The F Word

by Liza Palmer

  I won’t let him.

  ROOMMATE ISSUES

  The rest of the day is a blur. Coffee. Phone calls. Meetings. Ellen running in and out of my office. At one point she has four phones in her hands. More coffee. More phone calls. I inhale my usual lunch of cottage cheese, fresh berries, and a dash of cinnamon. I make myself take a lap around the office.

  Thanks to my tip-off, Caroline is photographed leaving a Starbucks in Zuma, and she Instagrams a photo of her coffee with the name “MARILYN” scrawled across it. Her caption is, “So maybe not everyone thinks it’s because I’m Caroline Lang.” Now, that’s funny. The public’s sentiment tilts just a bit in her favor as people Regram her quip.

  At the end of the day, after a particularly grueling meeting with a new client, I retreat to my office. And sit. We survived. Caroline told me her lawyer is finishing up the paperwork and she’ll be ready to file right before the courthouse closes on Friday—just in time for everyone to have gone home from work and not be in front of their computers. She seemed … distant. I wanted to ask if she had anyone she could be with tonight, but I didn’t. Maybe what she wants is a bottle of wine, some bad television, and her 8 o’clock pants. Or maybe that’s what I want. Let’s face it, that’s what we all want.

  As the office empties out, I take the opportunity to do a quick Internet search for Ben. I troll the various social medias. Nothing? Who has nothing? I find an old article about him from when he was the backup quarterback at USC. He was charged with drunk and disorderly and was let off with a fine. The photo that goes along with the article is prime Ben Dunn. He’s just taken off his football helmet and his thick reddish-blond hair is swooped up in a messy tangle. Sweat and dirt cover his face. That face. Boyish yet utterly masculine. Hooded blue eyes, just the right amount of freckles, and a crooked smile that’s almost cliché in its roguishness. Ben is everything your mother warned you to stay away from. And as is always the way with men, he’s only gotten better with age.

  “It’s not fair,” I say, closing out of the article.

  “What’s not fair?” Ellen asks, rushing into my office.

  “Life, my dear Ellen. Life,” I say, sitting back from my desk.

  “Sometimes it’s kind of fair,” Ellen says. I look up at her. “Take, for instance, this example.” Ellen shows me her phone. On it is Max Walsh photographed with another young stunning woman that is neither Willa Lindholm nor Caroline Lang.

  “He really needs to stop wearing that bright red baseball cap,” Ellen says.

  “You’re only as faithful as your options,” I mutter, scrolling through the pictures.

  “No one knows who she is, but…” Ellen takes the phone back and flicks to a particularly flirty-looking picture of Max and the Unidentified Blonde (as she will come to be known). “Come on.” She hands me back the phone. “What a dumbass.” The photos look like they’re at a dive bar probably somewhere around where they’re filming. The pictures are grainy. A telephoto lens was used or someone took them on their phone. This required some patience. The photos also mean that the tabloids are now willing to burn their bridges with Max and Willa’s publicists just so they can be the first to provide further proof of the crumbling Lang/Walsh marriage. Usually you can control tabloids by threatening that their access to your clients is worth their patience—or outright silence in some cases. These photos are evidence that the tide has turned.

  “Caroline’s filing Friday, these will help us. Do we know where these pictures are going to be posted?” I ask, gathering my purse and coat. Ellen rattles off the usual suspects and I nod.

  “You look exhausted,” she says, her fingers flying over her phone’s keypad.

  “It’s been a long day,” I say. I walk from behind my desk and follow Ellen out into the bull pen. There are a few assistants still here and I see Søren in the conference room with a handful of people. I give him a wave and he smiles, giving me the international gesture that he’ll call me later. I nod. “You’ll text if you hear anything from your army of informants?”

  “First rule of informants,” Ellen whispers.

  “Right. Sorry. Don’t talk about informants,” I say. Ellen puts her finger to the side of her nose and quickly walks back to her desk. “You scare me sometimes,” I yell to her.

  “Good!”

  An uneventful elevator ride down to the gym on the ground floor of our building. I change into my workout gear and do an hour of cardio followed by thirty minutes of weights. It feels good. No phone. No email. No urgent calls from Caroline. No leaked photos from Max. Just terrible pop music pounding in my ears as I run on a treadmill and watch the muted nightly news.

  As I do my sets of sit-ups, I replay the morning with Ben, convincing myself that this is what closure feels like. And up. This is what it feels like to not care about someone. And up. He’s part of my past. And up. Working with him on this Caroline deal is only proof of that. And up. And up. And up.

  I lean back on my hands and sit cross-legged in front of the mirror as my abs burn. Her. The woman in the mirror. That’s who is unaffected by Ben Dunn. That’s who will walk away from this situation with her shoulders pushed back and head held high having, once and for all, rewritten history. She’s the woman I’ve become. She’s who I am now.

  He’s really sorry. A whisper. In the back of my head. Tiny. High-pitched. I get ready to do push-ups. Plank. And down. And down. He’s really sorry. And down. And down. No. If I acknowledge his apology, that means it still hurts. And down. And it doesn’t. Down. The girl he made fun of is long gone. Long gone. And Ben’s apology about some mean shit he said doesn’t mean anything because whatever it was he said is long forgotten. And down. AND DOWN AND DOWN AND DOWN. I let my knees fall to the mat and lean back, my head falling between my outstretched arms.

  “I’m not her anymore,” I whisper to the sweaty mat. I sit back on my haunches and repeat the words in my head. I’m not her anymore. I try to make myself see the woman in the mirror. That’s who you are now, Olivia Morten. Look at you. Look at you. But, I can’t. I just look at the sweaty mat and push myself up to a standing position and walk to the changing room.

  Back in my car, sweaty and noodle-armed, I put my purse on the floor and the paper with the directions to Ben’s school flits down after it. I pick it up and set it on the passenger seat. I start my car. A quick glance to the paper.

  Wait. What? A receipt for the Post Ranch Inn. It’s dark in the parking garage. I pick up the paper, my own writing seeping through from the other side. The Post Ranch Inn in Big Sur is where Adam and I went on our honeymoon. It’s the place we go to get away. It’s the place we go to forget the real world. Everything is always perfect at the Post Ranch Inn. The receipt is for the Coast House. It’s for just a … I swallow. It’s for just a couple of weeks ago. When Adam was supposed to be at a conference in Denver.

  Yesterday. Adam staring at the receipt after I cavalierly wrote the directions for Ben’s school on the back of it. That’s right. That’s how it got in this car and that’s why he was none too keen that I’d commandeered it. I put the piece of paper on the passenger seat of my car and reverse out of my parking space. This is easily remedied. I won’t let this become some weird misunderstanding. Adam is at the hospital tonight. I’ll just go ask him.

  My mind is clear in that eerie calm-before-the-storm kind of way. I won’t think about it. I will drive. I listen to my steady breathing. The breathing begins to muffle in my ears as it gets harder and harder to focus on just driving. I blink. And blink. Clear my throat. It’s like my body is giving me errands to run so I have something else to think about. I pull into the hospital’s parking structure. Grab my purse. Grab the paper. Stand there. Fold the paper and put it in my purse. Arrange my face. Collect myself.

  And I walk through the maze of the hospital. Long hallways. Elevators. Another long hallway. Get buzzed in. Two lefts and a right. Tight corner and I approach the nurses’ station that my husband calls his home base. The foam containers with the Me
diterranean food I ordered from work earlier this evening litter the nurses’ station.

  “Olivia?” Nurse Brenda Cawley. Has seen everything and can just as easily take your temperature as bring you back to life. Wiry, blond, and leather-faced, she comes out from behind the nurses’ station. The other two nurses look at each other as she walks toward me.

  “Is the … is that my … the dinner I sent for Adam? Is he here? Dr. Farrell?” I ask. The two other young nurses busy themselves so poorly that it’s almost embarrassing.

  “Come here, hon,” Brenda says, her head twitching toward a private corner.

  “If you can just point me to where Adam is, or is he in surgery?” I ask.

  “He’s not here,” Brenda says, folding her arms across her chest. She watches me.

  “Oh,” I say.

  “I don’t know how much of this you’re going to wanna know,” Brenda says, her voice clear and strong. Brenda is very comfortable with giving people terrible news. I ready myself. I hesitate. I start and stop a few sentences and Brenda watches me drowning. “The dinners. Let’s start there. My theory? You send them when he tells you he’s working late?” I nod yes. “He’s not. We eat them.” Brenda motions over her shoulder to where the other two nurses are watching. They jump back into “looking busy” mode. “They’re very good and I just never knew how to tell you. How do you say thank you for something you’re not supposed to be eating? We felt terrible.”

  “The dinners were for you guys,” I say.

  “Olivia, you—”

  “A thank-you from me to you. For all the hard work you do for Adam.” I back away from Brenda.

  “Okay,” Brenda says, resting her hands on her hips. “Well, thank you for them.”

  “You’re welcome,” I say, with a smile. “I’d better get on home. Adam’s probably there now.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Brenda says, her voice flat.

  “Okay. Okay, then. Enjoy the food and hey, how’s your oldest doing at college?” I ask, beelining for the exit.

  “She’s good. Having some roommate issues, but who doesn’t.”

  “Who doesn’t,” I repeat.

  “You take care of yourself,” Brenda says.

  “I will,” I say.

  “Bye, now.” Brenda tucks back behind the nurses’ station. The two younger nurses gather around her and I can’t even watch. I press the elevator button. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again. It finally comes and my head is pounding as it descends. Through the maze of hallways, various lefts and rights and I continue past the sick and grieving. At least here I fit right in. No one questions why a woman is near tears as she speeds down a hallway. I’m among friends.

  Graduation cards. Christmas presents. Flowers for weddings. I’ve known Brenda as long as Adam has been a surgeon at the hospital. I’ve seen the other two nurses at various holiday parties and company events. They seem nice enough. Efficient, Adam says. I burst out into the crisp night air and I’m back in my car.

  What I didn’t tell Brenda is that I know. I’ve known all along. And not just about this last woman Adam is cheating on me with. I’ve known about all of them.

  I just didn’t want anyone else to know.

  WHAT THE STAINED SHIRT SAYS

  There’s a bench on this winding street that overlooks the 110 freeway. I always notice people sitting on it as I drive home. In a time of so much digital stimulation, the view from this simple bench is just as compelling as any streaming television show. Which is why I finally stopped there on my way home from the hospital to drink the single can of beer I bought at a corner liquor store and try to figure out what to do next.

  I park the car, stow my purse—phone and all—under the passenger seat, grab the beer still in the small brown bag, and walk over to the bench. A young man and his dog are walking along the low stone wall that separates the winding road from the steep drop-off into the Arroyo. The young man looks at the paper bag, then at me. A respectful nod as he walks past. I sit, crack open the beer, and take a long drink.

  As I’ve known for almost a year, her name is Nicola McKesson and she’s an orthopedic surgeon who works at the hospital. This time around, I made the conscious decision not to stalk Adam’s newest fling on social media. I don’t want to put a face to a name, nor do I want to cast the role of the woman who’s currently bedding my husband. Nonetheless, I can hazard a guess as to what this Nicola McKesson looks like. She’s neither pretty nor ugly; she’s what I call Pageant Plain. On the beauty pageant spectrum—wholesome pretty, not slutty hot—but unremarkable. She’s the woman you’ll drunkenly tell your friends, “But, I’m so much hotter than she is,” and you’d be right. But, he still chose her over you. I take another swig of the beer and watch the red and white lights of the cars on the freeway snake through the valley just below.

  Adam was my first. Everything. I’d never had a boyfriend, I’d never even dated, let alone had sex with anyone. I’d never even held hands with a boy before him. No, I had unrequited crushes on boys who were way out of my league (see: Ben Dunn) and built out my fantasies until they felt as real as possible. Another swig. I went from a thousand-pound virgin weirdo to whatever this version of me is, all the while expecting myself to catch up on the myriad intricate relationship lessons you’re supposed to learn in your teens and twenties.

  So when I found out about Sarah—the first woman Adam cheated on me with, about a year into our marriage—I thought our marriage was over. But, the other shoe never dropped. Margaret was short-lived and made a few tragic phone calls to the house. Then there was Amber—whom I caught sitting outside our house on more than one occasion. Then Kate—a dim-witted brunette who taught us Pilates for a time. As they came and went (literally), I began to understand that these dalliances had little to do with our marriage or the life we were building together. These women were essentially the golf of Adam’s busy schedule—a hobby I wasn’t interested in and was happy he did with other people.

  But, lately I’ve begun to fear that Nicola is different. Adam has been seeing her for going on a year and I’m beginning to worry that whatever he has with her will start affecting us. Am I losing him? Why would he take her to the Post Ranch Inn? That’s our place.

  That’s our place.

  I twist the pop top can opener off and flip it around in my hands. Our honeymoon at the Post Ranch Inn was the closest my life ever came to my teenage fantasy. The rose petals on the bed, the candlelit dinners, and the bathrobes that actually fit were all secondary to the overwhelming feeling that I’d finally crossed the finish line. I’d made it. I’d been chosen. So, I have to believe that it’s not the same for them. Any idiot can go to the Post Ranch Inn. Even Nicola.

  Because, as always—nothing about him has changed. He is the same man I married. There’s been no ebb and flow with his attention, he hasn’t started working out or dressing better. He is Adam. Another swig. My Adam. Our Adam? His own Adam, apparently.

  This is fine. This is manageable. This is marriage. Ten years down the line, a good marriage is less about lust and flipping stomachs and more about unwavering things like last-minute dinners for hospital board members and getting a serving dish down from a high shelf. In the end, I have to believe that marriages like ours last longer than the seemingly exciting, more volatile ones that soon fall prey to the whims of love.

  Maybe this fling with Nicola is about the deal Adam and I made not to think about kids until we’d been married for ten years. We wanted time to ourselves as husband and wife before we took on the next chapter as parents. So, Nicola feels different because maybe he’s thinking she’ll be the last dalliance before he truly settles down.

  My marriage is solid. I am happy and fulfilled.

  I chug the rest of the beer, drop the pop top can opener inside, crumple the can up, and toss it toward the bin. I make the shot.

  “See? My luck is already turning.” I let out an incredibly loud burp. It echoes into the valley below.

  I shift on the bench. Clear my thr
oat. Watch the red and white lights.

  He’s never out-and-out lied to me before.

  “Of course, he has,” I say out loud.

  Of course, he has. I just never found out before. Okay. Hold on a second. I’m forgetting the most important thing. I am his wife. Not Nicola. Let’s remind everyone of that, shall we? Including Adam.

  I put my feet up on the stone wall and slip down a bit on the bench.

  “I can’t lose him,” I say in a whisper so it won’t echo.

  I can figure this out. I will figure this out.

  Thanks to that light beer being basically colored water, I’ll be okay to drive home after just a few more minutes. I sit in my car scrolling through my text messages and emails. Gus Ford, my youngest client and current GQ cover boy, who’s just landed a starring role in the newest superhero movie, is apparently having a meltdown at Chateau Marmont. Ellen is on it, but there may already be some photos of him on social media. I give her the name of their security guy and have her send champagne to the rooms closest to Gus’s with a note of apology. As I drive, I call his manager and we circle the wagons. By the time I get home, Ellen has confirmed that the only photos are blurry and it just looks like he’s having a good time at the bar. I tell her to get him in my office first thing tomorrow.

  I walk up to what I know will be an empty house and think about how slowly tonight’s events unfolded. It wasn’t this explosive! shocking! humiliating! discovery. Have I been as much to blame for Adam’s dalliances as he has? I unlock the front door and walk through my enchanting silent home. I make my chicken salad. Set out a place mat, flip my napkin onto my lap, and eat dinner alone. I wash my face and get ready for bed in a haze of shame and regret with a chaser of rage and determination. I can’t think clearly right now, tonight’s events just keep replaying on a manic loop in my head.