Chương 8
I sat very still.
Daniel had humiliated me for an audience.
The audience was no longer inside the building.
It was everywhere.
By the time we reached my parents' house, the video had crossed two hundred thousand views.
I knew because I checked twice in the car even after Beth told me not to.
Then I deleted the app.
Then I reinstalled it at a red light.
Mom took the phone out of my hand.
"Give me that."
"I'm thirty-two."
"Today you're twelve."
Dad drove with his injured wrist propped awkwardly against the steering wheel and muttered whenever he had to turn.
"You need urgent care," Mom said.
"I need ice."
"You need an X-ray."
"I've broken things before."
"Exactly."
I sat in the back seat between my wedding bag and a cardboard box containing favors that someone had apparently decided we should salvage.
Each favor was a tiny jar of local honey with a label that said, Sweet beginnings.
I stared at one until I started laughing again.
Dad looked at me in the mirror.
"You okay?"
"No."
"Good."
Mom turned toward him.
"What does that mean?"
"It means I'd be worried if she said yes."
At the house, I went straight upstairs to the bathroom I had used as a teenager.
The shower took nearly forty minutes to run clear.
Red paint circled the drain in widening ribbons.
I washed my hair four times.
It still smelled faintly chemical.
When I finally stepped out, my skin was pink from scrubbing.
The pearl necklace lay in the sink.
Several pearls had taken on a permanent blush.
I wrapped it in a hand towel.
My mother found me standing there naked except for a bath towel, staring at it.
"Don't throw it away."
"I wasn't going to."
"I can have it restrung."
"It might be ruined."
"It's jewelry."
She picked it up carefully.
"Ruined is a dramatic word for jewelry."
I looked at her.
She corrected herself.
"Bad day for that word."
She had placed clean clothes on the bed.
Gray sweatpants, an old college sweatshirt, socks.
They were mine from years ago.
I had left them behind when I moved out.
The sweatshirt still had a faint bleach mark near the cuff.
I pulled it on and felt more like myself than I had all day.
Downstairs, Dad had an ice pack strapped to his wrist with a dish towel.
Beth sat at the kitchen table.
I stopped in the doorway.
"How did you get here?"
"Your mother texted me."
Mom looked unapologetic.
Beth stood.
Her blue dress was stained red where she had hugged me.
She had changed into sneakers.
"You look less murder-scene."
"Thanks."
"Your hair is pink."
"I know."
"Kind of works."
I sat down.
A plate of toast waited in front of me.
I had not eaten since half a banana at six that morning.
The sight of food made me nauseous.
Beth pushed the plate closer.
"One bite."
"I'm not hungry."
"I didn't ask."
I tore off a corner.
It tasted like cardboard.
Dad's phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
"Claire."
Nobody moved.
It kept ringing.
Then stopped.
A second later Mom's phone buzzed.
"She's here."
Dad frowned.
"Here here?"
Mom looked through the front window.
"Driveway here."
My chest tightened.
"I told her an hour."
"It's been almost three."
"I know."
Mom waited.
"Do you want her inside?"
"No."
That answer came immediately.
Then I looked toward the front hall.
"Maybe."
Beth said, "You don't have to decide fast."
"I know."
I hated that everybody had started speaking to me carefully.
Mom began to stand.
"Alone."
She sat back down.
Beth reached for the toast.
"Fine."
I slapped her hand.
"That's mine."
"Progress."
Claire was sitting on the front steps when I opened the door.
She had changed out of the bridesmaid dress.
She wore jeans and one of Mark's old sweatshirts.
I recognized it because he had worn it to Thanksgiving three years in a row.
The sight made me angry for reasons that had nothing to do with me.
She looked up.
Her eyes were swollen.
"Can I come in?"
"No."
She nodded.
I sat on the step above her.
For a while neither of us spoke.
A neighbor across the street was mowing his lawn.
The machine moved back and forth with ridiculous regularity.
"Where's Mark?" I asked.
"I don't know."
"Did you call him?"
"About forty times."
"That seems helpful."
"I know."
She rubbed her palms against her jeans.
"He texted once."
"What did he say?"
"Don't come home."
I looked at the sweatshirt.
"You're wearing his clothes."
"I grabbed whatever was in my car."
We went quiet again.
Then I asked, "Why?"
Claire inhaled.
"I don't know where to start."
"At the part where you slept with my fiancé."
She nodded.
Her face twisted.
"I was angry at Mark."
"That's not a reason."
"No."
"Try again."
"I was lonely."
"Still not a reason."
"No."
I waited.
Claire looked out at the street.
"Daniel made me feel like I was still interesting."
I said nothing.
She swallowed.
"Mark and I had been fighting for months."
"About what?"
"Everything."
"That's vague."
"Money."
She picked at a loose thread on her jeans.
"His mother."
"Still?"
"Still."
"Work?"
"That too."
She gave a weak, humorless smile.
"You know us."
Apparently I had not.
She kept going.
"He was working late, I was working late, and whenever we were together we were discussing logistics."
"That happens."
"I know."
"So you slept with Daniel."
"The first time wasn't planned."
"Please don't insult me."
She closed her eyes.
"You're right."
The lawnmower stopped.
The sudden quiet made her next words feel louder.
"I wanted him to want me."
There it was.
Ugly enough to believe.
I looked at her.
She continued before I could answer.
"Daniel had always watched me."
My stomach turned.
"What does that mean?"
"You noticed."
"No."
"You did."
"Don't do that."
She flinched.
"Sorry."
I folded my arms.
May you like
"Explain."
"At family dinners, parties, whatever."
