server is giving them a dirty look for taking up a table as the cafe grows crowded.
Belly doesn't want to cut it short, she realizes once they’re standing on the sidewalk. She missed Conrad, sealed the feeling deep inside, but seeing him has cracked it open. He’s looking at her, like the same thought is running through his head. He’s the one who asked first, though. Belly can be just as brave.
“Do you need to get back?” she asks.
Conrad checks his watch. It’s an old thing with a worn leather strap. Nothing like the bulky and ostentatious ones Jeremiah would swap his Apple watch out for. “Nah, the presentations today are… boring.”
“Wow,” Belly says, drawing out the word, trying to find a way to keep him here, keep Conrad in front of year. “What happened to nerdy Connie?”
“He’s gotten a lot better at spending time with the things that matter,” he says distractedly, shielding his eyes from the sun as he looks down the street.
Belly feels her breath catch, her heart jump. She’s still looking at him when he glances down at her, the sun lighting his hair gold, like all those summer days in Cousins. For a moment, the rest of Paris melts away—it’s just the two of them, like no time has passed at all.
“Have you gone to any of the tourist spots yet?” she asks.
“Haven’t left the conference rooms that much,” Conrad confesses, rueful smile in place. “I’m guessing you’ve gone native already?”
“Barely,” Belly scoffs, but she’s warmed by his assumptions. Two weeks isn’t enough time for that, though she thinks she can disappear into the cobbled streets for a lifetime. “But I’m probably the best and nicest tour guide you’ll find all day, so if you want, I can show you around.”
“I want,” Conrad says quickly, his words overlapping hers. Then, more measured, “That sounds nice, Belly.”
For the last six years, Belly’s gotten used to correcting everyone on that name. She only hears it from the people who knew her as a kid; to colleagues and new friends, she’s Isabel. Some call her Izzy, and she likes that, likes the idea of being a different person with a new name. The way Conrad says it, though, voice soft around the syllables, familiar and kind, makes her forget why she started disliking it in the first place.
“Get ready to walk,” she says, her voice distant and flustered to her own ears, but Conrad just salutes her in response.
There was a week, one summer in Cousins, where Belly got the summer flu and felt too sick to do anything more than lie on the couch and watch movies. She remembered nights of this when she was younger, curled between Susannah and Laurel as Golden Age stars twirled their way across the screens on fantastical sets, lit up in technicolor, every movement exaggerated and breathtaking. It wasn’t the same without them, Susannah’s absence aching acutely in a way it rarely did, but Belly felt closer to her as she watched Audrey Hepburn’s entire filmography.
She kept looking to the side, a comment on the tip of her tongue, but there was no one there. Jeremiah was out, at the beach or at the bar, letting himself be waved off by Belly. She didn’t know who she was looking for each time: Susannah, remarking on the way Paris shined in Charade; Laurel, to share an eye roll over Mickey Rooney in Breakfast at Tiffany’s; or Conrad, to suggest they learn the dances from Funny Face. Neither of them were that good at it, but they had spent afternoons learning the choreography together, collapsing into giggles in each other’s arms.
Belly never missed Conrad consciously; it would swell up some days, like a rising tide, but she wouldn’t notice most of the time. The ebbs and flow were natural to her, and it wasn’t until days like then when she’d notice the water rushing up her neck, over her head.
It wasn’t until Roman Holiday that it swept over her, watching Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck enjoy their time together. At the end, as Gregory walked away from the press room, empty except for him waiting on something that would never come, Belly started crying. The music swelled, the credits rolled, and Belly sat there, sick and crying on a couch, with no one to turn to.
They’re near the Louvre, but Belly had already gone during her first week, and she knows Conrad’s interest in art has never been strong. It’ll be too crowded, this time of day. All of Paris is crowded, she’s learned, but at least on the sidewalk there’s some distance between their shoulders, their hands clear of each other. She guides them to the Jardin des Tuileres, the patch of green emerging between the buildings as they get closer. Belly spent an afternoon here, too, sitting under the shade of one tree and simply watching. She avoids her phone these days, scared of phone calls from her attorney, from Jeremiah, and the pictures of them that dominate her camera roll.
“Crazy that there’s so much green in this city,” Conrad remarks, running a hand over a tree’s bark.
“Central Park,” Belly reminds him, but she agrees. It’s like an oasis in the middle of the city, a drop of nature that Paris built itself around, even though she knows the gardens were carefully cultivated.
“That’s different,” Conrad tries to argue, but he’s smiling, already knowing he’s lost the argument. It’s easy to keep it up, though, mocking Conrad gently, the way he simply takes it but gives it right back.
From the gardens they go to Palace de la Concorde, necks craning as they stare up at the obelisks. Belly tells him about the guillotine installed during the Reign of Terror, as she learned from the placards dotting the square, but Conrad just asks which movie taught her about that one. None of them, asshole, she replies, swatting him in the arm while he laughs.
She floats the idea of the Ritz, but Conrad shakes his head. “I like being by the Seine,” he says. And then, quietly, “It reminds me of Mom.”
Belly doesn’t know the connection, but she doesn’t argue, and they keep to the sidewalk overlooking the Seine, their gait slowing into something lazy. The Eiffel Tower looks small in the distance somehow. Belly hasn’t been yet. In all her daydreams of Paris, she thought she would be with someone. The Eiffel Tower had always been terribly romantic in her head. The idea of being there, among all those happy couples, on her way to being divorced at 28—she can’t stand it.
“How’s Laurel?” Conrad asks, pausing for pictures as the Pont Alexandre III bridge comes into view. “I saw that she’s doing a book tour for her latest novel.”
Out of everyone in her life, Belly is certain her mom is the one person who keeps in touch with Conrad. She’s the one that makes the group chats every holiday season, after all. “She’s good,” Belly says after a moment. “I’ve been sleeping back home ever since I— For the last few weeks,” she corrects. “I think I’m going to become her muse for her next novel, something about moms and daughters unable to not get divorced.”
It comes out more rueful than she thought, less of a joke and more bitter. Conrad doesn’t say anything for a moment, raising his phone to take a picture of the bridge. His voice mild, he says, “My mom and Jere will have to make an appearance, too.”
His mouth ticks up after he says it, unable to keep the laughter in. Belly cackles, her head thrown back, probably sounding hysterical with the way laughter bubbles out of her. It is objectively crazy, she allows herself to think. Their families tied together, and their biggest similarity is the divorce rate.
“You’re terrible,” she accuses, but she’s smiling, her shoulders lighter than they’ve felt in months.
Conrad bumps into her as he drops his phone, their hands brushing. “You’re special, Isabel Conklin,” he says, and her name has never sounded better than in his mouth, “but not that special.”
Taylor and Steven had their wedding in the fall, and their ceremony was more of a reception than anything else. They had already gotten married a year before, Taylor confessed to Belly one evening during drinks, because Steven didn’t have insurance at his start-up with Denise, and Taylor’s steady job had a good plan. They kept it a secret for the entire year, until the wedding invitations were sent out, and the ceremony itself was a vow renewal. Taylor still insisted on the white wedding dress, and Belly was her maid of honor; Jeremiah was Steven’s best man.
“I sent Conrad an invitation,” Steven said as they waited for the photographer to arrange them to her liking. “He just didn’t RSVP.”
Belly looked at Taylor, the two of them sharing a glance. She’s the only one who knoew about Conrad’s confession on the beach that night, and she made her opinions on it clear. Conrad’s absence was barely felt throughout the night, but a neatly wrapped gift from him sat on the presents table anyway.
The ceremony and reception were fun. It was nothing like Belly’s stuffy wedding at a country club, the majority of the guests people she didn’t know who were only there for Adam’s glad-handing. Taylor knew everyone at her reception, and she was all smiles through the night, exuberance on her face as she finally got to celebrate her marriage.
It’s what Belly wanted, she thought to herself at some point during the night. The intimacy of a smaller venue, a smaller crowd, dancing in circles with her friends. Taylor swayed with her to a love song; their dad danced with her in lieu of a father-daughter dance; Jeremiah pulled Belly onto the floor as the music turned fast-paced and poppy.
It was Taylor’s perfect day, even with all the mishaps. The photos showed their happiness, and Belly kept a polaroid pinned to her mirror, their twin smiles as Taylor shined in her white dress and Belly in her soft green bridesmaid dress.
Belly’s wedding pictures didn’t look the same.
As they walk over the bridge, she remembers her first time on it, how she contemplated tossing her ring into the river. It would’ve been relieving, to know it sunk into the Seine’s depths, but she didn’t want to litter. It’s been tucked into her makeup bag since.
“So how’s life in sunny California?” Belly asks. “Seeing anyone?”
She winces slightly, hoping she doesn’t sound too desperate, too prodding. The thought had suddenly appeared, that’s all.
“Not for awhile,” he says, like the question didn’t bother him. “I dated this girl a while ago, one of the students in my cohort. It’s kinda hard to date as a med student, as a resident. And then in the ER… It’s hard to find someone who gets it. Long hours, the bad mood. I didn’t want to inflict myself on anyone else.”
Conrad laughs, a touch self-deprecating. It makes Belly frown, the sound of it. “Don’t make yourself sound so bad,” she says. “You have redeeming qualities.”
“Yeah?” he asks, looking at her with an arched brow. “Like what?”
Belly swallows. She doesn’t know how to answer that question—even though she could name plenty. His kindness, his dedication, the way he’s always willing to solve Belly’s problems. Even though he created some of them, Conrad’s always done his best to help her. But answering that would lead into another question: Then why did we break up?
She can’t answer that one.
“Well, you’re a rich doctor,” Belly says. “Women love that.”
“Oh, come off it,” he says, but he’s laughing.
It’s as they step off the bridge, their shoulders bumping again, that Conrad asks, “Can I ask why?”
Belly doesn’t need him to say more. She keeps her eyes trained on the horizon, this side of the Seine greener, and tries to make sense of it to them both.
It was spring, months before their six-year anniversary. “Of being married,” Jeremiah clarified. “But nearly ten years altogether, right?”
Like that, it felt overwhelming. Belly hadn’t thought of it that way, splitting the years in her head. The thought sat with her for days. She spent ten years in this relationship. She spent ten years with Jeremiah. She saw a future with him, back when she was standing at that altar. Now, a different future laid before her, and Belly knew she didn’t want any of it.
It seemed a little late to come to that realization, but it took years to build up. Belly was willing to work for this relationship. She did, changing all her life’s plans for it. She gave up Paris for it, and Jeremiah took her to Hawaii, Greece, South Korea—everywhere but the one place she wanted to go.
It was a test. She knew it wasn’t good to test her husband, that communication was the basis of any healthy relationship, but she did it anyway.
“Maybe we should go somewhere,” she said one night, curled around him in their bed. “Since it’s going to be ten years, I think that means something grander than Cousins.”
“You’re so right,” Jeremiah said. “How about… London.”
“London?” Belly repeated, a little incredulous.
“Yeah!” he said, working up enthusiasm as he went. “We could see Buckingham Palace, go to Big Ben, all that. And Dad’s thinking about setting up a satellite office over there. It’d be good to get to know the city.”
“London,” Belly repeated again. “And you want to plan our anniversary trip around work?”
Jeremiah bristled, stiffening under her. “It’s not just about work. It’s just good timing. Why, what’s your big plan?”
“Paris,” Belly all but spat out, the word sounding like a curse as she said it. “The city of love. The one place I have wanted to go for years.”
“You never said!” Jeremiah protested.
“It was never a secret!” she replied hotly, before rolling out of bed to lock herself into the bathroom.
The next few days were tense in the apartment. Belly looked into no less than five divorce attorneys. She read op-eds from women who had divorced, clinged to the way they all said they felt freer once the ink dried. The thought grew louder and louder in her head.
Belly chickened out the first two times but on the third, her voice didn’t quaver as she said, “I want a divorce.”
Jeremiah stared at her, and Belly didn’t know if she had it in her for a fourth time, until he said, his voice cold and brittle like ice, “Is this because of Paris?”
“No,” she said, unconvincingly, and then, “Yes. A little. It’s— It’s everything, okay? I’m not happy, Jeremiah. I look around me and I see a life that’s yours, like I’m something that you’re dragging along.”
“We built this together,” he started, but Belly shook her head.
“You built this,” she said. “You chose Boston, this apartment. You chose everything about the wedding. And I’ve tried.” She stepped closer, stabbed her fingers into his chest. “I tried to be a good wife, to be just like Susannah, but I don’t know who I am when I’m here.”
“You didn’t say anything,” he said. and reached to grab her hand. Belly snatch it back, took another step back too for good measure. “How am I supposed to know you’re not happy if you don’t say it?”
Belly laughed, her eyes stinging. She felt every inch of misery the last six years piled on her, weighing her shoulders down. “You can’t tell?” she asked, her voice soft and quiet. “You can’t look at me and tell?”
It was quiet between them for a long moment, Jeremiah looking at her and Belly trying to keep the tears from spilling. For a moment, she thought about taking it back. Maybe they could try couples’ therapy. Maybe they could try healthy communication. Maybe they could pretend this never happened, and Jeremiah would take them to Paris, and it’d be like getting an engagement ring to forget about Lacie Barone.
“This is because of Conrad, isn’t it?” Jeremiah accused next.
Belly reeled back. “What?” she asked, shock and confusion and anger heavy in her voice. All of her half-formed thoughts fled her head at the moment, as Jeremiah kept talking.
“It’s always been Conrad,” Jeremiah said, throwing his hands up. “I knew. I knew you never got over him.”
“What are you even talking about?” Belly asked. “I married you.”
“You were supposed to marry him!” he insisted. “The letter I got from Mom… There was a mix up. It was the letter meant for him, and she knew how much he loved you. And she wanted him to marry you.”
Belly read hers the morning of the wedding. She was younger than Susannah thought, hadn’t seen the world, had only loved two boys. Susannah wanted her to be happy, and Belly tried to be.
“This isn’t about Conrad,” she said tersely, her fingers curled into her palms.
“He still loves you,” Jeremiah continued, bitter. “Ten fucking years, and he’s still in love with you. Fucking pathetic.”
It made her breath catch, just the thought, but she shook her head again. “This is about us,” she said again. “Do you love me? Or do you love the fact that Conrad doesn’t have me?”
He didn’t answer. Belly waited, the seconds felt like minutes, but Jeremiah still didn’t answer.
“Right,” she said, feeling her throat grow thick with tears. She didn’t believe it was true, that Jeremiah would sink six years of their live into this childish revenge, but in the moment, all the felt was hurt. She spent a lifetime watching Jeremiah trying to one-up Conrad—what’s one more thing?
She grabbed her purse off the hallway table, her house keys rattling in the ceramic bowl they store all their keys in. Jeremiah’s car keys, their house keys, Belly’s keychain Taylor sent her from Chicago. She stood there for thirty seconds, silently unwinding it from the ring.
“What are you doing?” Jeremiah asked.
“I’m leaving,” she said, her voice devoid of all emotion. The keys clattered against the ceramic.
“We’re not done here,” he continued.
Belly turned to look at him. “Yes, we are.” She could pack a bag, but that would require her sticking around this apartment for longer, giving Jeremiah more chances to convince her to stay. “I guess… You’ll be hearing from my attorney, then.”
She left before Jeremiah could stop her, ducking out the door. Part of her hoped she would chase after him, like the end of a movie, announcing their love to the world.
Jeremiah didn’t follow. Belly booked a ticket to Philadelphia.
“So you’re probably happy, right?” Belly says, turning to look at Conrad. The sun has properly set now, and Paris has all its lights turned on. It’s never truly dark in the city. In front of them, the Eiffel Tower shines golden, letting the shadows fall over Conrad’s face.
“All I have ever wanted,” Conrad starts, his voice measured, “is for you to be happy.”
It’s not an answer, but it is. She knows it’s the truth. The summer of the wedding, Conrad did everything he could to make it go smoothly—up until the last moment on the beach. She knows how Conrad turns himself off, hiding his emotions for the sake of others. It’s why they broke up in the first place. Belly hates herself, when she thinks back to that year, the two of them wrapped in their grief and too immature to know how to deal with it.
“I am,” she says after a moment. It makes him smile, a little crooked, and Belly knows the words are true.
They look up at the Eiffel Tower, their shoulders pressed together. During the afternoon, the years collapsed on themself. Conrad was her friend first before he was anything else, and Belly forgot how much she liked talking to him over the years. She forgot the other parts, too, like the way Conrad would always take her weight so easily, letting her lean on him. Belly always tried to give him the same in return but now, it’s the first time Conrad presses back.
“I haven’t been here yet,” she confesses, her head craned back.
“Why not?” Conrad asks, looking with her. “I thought this would be the first place you’d go.”
The first place she went was the catacombs, feeling miserable and not wanting to see the beauty of the city just yet. It was peaceful down there, in a weird way, so close to death. And when she emerged back into the city, it seemed to open before her, welcoming her. She’s traipsed around Paris these last few weeks but never here.
“I didn’t have anyone to go with,” Belly says.
She feels him looking at her, the weight of his gaze familiar. She lets him, eyes trained on the Tower, until it gets to be too much and she looks over. He has kind eyes. Belly always thought that, even at her least charitable moments. In the dark, the green and brown blend together, his pupils wide.
“And you wanted to go with me?” he asks, his voice barely more than a whisper.
“I said I would be your tour guide, didn’t I?” she answers. She feels her face warm, her heart kicking up. She wonders if he could feel her pulse through the press of their shoulders, the heart attack she’s working her way towards.
Conrad doesn’t say anything, just shifts on his feet. He turns towards her, and Belly mimics it, drawn in like a magnet, like the tide, an inevitability. He moves a hand to her face, and Belly lets him—presses into it.
She knows there’s hundreds of essays about this, rebounds after divorce, the messiness of getting back together with an ex. She knows there’s no explaining this, that it’ll only prove Jeremiah right, but Belly isn’t thinking about him. Her mind is filled with Conrad, and the memory of his love—something soft, and overwhelming, and easy.
“Belly,” he says, his voice hushed and rough. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, and Belly’s eyes drop to it, his lips, and back up. There’s a question in just her name, and Belly hears it clear as day.
“Yes,” she says, and presses up as she says it.
Their first kiss in ten years, and Belly melts into it. Conrad’s hand stays on her face, his other falling to her waist, holding her in place and Belly lets herself be held. It’s like no time has passed as they kiss, Belly reminding herself of the way Conrad’s hair feels between her fingers, how she can feel his pulse flutter if she presses a hand to his neck. It’s hammering away now, matching her own.
When they break apart, their heads tilt together, breathing ragged. “Belly,” he says again, like a man reborn, something wondrous in the word. She feels it too, a smile tugging at her mouth.
“Conrad,” she agrees, and kisses him again.