Antonia Lively Breaks the Silence Read Online Free

finished her meal and was now heading for the door. Part of Catherine wanted to join her, to go after her—just as she should have gone after Wyatt. All at once, she was transported back to another night in this very cafe: her last meal with Wyatt before he vanished. They’d taken a window table, perhaps the same one as Antonia had taken, she couldn’t quite remember. Wyatt had just ordered an expensive bottle of champagne—a luxury they couldn’t afford. She didn’t deny him or say a word, though; they were celebrating. It was his night. He’d just completed the penultimate chapter of his second novel, a book he’d been laboring on for a couple of years. Catherine had learned not to ask him of his progress or what the novel was about—“You know how much I hate that question. Ask about the characters. Ask about the setting. Just don’t ever ask me what it’s about!”—and he never gave her any clues. The one time she did ask, he said that it was his big revenge book. So that’s what she took to calling it—Wyatt’s Big Revenge Book.
    As Catherine thought over that evening, she felt her face flush and all at once she had trouble breathing. She reached for her wine, but it seemed miles away, the table stretching into a streak of candlelight and cream-colored linen. Dizzy, she stood up, and stumbled toward the door, past the table and that night so long ago, when their faces still smiled with love and hope, and Wyatt still promised her that everything was going to turn out all right. It hadn’t turned out all right, she thought, reaching the street and collapsing on the first available park bench. She looked around, her thoughts a scrambled blur. There was the gazebo, empty now; the soft sputter of the electric-flamed gas lamps; the tree where she and Wyatt had kissed, drunkenly, for the last time. Her heart was racing, and she glowed with sweat, when, moments later, Jane and Louise appeared, concerned and anxious.
    â€œAre you all right?” Jane asked.
    â€œShe’s fine,” Louise said, her voice soothing and maternal. Then, “I love you, you know that, but you have to stop this. You have to stop blaming yourself.”
    â€œLouise!” Jane said. “Catherine doesn’t blame herself. She didn’t do anything wrong!”
    She had, though. They knew she had. Only they didn’t know all of it. How could she ever tell them, her dear friends, that complicated and unflattering story? How could she ever tell them about Henry Swallow?
    â€œIf you want, I can stay with you tonight,” Jane offered.
    â€œThat isn’t necessary,” Catherine said, but even as she said it, she realized she dreaded going home alone. She wished for Wyatt at the door of the house, the comfort of his forgiveness. The loneliness came down hard then; cold, she began to shiver.
    â€œLet me take you home,” Louise said, more of a command than an offer.
    â€œNo,” she said, “please,” thinking, What is going on here? Yet she knew exactly what was going on—another bad reaction to the regret and guilt she continued to carry with her. Even though they had other responsibilities to tend to—Jane had a new puppy, and Louise a demanding husband and son—her friends didn’t leave her side. She loved them for it and hated them for it, but mostly she hated herself, for letting Wyatt leave, for letting him take their bright and golden futures with him.
    They sat in silence, Jane to her right, Louise to her left, and after a while, the moon broke through the clouds and her friends were saying that they wanted a drink, and something—anything—to eat. “How about Tint?” one of them suggested, but Catherine wasn’t listening. The air was full of insects and a faint music and too many shadows, and finally she pushed off the bench and said good-bye, heading home alone despite her friends’