Luckily for me, Fiona wasn’t going to give me time to think about my next steps. She had already decided on them for I Can Build That Carpenter Woodworking Carpentry Woodworker shirt “Come on, Liv,” she said excitedly. I cringed at the nickname, feeling the familiar emptiness as it made me think of Bianca. “Do you do yoga? I love the classes here. Do you want to do one with me?”And so began my whirlwind friendship with Fiona Wendell. I didn’t particularly feel like I had a choice in the matter, but I didn’t mind, either. I thought that if I got close enough to his wife, maybe eventually I could get closer to Mark, too. And once I was closer to Mark, I could tell him the truth, and we could get to work on saving me from my future as a prophet.Mark, however, had other ideas. A solid month of hanging out with Fiona–at the gym, at cafes, in their living room–garnered nothing more than a few polite nods from Mark, if he was around at all. If we were in their living room, he was elsewhere in the house, only acknowledging us as he came through the room to get another drink from the kitchen–and, I noticed, he frequently got another drink, and then another, and usually one more after that.
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While Mark drank, Fiona talked. Through her rambling, I learned about Mark’s past. He and Fiona had met in their twenties while they were in school in Massachusetts. His adoptive parents had been dead for years even then, and I Can Build That Carpenter Woodworking Carpentry Woodworker shirt than her, Mark was pretty content with being alone. It didn’t seem to me that even Fiona was much of an exception to that, but it wasn’t my place to say so. Luckily, she didn’t need me to say so anyway.“Our marriage is a disaster,” she said dramatically one evening. “He doesn’t pay any attention to me, and he drinks all the time, and he acts like I’m stupid if I try to talk to him about any of it. I don’t know what to do, Liv.”I still hated it when she called me Liv, but I had learned very quickly that Fiona was not someone who responded well to criticism. As appealing as her face looked when she pouted, the results were often more than I could handle. She cried easily and passionately about nearly every issue, especially if wine was involved–and wine was usually involved. My role in the friendship was to be present, to nod and make reassuring noises, but never to offer any actual advice or contributions to the conversation.
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