This time, Eva’s eyes are defiant. “Please leave.” She begins to close the door for a second time, but Gina blocks it with her foot. A move that catches both of them by surprise.
“I’m coming in.” Gina’s heart is beating so fast she’s afraid it will break her ribcage.
To her surprise, Eva opens the door and steps aside.
Gina’s eyes scan the sparse living room. Generic furniture, probably Ikea. An armchair, a lamp, and a table with only one chair. An empty bookshelf. Cardboard boxes are piled on the corner. On the table, sheets of bubble wrap, duct tape, and a pair of yellow scissors. The familiar signs of a move.
Gina turns to face Eva, her brain pantomiming Tish’s stance: all confidence and purpose, not a shred of doubt. To her credit, Eva meets her gaze. This is the self-described feminist who accused Bobby of sexual misconduct. The woman whose unapologetic review of an alleged relationship sparked a national debate—is a consensual affair at work between a boss and an employee a form of sexual exploitation? This is the woman who turned Gina’s life upside down. Who turned her into tabloid fodder. Into a hashtag. Whose bravery was applauded. Who was called some truly vile names. All in the name of a cause.
Why did you do it? Gina wants to ask. And: was it worth it?
“Would you like to sit down?” Eva says, gesturing to the couch.
Gina does not. But her legs are weak, wobbly. And she can’t afford to look weak right now. She chooses the armchair.
Eva closes the door and settles on the couch. Gina notices Eva’s hands trembling. She eyes her stomach. No baby bump—obviously. If Eva really is pregnant, she’s probably still in her first trimester.
“You should know I have a roommate,” Eva says. “They’re home.”
Gina is about to ask why she should care about Eva’s living arrangements when it hits her—Eva is afraid Gina will hurt her. Physically hurt her. It’s almost enough to make Gina laugh. Almost.
“Noted,” Gina says.
“What do you want?”
Gina studies the woman before her: the one she had pegged as an evil temptress, a deranged sociopath, a homewrecker. Eva looks like none of these things. She is scanning the room nervously, rubbing her hands together like a child who is about to be scolded. Her outfit is unassuming: black yoga pants, long-sleeved black shirt and socks. Her face is freshly scrubbed, and her long, dark hair falls over her shoulders. She has beautiful hair—so shiny it belongs in a shampoo commercial.
“I want you to tell me the truth about your relationship with my husband,” Gina says.
“I’ve given a statement that accurately reflects—”
“No,” Gina interrupts. “I’m not the public. I’m Bobby’s wife. Say it to my face.”
“What do you want to know?”
“The truth,” Gina says. “Because I think you’re lying. I don’t think you’ve had an affair with my husband at all.”
“Believe whatever you want. It’s the truth.” Eva’s eyes are steely and her jaw is set, but her tone carries no confidence. She sounds entirely different from the poised, combative woman in the video. This makes sense: a lie is more difficult to sustain on a one-on-one basis.
“Then prove it. Tell me about it.”
Eva takes a deep breath. “Your husband and I had an affair for nine months even though I was his subordinate. In that time, he relied on me for everything: not just sex, but emotional labor, too. I was both his friend and his therapist. He needed me to validate his feelings twenty-four seven. He’d call me in the middle of the night because he was plagued by imposter syndrome at work, terrified he was going to bankrupt the company again, make some giant mistake that would cost his family, your family, everything it had built in the last one hundred years. And it wasn’t just about work, either. He’d go on and on about how his mom only loved his brother, or about how he was failing his son.” Eva pauses. “He’d talk about you, too. About how you were drifting apart, how you were too busy for him even though you didn’t have a job. That you cared more about a pumpkin pie contest than about him. It was… exhausting. It fucked up my mental health. And it obviously affected my work. Not just because he was so needy, but because I had to keep it a secret from everyone in my life, even my closest friends. I spent months lying to everyone I care about. On his insistence, of course. He didn’t want you to find out.”
Gina feels the air leave her lungs. Eva isn’t just describing Bobby, she’s describing the version of Bobby Gina had thought only existed with her. The Bobby who allows himself to be vulnerable, to be scared. The Bobby who lets his guard down. Only love would cause him to do that. Love and trust. Gina feels tears gathering behind her eyelids. She is about to excuse herself—it’s been a mistake, coming here—but then, a detail stands out. The contest. Eva mentioned the pumpkin pie contest.
“When did it begin?” Gina asks, fighting to keep her voice steady. “Your affair?”
“December,” she says, her tone is softer now. Eva has probably noticed the impending tears.
“What day?”
“I don’t remember.”
“When would you see each other?”
“After work, mostly. Sometimes on weekends. And every Wednesday, when he told you he had a staff meeting. While you were having one of your fun dinners with your son, working your way through various cookbooks. He felt left out. He resented the time you spent on him.”
Gina takes a deep breath. This, too, checks out. Gina feels trapped, like the room is closing in on her. Her eyes dart the space around her, as if searching for a way out. A ridiculous impulse: the door is right there. She can walk out at any moment.
That’s when her gaze lands on the bookshelf to
