Stories We Never Told

by Sonja Yoerg

  Jackie thinks, Of course. How embarrassing if she should get carded, and chides herself for being bitchy. But, really, Nasira can’t be more than twenty-six, twenty-seven. Harlan is twice her age. Not that it matters, because they couldn’t possibly be dating. That wouldn’t be plausible, ethical, nor fair.

  Jackie reaches under the table for Miles’s hand.

  He squeezes hers lightly and looks up at the waiter. “Gin and tonic for me, please. Sapphire.”

  “The same,” Harlan says.

  Harlan asks Miles about his recruiting trip, and Jackie follows the conversation so she doesn’t have to talk to Nasira. The drinks arrive.

  Harlan straightens and raises his glass, his face bright. “To friends—new and old.”

  Jackie touches her brimming glass to the others with care and smiles at Nasira. The impending delivery of gin to her system has made her generous.

  “To new friends,” Nasira says.

  New friends? We’ll see.

  CHAPTER 2

  On the sidewalk outside the restaurant, Jackie and Miles say goodbye to Harlan and Nasira in a blur of air-kisses, handshakes, and shoulder clasps. Jackie notes that Harlan and Nasira do not discuss where they are going or how they are getting there, together or separately, apparently having worked it out ahead of time.

  Jackie takes Miles’s arm as they leave. A moment later, she pulls up short and digs in her bag for her phone.

  Miles stops. “What’s wrong?”

  She wakes the phone. “Something in my eye.” She clicks open the camera and toggles to selfie mode. In the camera, she sees Harlan and Nasira walking away, and dabs at the corner of her eye for Miles’s sake. Harlan dips his head toward Nasira in conversation and places his hand on the center of her back.

  “Shit.” Jackie drops the phone into her bag.

  Miles leans closer. “Does it hurt?”

  She blinks hard, completing the performance. “Nope. Got it, I think.” She is dying to turn around, but is not prepared for what she might see. What is going on with those two? Her mind is racing, like it was during dinner as she scrutinized Harlan and Nasira on the sly. She doesn’t know what to think. She needs to talk it out, run through the possibilities, and she doesn’t want to wait until she and Miles are at home where there will be distractions. Miles will want to go through his mail, unpack.

  Jackie touches his arm. “Are you up for a drink?”

  “Out or at home?”

  “Out. I haven’t seen anything other than moms, babies, and freshmen all week.” Between advising, teaching, and the start of a new study, her schedule has been packed. She made a point of introducing parents (usually mothers) and their babies to the study herself. Even behavioral laboratories can be intimidating, and she understands the importance of putting the moms at ease. A tough week combined with that dinner has left her desperate for time and conversation with her husband—and another drink.

  Miles shrugs. “Sure. We can Uber home, pick up your car tomorrow. How about the Rye Bar?”

  They make their way to M Street and turn right on Thirty-First toward the river. The bar is as plush and dark as a speakeasy, and they settle into armchairs in a corner. Jackie orders another martini. One is usually her limit, especially with wine thrown in, but it was hardly a usual evening. Miles asks for Lagavulin, and the waiter engages him in a discussion of single malts. Jackie squirms in her chair. The waiter leaves.

  Miles checks his phone and tucks it away. He leans back, crosses his legs, and smiles at Jackie. “You definitely have something on your mind.”

  “I hardly know where to start. I keep bouncing between disconcerted and horrified.”

  “About what?”

  How could he possibly ask? He knows Nasira is her postdoc. “Nasira!”

  “Nasira?”

  “Yes! And Harlan. I mean, why did he invite her and not tell me, knowing she works in my lab?”

  “Sounds like they spent the afternoon together.”

  “Okay. So now we have two questions. Why did they spend the afternoon together? And why, having done that, was Nasira at our dinner? Harlan could’ve begged off.”

  Miles nods. “He could have, sure. But why not invite her? You know her. You work with her.”

  “I hardly know her at all. She just got here. Am I wrong to think I should’ve been the one to decide whether I wanted to socialize with her?”

  “That’s a fair point. But is it really a huge deal? Harlan’s broken the ice now.”

  “Yes, but why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why her?”

  Miles spreads his hands. “Why not her? Look, Jackie. If Nasira was, I don’t know, dreary or full of herself, I could see your point. But I thought she was easy company.”

  “‘Easy’ is an interesting choice of words.”

  “Jackie . . .”

  The drinks arrive. Miles raises his glass. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers.” Jackie inhales the resinous scent of the gin. Miles’s attention is wandering around the bar as he tastes his scotch. She watches him, icy gin sliding down her throat, and wonders if he will comment on Nasira’s looks. He’s not the sort of man who routinely comments on appearances, thank God, but Nasira would send up a blip on any man’s radar.

  Jackie takes another sip and sets down her glass. “You’re right, Miles. She’s pleasant, if a bit reticent, and smart, of course.”

  Miles smiles. “You hired her, after all.”

  “I did.”

  “Her French is excellent. Did you know her mother was French?”

  Miles is Dutch by birth but was schooled first in France, then in England, before returning to Utrecht for university. When Nasira ordered pot de crème and he heard the native sounds, he initiated a brief but rapid-fire exchange that left Jackie’s I-can-get-by proficiency behind in the first sentence. It’s ridiculous, but having a French mother seems to give Nasira intangible advantages, like having royal blood.

  “Her mother never came up,” Jackie replies.

  “Well, I don’t understand why you’re objecting to someone who is so unobjectionable.”

  “I’m not objecting to her, Miles. I did enjoy talking with her at dinner. She was sprung on me, on us. Harlan could’ve warned us.”

  “We’ve covered that.” He sighs and recrosses his legs. “Harlan seemed great. The sabbatical agreed with him, despite his aversion to travel, don’t you think?”

  Jackie nods. Harlan did seem more buoyant, refreshed. That’s what sabbaticals are designed to achieve, but change was anathema to Harlan, or it had been, along with punctuality and visiting museums. Until tonight, Jackie has only seen Harlan in passing since his return; his research space, with its large, expensive equipment, is tucked into the labyrinthine basement of Wolf Hall, the Psychology Department building. Harlan studies the neural control of lying and truth telling, poking around in the electrochemical tangle of the brain in search of the mechanisms of moral judgment. Intriguing work, but esoteric compared to her own, especially her interest in uncovering behavioral markers for autism. For parents of autistic kids, knowledge is the foundation for coping—and hope.

  Jackie pictures Harlan’s hand on Nasira’s back. She drains her glass and feels more focused and less tactful. “Miles. What do you think? Are they sleeping together?”

  Miles laughs. “How would I know?”

  “Harlan might have said.”

  Miles shakes his head, more in disbelief than denial. “Why are you so keen to know?”

  “L’enfant is half his age.”

  He shrugs. “It happens.”

  Jackie studies him, trying to remember if he’s said something recently about chatting with Harlan. She’s been so frantic at work, and there wouldn’t have been any reason for her to file the information away. She has the ghost of a memory of Miles saying he spoke with Harlan perhaps a week ago. Did they talk about Nasira? Jackie can’t ask. A friendship between your ex and your husband means you’ve put the past behind you.
But the past is never completely behind you; it is alive in your memories, in your reptilian brain, where a whiff of cologne can make you an idiot and where phrases like “we’ve moved on” mean next to nothing.

  She leans forward. She knows damn well she should let it go but can’t stop herself. One martini was not enough, and two, it seems, was too many. “Do you know something?”

  “About?”

  “Harlan and L’enfant.”

  He stares at her, his features squaring slightly, the playful curve of his mouth hardening. “Can we talk about something else?”

  “Why? I’m just fascinated with what happened tonight.”

  “You’re not just fascinated.” He takes a slow sip of his scotch. “You’re jealous.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “Is it?” He holds her gaze.

  She resists the urge to squirm. When in doubt, double down. “Yes.” She sits back in her chair and spreads her hands. “How can I be jealous? I don’t even know if they’re seeing each other.”

  “Then leave it alone.”

  His tone is firm, and Jackie pauses. Miles rarely challenges her, and never without cause. He’s right that she doesn’t know anything about Harlan and Nasira. If Jackie hadn’t dated Harlan for five years, Nasira’s presence at dinner would only have been a social blunder, easily overlooked. Miles is also right that she is jealous; she hasn’t had cause for jealousy before tonight because she’s never met any of Harlan’s girlfriends. Maybe if she’d encountered a succession of Nasiras over the past five years she’d be inured.

  As for Nasira, she probably walked into the evening blind, having no idea of Harlan’s history with Jackie. It was, after all, just dinner.

  Jackie reaches for Miles’s hand. “I’m sorry to be such a nutjob. Want to go sailing in the morning?” It was how they met. At the time, Jackie rowed at dawn every morning. She’d begun the practice after college to quell her grief over her father’s death. Losing him a second time, and losing him absolutely, had crippled her, and only the exhaustion from pulling the shell along the deep calm of the Potomac had brought her a measure of relief. Over the years, rowing morphed from an antidote to pain to a source of pleasure. At the boathouse one morning, Miles struck up a conversation and convinced Jackie to trade solitary rowing for dinghy sailing, at least for the day. On their third outing, Jackie learned that Miles had recently lost his father. She asked about him, about them. That day and during later sails they shared their stories, stories long enough for a slow, wide river, and their nascent friendship deepened.

  Miles takes Jackie’s hand and turns her wedding band. The tenderness of his thick, strong fingers makes her chest tighten.

  “I’d love to go sailing,” he says.

  Late the following afternoon, Jackie scrounges in the freezer, hoping dinner will materialize. Miles is on the far side of the open-plan space, intent on a football game, a notebook in his lap and a bottle of IPA in his hand. Technically, this is work; he is studying strategy and taking notes on players, considering how his clients might fit into the roster. Miles is careful never to drink when he’s courting young players and their parents, so the afternoon beer is an indulgence for home.

  She pulls out a package of meat and holds it in the air. “Beef stew okay?”

  Miles turns to her. “Delicious. Let me know if I can help.”

  “The Instant Pot and I have it covered.”

  Jackie places the meat in cold water to defrost and carries her Kindle, her phone, and a glass of iced tea upstairs to their office and her favorite reading chair. She and Miles have gravitated toward a more modern style, and the chair is shabby and not the least bit chic. Jackie sinks into it, opens her Kindle, shuts it again, and picks up her phone.

  Just a bit of snooping, she tells herself, the sort everyone does these days. Just enough to confirm there is nothing to see. She hasn’t breathed either Harlan’s or Nasira’s name since last night, but of course she has been thinking about them, replaying the moment when Harlan greeted her, before she knew who the mysterious friend was, and also the moment she recognized Nasira. If only Jackie had been able to catch sight of Harlan’s face then. She would have seen something.

  Jackie opens Instagram—the obvious choice for a millennial—types Nasira’s name in the search bar, clicks through the handful of hits, and selects the only reasonable match. The avatar is a pineapple—an ironic pineapple, perhaps?—so Jackie scrolls through the feed and clicks on the first putative selfie. Despite the sunglasses and wide-brimmed hat, it’s definitely her. That bone structure is hard to miss. Jackie scans the array of recent photos for anyone resembling Harlan but isn’t really expecting to see him there. Nasira is savvy enough to know a postdoc-professor relationship is right at the edge of the ethical void. Most of her posts are of food and, recently, familiar sights in DC.

  Jackie sips her iced tea and entertains the thought of reading her book, knowing she won’t. She scrolls to the beginning of Nasira’s feed and opens the most recent post, from 8:33 this morning. Jackie’s heartbeat pulses in her throat as she examines the scene. Poached eggs on greens with avocado on a square white plate. To the side, croissants—enough for two—in a basket lined with slate-gray linen and a small pale-blue earthenware bowl filled with blueberries, a dollop of white on top. Whipped mascarpone, Jackie is certain. Everything is so familiar, it’s as if she took the photo herself. She has eaten there, perhaps at that very table, dozens of times. The food is excellent at Stateside on M Street, but Adams is brimming with breakfast places for Nasira to choose among.

  Jackie stares at the screen, pressure building at her temples. She knows something Nasira did not when she posted this shot. Harlan seldom goes out for breakfast, but when he does, it’s there, and he always gets the poached eggs. When Harlan took Jackie to Stateside the first morning after she slept at his house, he recommended them. He was right, as he usually is.

  They were delicious.

  CHAPTER 3

  HARLAN

  I stand on the sidewalk in front of Stateside and watch Nasira leave. Her step is graceful and light, feline, her ponytail swishes. I’m thankful she went without protest or future commitment; I can’t stand fussy goodbyes. She’s lovely—and quiet, unlike Jackie. I am certain Nasira and I will see each other again. In fact, I’m counting on it.

  She turns right on Franklin, toward her house presumably, and doesn’t look back. Good girl.

  The weather is pleasant enough, so I walk the mile and a half home. The round trip into town and back obviates the need for the cardio segment of my afternoon workout. When I reach my front steps, I notice the foundation plantings need attention and remind myself to email the landscape company. I punch the alarm code, step inside, and set about erasing Nasira’s presence. Nothing personal; I must have order. I straighten the coasters on the end table, move a throw pillow two inches to the left, and proceed to the kitchen. As I load glasses into the dishwasher and wipe the marble counters, I mentally revisit last night’s dinner.

  The setting was perfect. Estrela is steeped in memories for Jackie and me, and never disappoints. The admixture of pleasure and pain I felt upon seeing her, touching her for the first time in nearly a year was exquisite. My attraction to her is visceral and relentless; only a fool discounts biology. When I kissed her cheek, I felt her wobble, so perhaps she loves me still. Or those ridiculous shoes might’ve been to blame. I did wonder why she chose them. It wasn’t for me. She knows me better than that.

  Then Jackie spotted my surprise guest—Nasira, pulled from the sleeve of Jackie’s own coat. Jackie has never been one for masks, and her transparency leaves her vulnerable. Some might find it refreshing or endearing; I find it enlightening. In the moment before Jackie regrouped, each emotion was exposed—embarrassment, jealousy, anger—like a transparent model of the human body in which only the nervous system is shown: the brain and the facial nerves, the spinal cord, the sympathetic and parasympathetic networks, nerves running to the extremities and
back again. Her limbic system was firing signal blasts to her prefrontal cortex, urgent, white-hot pleas for a logical response to the emotional bedlam Nasira’s presence had incited.

  Apologies for the shoptalk. Simply put, when Jackie recognized Nasira, I saw into Jackie. I always have.

  She made a mistake in leaving me, in rejecting me despite everything I gave her. It was as much as I could give and have ever given, and had been enough for her. For years Jackie understood what we had together. Then she changed her mind, and now that she is married, she is smug. It’s not a good look on her, and I find it insulting, to be honest, as if she has taught me something about who she is by marrying Miles. I know exactly who she is, what turns her head, what sparks her anger, what draws that insatiable curiosity of hers to the brightest, hottest flame.

  I know because I love her.

  CHAPTER 4

  Jackie slows her car as she nears Harlan’s house. Logan Street, west of campus, isn’t on her way to work—or to anywhere—but she’s only taking a quick peek. She pulls up to the curb beneath the boughs of an enormous oak. She isn’t exactly hidden here, but it’s not as if she’s staying.

  The house is typical of upmarket Adams: a handsome two-story brick Georgian with black shutters and white lintels. A long walk divides the deep front yard. Jackie can’t hope to see in the windows, and she questions why she is even here. Unless Harlan and Nasira have the impulse to screw each other on the front lawn, this drive-by is pointless.

  And disturbing, truth be told. What stable, happily married thirty-eight-year-old woman stalks her ex? If Miles knew she was here, he’d be appalled, and rightly so. She is appalled.

  And yet here she is.

  During the ten days since the Dinner, thoughts of Harlan and Nasira have bubbled up into Jackie’s awareness on a steady boil. Yes, yes, it’s disturbing and appalling—not to mention pathetic—and she has asked herself countless times why she cares. A neutral party would draw the obvious conclusion that she is still in love with Harlan. But love, in Jackie’s view, is rarely the reason for anything, because it’s not specific enough to have explanatory power. Jackie loves her husband, her sister, her brother-in-law, her nieces and nephews, and her mother, but the emotions each person evokes are unique. Including Harlan. She admires him and appreciates his humor and his candor. She is, despite her best suppressive efforts, attracted to him. Is that love? If it is, who cares?