by Britney King
You have no idea. “For me, too.”
Michael’s response gives me hope that this will in fact all blow over. Most people, Henry included, have a hard time believing that it’s possible to hide what I do from my spouse. Especially, if you consider I’ve been doing it for so many years. But that’s because people these days have forgotten what discretion truly is. Privacy is power. What people don’t know, they can’t ruin.
It’s always funny to me. People think they know what their spouse does when they’re outside the house. But do they really? Eight, ten, twelve hours a day—sometimes more—the person you share a life with leaves home and essentially lives another life, fulfilling a role, earning a living, being someone else, doing something else. Believe me, I’ve stewarded enough flights to know. We all wear different masks.
“Maybe,” he suggests, “We could run through it. Perhaps it would help if you talked to someone—if you talked to me.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready for that, Michael.” I take a deep breath in and hold it. Obviously, I’m aware that I can’t fend off his curiosity forever. But so far, I’ve managed okay, and I’d like to keep managing. “You have no idea what it was like. The gunfire…all those people… all that blood.”
“You can talk to me, you know.”
You hate blood. “I know.”
“I need you to talk to me.”
“I am.” You don’t really want to know. “We’re talking.”
“Why did you have the gun, Charlotte?”
I don’t want to answer, but I can’t just let us stand there locked together in silence. I know he’ll wait for the answer longer than I can wait to give it to him. Still, I don’t trust my voice. I have the distinct feeling that if I lie to him, he’ll somehow know.
With a deep sigh, I scoot around him and open the refrigerator door in search of something to fix for breakfast. “One of the girls at work was attacked a few months back.” Taking a carton of eggs from the shelf, I turn so we are facing one another. “And I don’t know—I just thought I should protect myself.”
“Attacked?” His eyes widen. “What? Why didn’t you say anything?”
I shrug. “It wasn’t really a big deal, I didn’t think. I mean…it didn’t happen at work. But after—well after—she talked about how she’d bought a gun and was thinking of taking a class—and so a few of us went together. To show our support. ”
“You took a class? When?”
“I don’t know. A few months ago…back in September…I think.”
“And you didn’t think that you might want to mention this at some point?”
“It wasn’t like I was hiding it.” I place the eggs on the counter. “It just never came up.”
“Hold on.” He’s pacing now, and going over to the doorway, he stops and glances around the corner. Then he looks back at me, his voice lowered. “Let me make sure I have this right. You brought a loaded weapon into our home—you carried it day in and day out, in your purse—and it just never came up?”
“Not every day.”
His eyes blink rapidly as he tries to piece it all together.
“Look,” I offer, changing tactics. “I know how you feel about my job, and I didn’t want to worry you. I didn’t want to make things worse.”
In two strides, he’s at the window. Bracing himself against the counter, he stares out at the media trucks lining our street. “You didn’t want to make things worse…”
“My dad was a cop—having a gun around was just a normal thing for me growing up. It wasn’t something we felt we needed to discuss, Michael. It just was.”
“Well, I’m not your father.”
“Then stop acting like it.”
When he turns, his expression is pained. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“If I hadn’t had the gun,” I say, retrieving the bacon from the fridge, “we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” I slam the bacon on the counter. “Your daughter and I—we’d be dead.”
“Fine. Where are we supposed to do the grocery shopping? It shouldn’t take that long to get things cleaned up, right?”
I glance at him sideways. This is not the question I’d expected. “I have no idea.”
“I’d hate to have to drive across town,” he answers with a nod toward the window. “I’m not even sure I can get out of the drive.”
The best I can manage is a tired nod. I’d give anything to drive across town without being followed or noticed or both.
“We’re low on coffee creamer.”
“I’ll text Julia. See if she’d mind picking some up.”
Julia is our neighbor, two houses down. She, too, has been helpful since the shooting. But then, she’s divorced, unemployed, and very obviously a big fan of my husband, so I suppose you could say she’s always rather helpful.
Michael backs away from the window, picks up a stack of mail on the counter and skims through it. Then he looks up at me. “It’s basically fan mail.”
Cracking an egg into the frying pan, I hit it a little too hard and have to go fishing for tiny bits of shell.
“How long do you think fifteen minutes of fame lasts?”
“I don’t know,” I say. It’s something I’ve been wondering myself. Yesterday, when I took Sophie to her basketball game, I was asked for my autograph. Twenty-six John Hancocks later—I know because Hayley counted—I had to excuse myself. And that was before the game. After, there was a mob of people waiting. We had to exit through the locker room, and even then, it was nearly impossible to get to the car amid the swarm of onlookers.
Then, last night, Henry sent me an email with a link to a social media account created in my honor. Several clicks later, I stumbled upon a closed group devoted to other women who want to take matters into their own hands. Vigilante justice at its finest. An eye for an eye, or something like that, as the saying goes. According to Henry, meetings are springing up all over the place, in thirteen countries so far. Self-defense classes, target practice, basic surveillance…you name it, these meetings are all-inclusive.
I wasn’t sure what Henry wanted me to do with the information. Actually, I hadn’t planned to do anything. But then, the deeper I went, and the more misinformation I read, the more I couldn’t help myself. I had to comment. What harm could it do to set up a fake profile and offer up a few pointers? I just wanted to set the record straight.
It started with basic stuff, like how to inflict fatal wounds, knives that are easy to conceal, how to properly dispose of a body, the best silencer on the market, what to do if your gun gets jammed, those sorts of things.
By the time dawn rolled around, my post had been shared so many times my account had tens of thousands of followers. It hadn’t even really hit in the U.S. by that point. Most Americans were still asleep.
I’m eager to check it now. Michael sniffs the air and then walks over to the burner and turns down the heat. I watch the bacon sizzle in the frying pan, burning, because my mind has been elsewhere. There’s no telling how far I could take this.
What else am I supposed to do with all of these endless hours? If I can’t leave the house, if I can’t do my job, if I can’t yet get to Dunsmore myself, the least I can do is minimize the damage by empowering the masses.
Chapter Eighteen
Charlotte
The pure sound of the ball pounds the wooden court. The swish of the net remains unmistakable. “Way to go Sophie!” Michael shouts. We’re seated side by side in the gymnasium, so I have to be careful. Something that becomes apparent when he looks over at me and frowns at the phone in my hands. “She just scored. Were you even watching?”
“Of course, I’m watching.” I glance down at the court and find Sophie, her faced fixed in concentration as a teammate slaps her back.
“Good,” he murmurs, turning his attention to the scoreboard. “Just making sure.”
My phone vibrates in my hand signifying a new comment has been added. I uploaded some new tradecraft tips into the Vigilante
group and the questions are pouring in. The squeak of tennis shoes chirp and give flavor to the answer I type. Basketball is a glorious game. A sport that can be seen by the blind. It’s pure energy, athleticism, with nothing to hide behind. There are no helmets to hide the faces. No pads to hide the body. There is no right fielder in basketball. Everything is laid out in front of the spectator. The game invites itself to your imagination. It seems nothing separates you from the players on the court. They move gracefully from spot to spot. It becomes clear why they’re there and you’re here. When Sophie leaps for the rim, it’s as if she soars. Her awe-inspiring athleticism is enough to make my husband leap similarly from his seat.
Its simplicity is almost too much for me to handle.
“You aren’t watching,” Michael says, nudging me with his elbow.
“I am.” Rhythmically, the ball moves up the court. Through the hoop it goes—this time it’s the opposing team who scores—and back we go again. Sophie gets the ball. She shoots and misses. Michael cheers anyway. It goes on as though only a timer could hold us back from eternity.
“I know you hate this,” he seethes, speaking under his breath. “But could you at least pretend.”
“I don’t hate it,” I say, stuffing my phone in my jacket pocket. This is not a lie. I’ve always found the game interesting. There’s no way to hide the player who can’t shoot. Eventually, she will be left open, exposed, as if she’s dared to put one toward the hoop. If she obliges, she seems to face her demons. The shot will fly, and she will likely be defeated. Statistics are statistics for a reason. If the ball clangs, it’s par for the course. However, the opponent will have won.
“THAT’S MY GIRL!” I turn and look at my husband as Sophie scores once more. He’s all lit up, and I think about how we all lie, maybe most of all to ourselves.
I hadn’t expected to ever see him again. But I suppose it was meant to be this way. The best life has to offer often happens out of the blue. I didn’t recognize him straight away. If I had, undoubtedly I would have passed the table along to one of the other servers.
“It’s you—” he said, after I’d rattled off the daily specials. When he glanced up at my name tag, his face fell.
“I’m sorry,” I said, but of course, I recognized him then. That smooth voice. Those dimples, the same hopeful eyes.
“You look like someone—” he stammered. “I thought you were someone else.”
The way he looked at my giant belly, I could tell he was doing the calculations in his head. “Are you sure your name isn’t Olivia?”
I tapped my name tag, pressed my lips into a tight smile and shook my head.
He seemed unfazed, meanwhile his colleagues looked slightly uncomfortable. Men seem to have a keen sense when another man is about to make a fool of himself. “I looked for you, you know. No one seemed to know who you were. It was like you disappeared into thin air—like you’d never existed at all.”
“I’m sorry,” I said with a polite frown. “I think you have me mistaken.”
“I even went to the school directory.” He shook his head as though he were trying to rid himself of an errant thought.
He was relentless, just like he’d been at the party. I didn’t answer him.
Instead, I asked for their drink order and then, for the most part, ignored the table all together. When it came time to pay, Michael grabbed the check. He left a generous tip and along with it, his business card. On the back he wrote: I don’t care why you lied. Call me. Please.
I tore up the card and tossed it in the trash. I didn’t have time for a distraction. What I did have was a plan, and I was counting the days until I could see it through. All I could think about was getting back to the skies, getting back to real life. The pregnancy was just a blip, a short detour.
I’d picked out birth parents, a lovely couple who wanted what I wanted—a closed adoption.
What’s that saying about the best laid plans? Well, it’s true. About three weeks after that first lunch, Michael came back. He requested my section, and this time he was alone. “You never called.”
I shrugged.
“I’d like to take you out.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re not married, are you?” he asked, motioning toward my hand. “I mean, you’re not wearing a ring.” He glanced down at the menu. “Not that that matters. No one does things in order these days.”
“Water? Coffee? Tea?”
“Whatever you’re having.”
“A baby,” I said pointing at my enormous stomach. “I’m having a baby.”
“Whew,” he said. “I mean, I know the food is good here and all, but I’m really glad you mentioned it.” He closed the menu and placed it on the table. “The elephant in the room, as they say.” His eyebrows arched and he smiled. “You just never know.”
I rolled my eyes and left the table. Eventually, after my boss insisted, I brought him a water. He looked like the simple kind, and I couldn’t afford to be fired.
“So—Olivia,” he said, glancing at the name tag. “Have I offended you?”
“No.”
“Was our one-night stand that bad?”
“I can’t recall.”
“Ew,” he said. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Can I take your order?”
“Another shot,” he answered. “I’d like another shot.”
“We don’t serve alcohol before noon on Sunday.”
“You know what I mean—I’d like a date.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“I hate men.”
“Oh, I believe that.” He nodded at my belly and then he said, “Let’s hope you’re having a girl.”
After I declined his offer, Michael came back every day thereafter, until I did eventually agree to have dinner with him. He invited me to his new house, the one we reside in now, the one he’d designed and built himself. It seemed he’d come a long way in just a few short months. But then, we both had. I’d nearly created a whole new life too.
He cooked for me, in his new kitchen, something Italian, and after that I guess you could say I never really left. He wasn’t put off by the fact that I was hugely pregnant, which should have seemed strange, but you’d have to know Michael to really understand.
He told me that he’d never stopped thinking about me and that when you meet the right person you just know. A decade older, he assured me he was certain of what he wanted: a house and a family. I suppose to his mind, he was already well on his way to having half of that equation, and I was simply the missing piece. It was easy. People assumed the baby I was carrying was his. He never bothered to set them straight.
“She could be mine,” he said to me one afternoon after we’d made love, his fingers drumming a soft beat on my belly.
“But she’s not.”
“I know. Believe me, I’ve worked the math every which way.” He looked up at me and smiled. “But she could be.”
I didn’t say anything. Not for a long time. I thought of Dan, the pilot, her actual father. I thought of the emails that went unanswered, I thought of the last time I saw him, at the company Christmas party, and how he wouldn’t look me in the eye. I thought of his wife’s hand on my belly, and the smile on her face when she asked me when I was due.
I thought about the adoptive parents I’d selected, somewhere across the country, preparing for a child they might not ultimately have. “She could be,” I said to Michael.
“Marry me,” he said.
“Marry you?” I don’t know if I was actually surprised or not, but I’d witnessed enough proposals to know that you’re at least supposed to pretend.
“Yes,” he grinned. “Marry me. It’ll make the paperwork easier.” He traced circles on my stomach. “That way, I won’t have to adopt her. We can make it right from the beginning.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was too late for that—that the beginning was about seven months ago—that I was const
antly staring at it in the review mirror. So, I said the next almost-right thing: I said okay.
Chapter Nineteen
JC
Let’s see what she keeps in her panty drawer. I mean, since I’m here. I go carefully, the rest of the upstairs is dark. Best to keep it that way.
What do we have here? A little bit of everything. G-strings, bikinis, lots of lace. Nothing crotchless. Too bad.
Next, I move on to the bathroom and most importantly, the medicine cabinet. There’s a couple of different kinds of creams, Vaseline, Tylenol. A box of Rogaine. Interesting. A half-full prescription bottle of Ciprofloxacin. Shame. An Epi-Pen, and next to it, a small bottle labeled escitalopram. Also known as Lexapro. Oh, Charlotte. Darling. What could you possibly have to be anxious about?
One thing that’s missing is birth control. But maybe you carry that with you? I swear, Charlotte. Every time I think I have you figured out, you reveal that I’m no closer to solving this mystery.
On your side of the bed rests a stack of books. I know you read. They aren’t for show, not like the last woman I dated. I’m relieved to see that you’re not like her, that there are bookmarks stuck between the pages, dog-eared corners, notes in the spine. I wish there were more time to read them all. Unfortunately, I don’t have long. I’m not exactly sure how long high school basketball games last, but better to be safe than sorry. Now excuse me while I check out your closet.
It’s shocking in here, and it’s not. Pretty expensive taste you have for a flight attendant. There has to be at least fifty pair of shoes. Not the cheap kind, either. Manolos, Louboutins, Alexander McQueen, Gucci boots. Where do you wear them? When do you wear them?
Once I’ve properly checked out the Joneses’ his and her closets, I move on to the real reason I came. Setting my backpack down, I carefully unpack its contents. That’s when I feel it, snaking around my ankles, moving across the rug, back and forth.
