All We Ever Wanted

by Emily Giffin

don’t think I ever flaunted our wealth. If anything, it embarrassed me.

She wasn’t a gossip—at least not a mean-spirited one—she was simply fascinated by other people’s business, from their wealth and health to their politics and religion.

I’d be naïve to think that my appearance had nothing to do with why we were together—just as I knew, deep down, that the patina and security of a “good family” had, in part, attracted me to him.

I nodded, thinking that Kirk was always ready. Always on. The most confident, competent man I’d ever known.

What I can’t stand are the judgmental hypocrites—people who talk a big Christian game yet don’t even make a cursory attempt to follow the Golden Rule, let alone some of those pesky commandments.

“No. I don’t have Snapchat,” I said, seizing a slice of the moral high ground that comes with opting out of any form of social media.

maybe we were just having less sex, which made the fighting seem worse.

I knew that part of me still loved her and would always love her, but I also knew that we were heading down a road to divorce.

Dads picked up and left all the time, whether to start a new family or just to be alone. But mothers always seemed to stay in the picture, somehow.

I couldn’t imagine him outright siding with Finch, but I know the way the world works. For one, birds of a feather. For another, guys like Finch always get away with things—and a lifetime accumulation of no consequences was how we probably got to this point.

Still a paper-calendar girl, I flipped open my planner for at least the third time that day,

But I cherished our filterless relationship and considered it the truest measure of a best friend, greater than pure affection. Who was the person you trusted enough to be your most transparent self with, in both good times and bad? For me, that person had always been Julie.

Julie had always been the take-charge alpha dog in our friendship and was unusually good in a crisis.

I heard the past tense in her statement—which brought more tears—as

Look important at any and all costs was, I’m sure, one of his rules to live by.

A few minutes later, I left the house in a low-key panic. As I tried to distract myself with mindless errands,

It had been a long time since he’d looked at me like that.

waiting for a tattooed male barista to make my drink.

So much had changed since then—or at least so much had been acknowledged in my own heart.

Passivity wasn’t the worst sin in the world, but I made a mental note to start making my own menu selections. Baby steps.

know a person isn’t the sum of his hobbies.

I would have tried harder to keep talking to him, even when he no longer wanted me to.

being drunk at a party was way more fun than whining to Teddy on the phone from under the covers of the top bunk.

wasn’t sure what I would do next. But it would be more than nothing, that was for sure.

“She’s a great friend, but never on time.”

There was no such thing as a kept secret in the Windsor community,

I actually disagreed with her—and thought that activism of this kind is one of the only decent upshots of social media.

Even the breezy I can’t complain! grated on me. First of all, sure you can complain, and you do, and you will.

You’re impossible to please, he’d tell me. Move on and stop obsessing. Of course, he obsessed over plenty of things, too. But in his mind, those things were different. They were obsession-worthy because they were about the big financial picture—or another quantifiable issue.

“Justice isn’t only about what a person deserves, but also about what a person needs.”

had “a weak stomach for conflict,”

This business of him keeping secrets was another thing that had changed between us, although to be fair, that worked both ways. There was plenty of stuff I hid from him, too. And not just the drinking.

Dad slid closer to me and put his arms awkwardly around my shoulders, kissing the top of my head. Part of me wanted to push him away, but I really needed a hug.

this time he didn’t sound like a martyr—just a dad who really was trying.

my version of it being over was very different from his.

his OCD kicking in as he vacuumed and swept and Windexed every surface.

Dad never goes to any kind of effort when he hates someone.

His voice was soft and sweet—the way boys almost never sound except in the movies with slow, romantic songs playing in the background.

this was something men (and boys, obviously) did after any breakup. Dub their exes “crazy.” Discredit them, make it seem as if the men were lucky to have gotten out of the relationship.

the justification men used for their own misconduct. A form of misogyny.

just the right amount of eccentricity,

He also told her she could never see me again, which only fueled our interest in each other, as those things have a tendency to do.

“I don’t have time for that stuff—” “Nonsense,” she said. “People make time for what matters to them.”

“You, too,” he simply said back, failing with flying colors.

All I’m saying is—I think cheating on your wife is a little worse than cheating at putt-putt….And

What’s the saying? Money makes you more of what you already are?”

I winced at her words, knowing she was right,

She was on a roll now. Part of me was embarrassed for my husband—and myself for putting up with his behavior for so long—but I also felt oddly comforted by her rant. It was almost like therapy or validation.

“Luke,” I said—because it felt like our music. Our songs.

“Not really,” I said, my mind going blank because I wasn’t thinking about movies.