He tosses me the phone, startling me, but I catch it.
“You know I didn’t write that.”
“I don’t know what to think, Allie.”
“Fine.” I yank open the front door. “Just go to your baseball game. I’ll keep dealing with this. I’ve contacted Tinder. I’ve contacted Facebook.”
“You can’t blame me for being upset.” His face is red. “I mean, how would you feel if it were the other way around and you found this shit on my phone?” A man in a neon-green vest glares at us as he runs by pushing a jogging stroller.
“You can be upset and still believe me. I’m upset, too. This is happening to me, Mark. To me!”
A brown sedan with an Uber sticker pulls up.
“That’s your ride.”
Mark walks down the path to the car.
I am half hoping he leans in the open window and tells the driver to take off, that he’s changed his mind and won’t need an Uber after all. I want him to want to stay, not because there’s anything he can do to fix this tonight but just because he doesn’t want me to be alone. But I can’t find the words to ask for what I want, and standing in the doorway with my arms crossed, I can feel the sour look on my face.
I wait at the open door until my husband climbs into the car and it drives away.
Then I look down at the phone in my hand, scanning all the messages, supposedly from me, to Rob Avery.
I want to feel you rub your cock against me.
I want your hands between my legs.
Be aggressive, don’t take no for an answer.
Seeing these words, I realize that I lied to Mark.
Those are my words. Only I didn’t type them to Rob Avery. I wrote them to Paul Adamson, sixteen years ago.
26
When I enter the kitchen, Susan stops unpacking the groceries I brought home earlier, a box of baking soda in one hand and a stick of butter in the other. “Everything all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” I plaster a smile on my face.
“You don’t look fine,” she says.
“Long day, that’s all.” I go to the fridge, grateful for the half-full bottle of wine. I pour myself a tall glass, aware that she is watching me. But I don’t care. Let her judge.
“Well, the soup’s on the stove, ready to eat. My mother always said there’s nothing a hot bowl of soup and a warm bath can’t fix.”
“You’re probably right,” I say. “Thank you for everything.”
After Susan leaves, I ladle out two bowls of soup, one for Cole and another for me. Cole wrinkles his nose. “I don’t like cooked vegetables,” he says, peering into the bowl. “I want mac and cheese.”
I am about to launch into a tirade about how you get what you get, and you don’t get upset, when I realize I do not have the strength. “You got it.”
“Really?” His eyes bulge with shock at my easy acquiescence. “With apple slices?”
“No problem.”
“Skinny slices, not fat.”
“Sure.”
After dinner, I even let Cole have a bowl of Lucky Charms for dessert. Then I tuck him into my bed, along with about a dozen stuffed animals. When he asks if he can watch a PG-13 movie, I consent.
“Why not?” I ask. “I watched Basic Instinct when I was twelve, and I turned out all right.”
He scrunches up his nose. “What’s Basic Instinct?”
I tuck the blanket tight around his legs. “That was just a joke.”
“Were you and Daddy fighting with that lady?”
I flinch. Cole was listening after all. “No, not fighting. Just discussing a few things.” I brace myself for him to ask me what, but he changes tack.
“Are you getting divorced? Dylan’s parents are getting divorced. She’s moving to an aparterment.”
“Apartment,” I correct him. “But no, Mommy and Daddy are not getting divorced. Sometimes grown-ups get mad, just like sometimes kids get mad.”
“But if you do get divorced, can I get a bunny? Dylan’s getting a bunny.”
“Watch the movie, Cole.” I kiss his forehead and leave the room.
I’m on the landing, on my way down to the kitchen for more wine, when I hear a scraping sound come from the living room. I grip the banister and listen. The sound repeats. It’s like something being dragged across the floor.
Could be Mark is home from the game, but it’s way too early.
My skin prickles as I tiptoe down the stairs. From the foyer, I can see the lights are on in the living room. I can’t imagine what he would be doing in there. My breath quickens. I enter the room. A crouching figure shoots up, and I let out a yelp.
It’s Leah. She rushes to me. “Hey, you all right?” She embraces me. “I’m sorry I freaked you out. Your back door was unlocked.”
I offer a weak smile, struggling to catch my breath. “No, it’s okay, I’m just not used to—”
“I’m so sorry! I’m just used to popping in on friends.”
“Right. I’m just a little … I’m not used to it is all. And with everything going on—”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I just wanted to check on you. See if you had any luck today, you know, with Facebook and everything.” Then she hoists a bottle of white wine that was sitting on the coffee table. “And I wanted someone to drink this Kim Crawford with me.”
I force a laugh, flooded with relief. “I’d love to split that with you. But hold on.”
I run upstairs to make sure Cole is occupied with his movie and find him out cold, snoring, legs akimbo. I shut the television and lights off and close the door.
Back downstairs, Leah has found the wineglasses and is looking through a stack of framed photographs leaning against the wall.
“Haven’t quite gotten around to hanging those,” I say.
“These are wonderful. Did you take them?”
“Eons ago.” I unscrew the wine and pour us each a glass.
Leah peers at the photographs, a series of outtakes from weddings in San Francisco. None are of brides, or bridesmaids, or grooms.
