Evelyn, After: A Novel

by Victoria Helen Stone

  “Tell me about it,” she whispered, stunned at this new Evelyn’s boldness.

  “There isn’t much to tell. I was at a bar with a friend. He left with some girl and I started flirting with a woman who was a few years older. She was in town on business. We went to her hotel room.”

  “You had sex?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was it good?”

  “It was . . . different. New. Wrong.”

  “Did you regret it afterward?”

  “Yes. Immediately.”

  “But you don’t regret today?” she asked. Her heart beat so quickly that it thumped a dozen times before he finally answered.

  “I don’t think I do.”

  She closed her eyes and tipped her head back joyously. The way her skin stretched made her remember how she’d arched for him. “No one’s kissed my neck like that in years.”

  He whispered her name, and she knew right then and there that they were going to sleep together. Everything in the world was pushing her toward him, and he could feel it too.

  “We could do what we want, Noah. This doesn’t have to change anything. No one has to know.” The words tripped from her without will. She could hardly believe they were hers.

  But they were true. No one had to know. It could just be a balm for her soul. A secret way to heal. If she had Noah, then surely she’d lose a little of her anger at Gary. Surely she could forgive Juliette. She’d have her revenge, and no one would know, and their lives would go on.

  “What do you want?” he asked very carefully.

  She meant to say something sexy. A bold invitation from a femme fatale. But she lost her nerve. That wasn’t who she was. And it wasn’t who she wanted to be with Noah. He’d looked at her art and glimpsed the real her, and the exposure had been intoxicating.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to speak honestly. “I’ve never done this before either. All I know is I want to feel what you made me feel today. I want that again. I want your mouth on me. I want . . .” She had to pause to catch her breath. “Maybe I’ll chicken out.”

  “That’s okay,” he said quickly. “It’s all right. That’s what I want too. I want to see you again. Touch you. Kiss you. We don’t have to do anything else.”

  “When?” she asked.

  “Tomorrow. Can you come back?”

  Tomorrow. She could hear the urgency in his voice. The need. She was exquisitely aroused at just the thought of him. If she said yes, she’d see him in only a few hours. Feel his hands and mouth and teeth on her skin. And maybe this time he’d touch between her legs.

  She thought of the endless hours of waiting at the school today. She couldn’t get through that again, knowing what was coming. “In the morning?” she asked.

  “Yes. I’d love that. I’ll get there early. You can knock if I’m not in the front.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay,” he repeated. “I’d better go. I just . . . Evelyn?”

  “Yes?”

  “I don’t regret it. I loved every second.”

  Her hands were shaking as she set the phone down on the bed. This wasn’t about Gary or Juliette anymore. It had nothing to do with anyone except Evelyn and Noah. He wanted her. She wanted him. And there was no one around to stop them.

  Was he as aroused as she was? As hard as she was wet? Suddenly, all the vulgar things she’d never understood made perfect sense. People caught in affairs had always seemed so dumb to her, like rutting dogs in the street. What kind of stupid women pretended to want penis pictures? What kind of adolescent men took them? And what exactly was arousing about humping in a back room or dirty texting or phone sex? It had all seemed so desperate.

  And it was. Desperate. Needy. Consuming. Dignity had nothing to do with it, despite Noah’s words. Today she’d allowed a man to set her on a table and spread her legs and rub his erection against her, and she’d loved it. She would love it again tomorrow. She’d want even more.

  She was alive. Living. Clawing for more life.

  Aware that she was a different person than she’d been this morning, she rose slowly from the bed and walked into the attached bathroom. She clicked on the light and stared at herself in the mirror.

  Was she still desirable? If she’d ever had to consider the question before, she would have chosen Gary’s only option over desirable. But that hadn’t been true. She hadn’t been his only option at all. Which still left the initial question.

  Tonight she looked tired, the makeup she’d put on for Noah smudged beneath her eyes and settling into her laugh lines.

  After wetting some toilet paper, she scrubbed away all the black, then finger-combed her hair and took a good look at herself.

  She was back in her comfortable clothes, yoga pants and a sweatshirt. This wasn’t how Noah would see her, ever. Crossing her arms over her torso, she grasped the waistband of her shirt and yanked it up to reveal the black bra beneath.

  She cupped her covered breasts, then ran her hands over her new waist. Not smooth. Not young. But maybe still appealing in soft lighting? She stripped off her pants and stood up straight in her bra and panties.

  If she’d had any hint that a new man was going to see her naked this year, she would have put a little more effort into her New Year’s resolution to get in shape.

  She knew from Facebook posts that Noah’s wife was a runner. Evelyn had never had a runner’s body, even as a teenager. Her breasts were too big, her stride too unsure. She got dizzy after only a mile of jogging, and her body would overheat and strain for air. But Juliette didn’t have that problem. She was lean and strong and probably graceful.

  Evelyn slipped off her simple black briefs, unhooked her bra, and looked hard at the mirrored image of her nude body.

  The bathroom light cast shadows on every dimple and bulge. She straightened her spine and tightened her core, and that helped. A little. But there was no mistaking the softness of her body. She was a forty-one-year-old woman who’d never gotten back into shape after having a child. What could Noah possibly find attractive about this?

  His wife was petite and tan and blond. That must be his type. He’d married her. And if Juliette was his type, then tall, curvy, dark-haired Evelyn couldn’t possibly be.

  She couldn’t have sex with him. Not like this. Maybe she could leave her skirt on and just slide her panties off. That would hide the stretch marks on her belly. She could unbutton her shirt and just push her bra down to her waist. He could see her breasts, touch them, kiss them. That would be a nice compromise.

  Evelyn took a deep breath and cupped her naked breasts. They were still pretty, at least. Still full despite the breastfeeding. Her dark-pink nipples peaked in the cool air, and she stroked her thumbs over them, imagining how they’d feel to Noah. Suddenly bolder, she eased her hands down her stomach and waist and hips, and the sensation made her stretch proudly under her own touch. Maybe he was bored with Juliette’s tight body. Maybe he’d be charmed by Evelyn’s softness.

  Her gaze dropped to her pubic hair, and she winced. She’d never shaved more than the edges of her bikini line, but Juliette looked like the kind of woman who had monthly appointments with a waxer. Was that what all men expected these days? Evelyn was well aware of how bare the girls were in porn, but to her it always looked like their sex organs were heiling Hitler. Why did they leave a little mustache of hair above their vaginas? Did men really like that? Was it like a blinking arrow pointing them to sex?

  Evelyn gingerly patted her dark curls. She could trim them, maybe. Or spend half the night trying to shave all her hair off and make herself into a sex toy. Her frown turned to a grimace of disgust. She would cut herself or cause razor burn, then show up at his gallery like a newly shorn sheep—pink, wrinkled, and traumatized.

  Sighing, she let her hands drop and looked back to the mirror. Appealing or not, this was all she had. She flicked off the bathroom light. Now she was only vaguely illuminated, and with the stark white light gone, she relaxed a little.

 
The curves of her silhouette pleased her, at least. And Noah knew what she looked like. Her pale, plump thighs had been spread across his framing table when he’d called her sexy. This would be okay. If he wanted a tight-bodied twenty-year-old, he wouldn’t have chosen Evelyn. There was chemistry between them. White-hot chemistry. Surely that mattered more than cellulite.

  She jerked her sweatshirt over her head and closed the bathroom door before she finished dressing. A tiny voice in the back of her mind told her there were bigger things than her body image at stake here, but she ignored it. She’d spent her whole life doing the right thing. That could be someone else’s job now. She was moving on.

  CHAPTER 16

  BEFORE

  That night her most important ally failed her. After Evelyn had gotten through the long, tense quiet of Saturday, she’d rewarded herself with an early dose of her medication. The sleeping pill had done its job quickly, thanks to Evelyn’s emotional exhaustion. She’d fallen into her solitary bed at nine and had sunk thankfully into sleep, expecting to wake to a new day, maybe find a little hope waiting.

  Instead, she’d awoken to darkness and anxiety, sweat dripping from her skin. She couldn’t remember whatever demons she’d been fighting in her sleep, but there were plenty more crouched and waiting for her when she woke.

  She squinted at the clock as she wiped a hand over her wet forehead. Only 3:00 a.m. She should still be drugged and groggy. Why was she wide eyed and panicking?

  Aware of the clammy dampness of the sheets under her, she shifted to the middle of the bed and wrapped the covers around her. It wasn’t as if there were a husband nearby to disturb. He was at the end of the hall, probably sleeping the sleep of angels, because what the hell did he care about how Evelyn was feeling?

  She closed her eyes and steadied her breathing, trying to relax back into sleep. It didn’t happen. Her heartbeat didn’t even slow; it kept kicking, kicking, kicking.

  The darkness was no help. Instead of quieting her, it served as a perfect backdrop for the movies her mind had been crafting all day. They were all pornographic. A strange twisting of ugly, rutting, grunting scenes mixed with tender, romantic moments. Gary whispering sweet words into another woman’s ear, Gary screwing someone on the floor of his office, Gary pushing a blond stranger up against a hotel door, unable to wait for the bed.

  Evelyn squeezed her eyes shut and hid her face in the pillows. She hated him. Hated him. She’d spent all of today imagining the steps she’d take to rebuild her marriage, but how could she even touch him again, much less forgive him?

  They’d made love during the past six months. Not very often, but a couple of times each month. Had he been fantasizing about Juliette Whitman while he’d had sex with Evelyn? Had he closed his eyes to the sight of her body and pretended he was sliding himself into her? He must have, with all the planning and rearranging and lying he’d done to see Juliette. He must have been a little obsessed, a little in love, a little mad for her.

  Evelyn moaned into her pillow, her throat burning with her pain, but somehow the tears didn’t come. She needed to cry or scream or something, but she just lay there, rocking herself into the mattress, trying to force her panicking body to calm down.

  The next time she looked at the clock, it was three fifteen, and her pulse was still racing. Maybe she should just take another pill. She could sleep through Sunday. She always made a big breakfast for her and Cameron on Sundays, and Gary too if he hadn’t already left to golf, but she didn’t feel like pouring chocolate chip pancakes into a pan and whisking up homemade whipped cream while she danced around the kitchen to her favorite songs. She didn’t even feel like opening the drapes. She didn’t want food. Didn’t want to face her son. She’d stay in bed. Feign illness. Sleep until two.

  Jesus, how had she become this? Her life had been deep and rich and complex once. She’d lived with her single mother and her older sister, and they’d been strong, resilient, quick. She’d taken city buses and negotiated dangerous neighborhoods even as a child, and she’d imagined herself growing into an artist with wild, creative friends who had little money but so much heart.

  Now everything about her was dull. Whitewashed. Placid. She lived in a safe neighborhood with little diversity and no creativity at all. She was married to a man who golfed and wore expensive loafers and drove a fancy European sedan. And she wasn’t interesting to him. Even in a ranking of American stereotypes, she was lifeless and vanilla. She was one of those moms she’d watched on TV as a child. The pleasant owner of a home on a cul-de-sac, a sight she’d only witnessed in movies until she’d bought that home for herself.

  In her teens, she’d scorned the safety of suburbia, but now she knew that scorn hadn’t emerged from disdain. It had been yearning. It had been desire. Because at the very first opportunity, she’d thrown herself into that life wholeheartedly. Her first new car. Her first home. Her first yard. First fireplace, lawn mower, garage, mortgage. The first nuclear family she’d ever experienced.

  She’d thought this was a guarantee. She’d thought it was safety. She’d clipped her own wings and settled down as deep as she could get with the assurance that it was security. She’d willingly traded herself for this life.

  Now it was all teetering on an abyss.

  Evelyn growled in fury. This was her life now. Hers. For better or worse. She wasn’t going to let some dirty blond bitch take that away from her. As stupid, boring, and steady as this life might be, it was hers.

  She untangled herself from the sheets and comforter and crawled from the bed. She pulled on a sweater over her nightgown and slipped into warm socks. She had to do something. She couldn’t just lie there and rage.

  As quietly as she could, she unlocked the doors of the master bedroom and tiptoed to Cameron’s room to ease his door open and make sure he was fine. Of course he was. He wasn’t an infant. He was a teenager who’d be furious that she’d entered his room without knocking, but she’d needed to feel sure of him tonight.

  She stood for a moment, taking in his mussed hair and the slightly curled fingers of his open palms. He was such a good boy. He still had time for movie nights with Mom when he didn’t have too much homework. He came down from his bedroom when she remembered to propose a board game, even if his, “Sure, Mom,” was always faintly laced with indulgence. He was a good boy, and Juliette Whitman hadn’t given a damn that she might hurt him.

  With only a glance at the closed door of the guest room, she headed downstairs and went straight to Gary’s study. The overhead light speared through her swollen, scratchy eyes, so she switched it off and turned on his desk lamp.

  She’d never once violated his privacy in all their years together, but now she could do it with impunity. What could he even say if he came downstairs and caught her? She’d laugh in his face.

  Evelyn opened every drawer in his desk, carelessly moving things around, searching for evidence of something, anything. Looking to see if what he’d told her was true. She only found pens, pencils, paper clips, highlighters. There were files full of psychiatric journals, though any that mentioned Gary were already framed and hung on the walls to remind him of how smart and successful he was.

  His patient files were all at his office, so there weren’t even any locked drawers. She found one thumb drive, but when she fired up his laptop, she discovered that it was password protected. Of course it was. He stored other people’s privacy in there.

  She sat back in his chair, realizing now that she needed those files. She needed to see this woman. That was what she’d come here for.

  Hoping that real life was as simple as the movies, she leaned quickly forward and tried typing PASSWORD into his computer. It beeped angrily. She tried his birthday, Cameron’s birthday, then PASSWORD123. More angry beeps. She tried the name of his favorite golf club. She typed in Juliette. She even tried Evelyn. Nothing.

  This wasn’t a movie, and Evelyn wasn’t a kick-ass spy. She wasn’t even smart enough to figure out her own husband’s passwo
rd. Frustrated, she picked up his laptop and set it down with a crack, half hoping she’d accidentally destroy it. But no. This time it didn’t even beep. It just stared at her as if she didn’t matter. She wanted to throw it across the room. It would crash into his bookshelves, maybe knock down some of those framed accomplishments, cracking the glass into hundreds of pieces, ruining something he was proud of.

  But there was a more likely way to get what she wanted. She closed all his drawers, turned off the desk lamp, and shut the door of his study behind her. Her laptop was at the desk built into the kitchen cabinets. It was the household laptop, but she was the only one who used it, because Evelyn was just a household, not a person. And her office was a few square feet of kitchen countertop, because she belonged in the kitchen, didn’t she? All her stupid little hobbies, bills, and letters crammed into a junk drawer and one overhead cabinet.

  Scowling, she waited for her eight-year-old laptop to slowly rouse its tired brain. When it finally stopped its whirring, she typed Juliette Whitman into the search engine and held her breath. It didn’t take long to find her. There were a few false starts with a Realtor in Georgia and some links to genealogy sites, but then Evelyn spotted a Facebook page for a local woman. The page opened, and Evelyn choked on her own spit. There was the blond ghost, only she wasn’t pale and ethereal and angry. She was vibrant. Pretty. Happy.

  Her wide smile lit up her profile picture, bright-white teeth shining. She was adorable, and so were the pictures of the children who hovered near her.

  “Oh.” Evelyn sighed, the anger leaking past her parted lips. Juliette’s children. The ones Evelyn was supposed to help protect. A boy and a girl, both sweet and shy with curly blond hair, smiling for whoever had taken the picture. They were perfect. Juliette was perfect.