Chương 7
Corinne pressed the lobby button even though it was already lit.
“I hate this family sometimes.”
I looked at her.
She winced.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“I love Matt.”
“I know.”
“I’m furious with him.”
“I know.”
She gave me a tired look.
“You’re very good at saying that.”
“I’ve had practice.”
For the first time all evening, she smiled.
It lasted maybe a second.
Then she said, “Do you want me to come home with you?”
“No.”
“You shouldn’t be alone.”
“I need to be.”
“That might be worse.”
“Probably.”
The elevator descended.
I watched the numbers change.
Seven.
Six.
Five.
Somewhere between four and three, my phone began vibrating inside my purse.
Evan.
I declined it.
It rang again.
I declined that too.
Corinne watched without comment.
At the lobby, the doors opened onto marble floors, brass lamps, and strangers laughing near the bar.
The hotel had moved on from my marriage already.
I envied it.
At the coat desk, I found the ticket in my purse, then remembered my coat was already on me.
The attendant waited politely while I stared at the useless rectangle of paper in my hand.
“Long night?” he asked.
“Apparently.”
He smiled as if I had made a joke.
I almost let him keep believing that.
Outside, rain had thinned to a mist.
The valet brought my car around.
Corinne stood under the awning with me.
“You’ll text me when you get home?”
“Yes.”
“Actually text me.”
“Yes.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
There it was again.
The phrase had become almost funny.
I hugged her before I could decide whether I wanted to.
She stiffened, then hugged me back hard.
For one second, I hated how much I needed another person.
Then I let go.
The drive home took twenty-three minutes.
I knew because the navigation screen told me.
I remember almost none of it.
Traffic lights changed.
Wipers moved.
A delivery truck double-parked on Beacon Street.
A cyclist in a yellow rain shell shouted at a taxi.
At some point, I noticed I was gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles hurt.
I loosened my hands.
Then tightened them again.
Our house was dark when I pulled into the driveway.
A narrow brick townhouse in Brookline that Evan had called too conventional when we first toured it.
I had loved the built-in shelves and the small maple tree out front.
He had loved the resale value.
We bought it anyway.
There were two coffee mugs in the dishwasher.
His shoes were by the mudroom bench.
A blue sweater he had worn the night before lay over the back of a dining chair.
Evidence of a life that had expected to continue until morning.
I locked the door behind me.
Then I checked the lock.
Then I checked it again.
My phone had nine missed calls.
Seven from Evan.
One from Elaine.
One from an unknown number.
I put the phone facedown on the kitchen counter.
The house was too quiet.
I opened the refrigerator.
Closed it.
Opened a cabinet.
Closed that too.
I poured water and forgot to drink it.
Then I sat at the kitchen table beneath the pendant light and stared at the place where Evan had eaten toast that morning.
There were crumbs near the edge of the placemat.
I brushed them into my palm.
For some reason, that was what made me cry.
Not the mistress.
Not the baby.
Not Elaine.
Toast crumbs.
I covered my face.
The crying came hard and ugly, with no dignity at all.
My ribs hurt.
My nose ran.
At one point I knocked the water glass over and had to get paper towels while still crying.
That seemed so ridiculous I started laughing.
Then I cried harder.
When it finally stopped, I was exhausted and furious at myself for being exhausted.
I cleaned the table.
I washed the glass.
I wiped the counter twice.
At 10:16, my phone rang again.
Unknown number.
I almost ignored it.
Something made me answer.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Then, “Natalie?”
Marissa.
I leaned against the counter.
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry to call.”
My first instinct was to hang up.
My second was to ask a thousand questions.
I did neither.
“How did you get my number?”
She hesitated.
“From Evan’s emergency contact form.”
Of course.
“Are you okay?”
The question surprised me.
She gave a small, disbelieving laugh.
“No.”
“Neither am I.”
“I know.”
Silence again.
I could hear traffic behind her.
A horn.
The low rush of tires on wet pavement.
“Where are you?”
“In my car.”
“Are you driving?”
“No.”
“Good.”
She breathed out.
“I didn’t know.”
I stared at the dark window over the sink.
“My marriage existed in public.”
“I know.”
“That sounded cruel.”
“It was.”
“Okay.”
She was quiet.
Then she said, “You should be cruel.”
I closed my eyes.
“No.”
“I would be.”
“That doesn’t make it useful.”
Another pause.
“He told me you were separated last winter.”
I said nothing.
“He said you were staying together until the house was refinanced.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“He told me you didn’t want children.”
I looked at the chair across from me.
That one hurt in a different place.
“What else?”
She hesitated.
“Natalie.”
“What else?”
“He said you’d both been unhappy for years.”
“Were you sleeping with him when he told you that?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Since February.”
The date landed cleanly.
February.
Seven months.
Not a mistake.
Not one night.
A parallel life.
“Did he tell you he loved you?”
“Yes.”
The answer came immediately.
I sat down.
The chair scraped hard against the floor.
Marissa continued.
“I know how this sounds.”
“No, you don’t.”
“You’re right.”
I rubbed my forehead.
“Did he tell you he was going to leave me?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“He said after tax season.”
I laughed.
Marissa went quiet.
“He doesn’t do our taxes.”
“I know that now.”
That was almost funny.
Almost.
May you like
“Then he said after your anniversary.”
I looked toward the hallway.
