Slip of the Tongue Series: The Complete Boxed Set

by Hawkins, Jessica

  Our first night in the apartment, we’d made love on the wood floor, then gone downstairs for food. On the same corner I stood on this morning, Nate had freed some curls from my knit cap and touched his lips all over my face. We’d walked across the street and eaten sunny-side-up eggs at one in the morning, bundled into one side of a booth at the diner.

  I swallow my food, chicken sticking in my throat. That seems like a lifetime ago now. Nathan’s been cold lately. Not toward others—just me. I’m still trying to figure it out. I don’t come from an affectionate family. Everything I know about love and true intimacy, I learned from Nate. It’s jarring to watch him take that away a little more each day. He’s told me never to give him space. He always said that was what came between his parents. I think he wants his space now.

  “What took so long?”

  I look up again, wondering if it’s pity I see in his eyes as he watches me. I sit up straighter. “You mean why did we sleep on the ground? The furniture store—”

  “No, I mean what took so long to get the heat fixed? I won’t last until next month with the heater blasting like it is. I have to stop what I’m doing every twenty minutes to stand by an open window.”

  I welcome the shift in subject, however small. I’d rather get wrapped up in his problems than my own. “What do you think’s wrong with it?”

  “I don’t know. I’d give it a look, but I don’t have my tools.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Greenwich.”

  “Oh.” I wait for him to explain. Instead, he takes a massive bite. Recalling our earlier conversation about the suburbs, I ask, “Connecticut?”

  He nods. After he swallows, he says, “I left the tools behind in case I have to fix anything up before the deal closes.”

  “You’re selling your house there?”

  “It’s in escrow.”

  He isn’t exactly volunteering information, but I’m curious. It is unusual to move to the suburbs on your own for your twenties and return out of the blue. “Why are you moving back?”

  “I miss it. Let me tell you, it’s a tough life here in the city, but at least it’s alive, not like Connecticut. Four years I went back and forth between Wall Street and Greenwich. It’s a grind.”

  “You work on Wall Street?” I set my fork down. Men in finance don’t spend their Monday mornings in t-shirts and shorts, and they don’t spend them in diners. I’m fairly certain they have more important things to do. “So you moved to be closer to work?”

  “No. I quit my job.”

  I tilt my head. If I was intrigued before, now I’m rapt. “You quit? Just like that?”

  He sits back in the chair and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Pretty much.”

  “I thought you said you moved back to the city for work.”

  “I did, but not for that job,” he says quickly, confidently. “I’m here to make some career changes. Did you know commuting the way I was costs weeks of your life each year?”

  I raise my eyebrows at him. His expression is bright. “No. I didn’t.”

  He nods. “Four hundred and eighty hours a year. That’s almost three weeks. Time is our most precious resource, don’t you think? What can you do in three weeks?”

  I take a sip of my wine. I understand time best in segments. Eighteen years under my parents’ roof in New Jersey. Four years undergrad at NYU. Eight years bullshitting in marketing and PR. Seven years with Nate, five of them legally bound to him. Two months since he’s begun to pull away. Two months I’ve been utterly confused. Twelve hours I’ve known this man sitting across from me.

  “But you can relax on the subway and read the paper while you commute,” I point out. “Or if you’re driving, listen to NPR. Maybe an audiobook.”

  “It wasn’t a rhetorical question,” he says. “What have you done these last three weeks?”

  It’s embarrassing how hard I have to think. I can feel the lines deepening in my forehead, leaving their mark. Another way to measure time: wrinkles. “I secured one of my clients a significant feature in New York Magazine. I finished one of the books in the Game of Thrones series.” Or watched a season on HBO. Whatever. “I took my niece trick or treating.”

  “What else?”

  “That’s all I can think of.”

  “There must be more. They don’t have to be big things.”

  I roll a carrot over on the plate. I haven’t done anything worth mentioning the last three weeks. Spending Halloween with Andrew and Bell made me happy. Except that usually when I’m around Bell, Nathan is there. He adores and spoils her. He wants to see Bell more than we already do. Without him, what became painfully clear was his absence. And how I’ve failed Nathan because of what I haven’t given him. May never be able to give him.

  “What’s on your mind?” he asks. “You look sad.”

  I glance up at him. His voice is soft, but he doesn’t sweeten his words. Do I look sad, or does he sense it in me? Even if I tried, I couldn’t explain the tornado of emotions working its way through me. I don’t even really know what they are. Inadequacy? Hopelessness? This is what happens when I go where I shouldn’t. For a second, I wish Nathan were across the table. He knows our story. Except that he doesn’t—not everything. And the moment passes, because if he were here, I still wouldn’t tell him there’s a piece of the puzzle he doesn’t know about.

  Again, I try to think of something worth mentioning, and again, I come up short. “It is sad,” I say, “how much time we waste.”

  “I didn’t ask how you wasted time. What made you happy these last few weeks?”

  “Hanging out with my brother and his daughter. He’s single, so he doesn’t get a lot of help.” Ginger rolls onto her side at my feet. “Ginge and I have had more quality time together lately. Sometimes, it’s like she’s the only one who gets me.”

  “Why does anyone own a dog?” he asks. “For that reason, I think.”

  “Maybe.” His plate is empty. “There’s a little more in the wok,” I say. “Why don’t you take the leftovers?”

  “What about your husband?”

  “He’ll eat at the bowling alley—God knows what kind of junk they serve—and that’s one less meal for you at the diner.”

  “Thanks,” he says. “It’s nice to have a friendly neighbor.”

  “Sure, just not too friendly,” I joke and immediately wish I hadn’t. It wasn’t funny, and if anything, it might be misconstrued. Isn’t that why I said it, though? I’ve had too much wine.

  He laughs, though, and picks up his plate. I turn away so he won’t see that my face is red. Partly from the alcohol, but mostly from that comment. I stand up and get the leftovers into a Tupperware container.

  He’s standing at the sink with the faucet on. “Don’t even think about it,” I tell him.

  “The dishes are the least I can do.”

  “Absolutely not.” Nate doesn’t do the dishes. It’s our routine, and I like it that way. The kitchen is where I get to take care of him. Everywhere else, Nathan puts me first. Cooking is one thing I don’t think he’ll ever ask me to stop doing for him, no matter how upset he is. “Seriously. I’m one of those rare birds who enjoys doing the dishes.”

  “Well, then.” He turns off the water and walks over. He stops right in front of me. I have to tilt my head back a little. “Aren’t we just a couple of rare birds?”

  We haven’t been this close yet in here. I still sense the playfulness between us, but I think my bad joke has tipped it into new territory. I’m painfully unable to think of the right response. I like our easy nature. I don’t want to send the wrong message. “I guess so.”

  “You left your hair curly.”

  “You . . .” The wine has made the inside of my mouth tacky. I run my tongue along the roof. I could drink another glass or two. It’s getting a little late for company, though. “You don’t like it straight?”

  “I like it both ways. I just find it interesting. Have you always worn it straight?”

&nb
sp; “More as I get older. It’s no different than wearing makeup or heels. Most women color their hair. I just straighten it.”

  “I’m not accusing you of anything.”

  “Good,” I say. “Because that would be weird. I don’t even know your name.”

  “Do you want to?”

  “No.” I’m surprised by my response, quick and cold. That simple no is a confession. Knowing your neighbor’s name is a pillar of our culture. To deny it means more than to accept it. I should want his name, and I do. I want to know him better. From the lifted corner of his mouth, he knows it too.

  We stand in silence for a moment. The parts of me closest to him get warmer. His body must run hot, like my husband’s. A noise in the hallway makes me move away. I listen for Nate’s key in the door, even though he wouldn’t be home yet. I wish he would come home now, but Ginger doesn’t bolt for the entryway.

  “It’s Finn,” he says, a hint of beer on his breath. “Finn Cohen.”

  “Okay.”

  “What’s yours?”

  “Sadie.”

  “Sadie,” he repeats.

  “Finn.” I hold out the Tupperware. “Here.”

  He accepts it and walks a few steps back. “Thanks. See you around . . . Sadie.”

  My heart beats too hard to ignore. He stirs something in me, something I’ve been forced to bury for months. I don’t like it. I don’t like the fact that if it weren’t for Nathan, I’d invite Finn for another drink. Let the lines blur, the conversation get intimate. I’ll never know where it would go from there.

  I lock the door behind him.

  THREE

  Nathan makes no secret of his late-night arrival home from bowling. The front door slams. The bedroom lights come on. At first, I think I’m dreaming. I sit up and rub my eyes to see the clock. The red digital numbers sear my eyeballs—it’s after two in the morning. “Nate?”

  He fills the doorway, standing there as if he forgot what he came in the room for. “Yeah?”

  “You woke me,” I say.

  “Sorry.”

  He doesn’t look or sound sorry. His tie is balled in his fist, the collar of his button-down open. He’s been wearing his hair in a smooth wave lately, like a dark chocolate truffle. Different. I like it. It’s almost survived whatever he’s been up to, except that a few stiff pieces sag over his forehead.

  My husband is dark, with olive skin and brown-black hair that matches his eyes. But I don’t think of him that way. To me, he’s idyllic and warmhearted. That’s his personality. Tonight, though, there is a darkness about him.

  “Where’ve you been?” I ask.

  “Same place as every other Monday night.”

  Still gauging his mood, I hide my disdain for his snark. “Yes, I know. I meant after.”

  “No after. Just came straight home.”

  “You got this wasted at a bowling alley?”

  He rubs the bridge of his nose. “I’ve tried telling you, it isn’t just a place you go roll a ball. It’s—” He sighs. “Never mind. I’m not wasted. We had drinks. Is that okay with you?”

  “It’s fine. When have I ever said you can’t go out drinking?” I glance at the clock. “I mean, it is late for a Monday night, but . . .”

  He throws his arms up in frustration and goes to our walk-in closet. His tie and suit jacket end up on the floor before he undoes his belt and begins to undress. Nathan has always had a nice, solid ass. The first time I watched him walk away, my friend Jill called me out for staring. That was before he worked out consistently. Now, he’s in the gym four days a week, and I’m definitely not the only woman enjoying the view.

  “Nathan . . .” Considering our up-until-now healthy sex life, I still have a hard time accepting the fact that we’ve slept side by side for this long without touching each other. “Come to bed.”

  “I am,” he says over his shoulder.

  “I mean now. Like . . . right now.” I take my bottom lip between my teeth. Our high-thread-count sheets are suddenly silkier. The hour is no longer of any importance to me. Two months is a strange amount of time to go without sex. After a week passed, I started to go a day or two without even thinking of it. But sometimes, out of nowhere, my need will burn me up from the inside out. Two months isn’t long enough that I’ve forgotten how good it is with him.

  Nathan keeps his back to me, piling his clothes at his feet. “I’ll take care of this in the morning.”

  Even drunk, Nate is worried about making a mess. I’ve never had to beg him to put his socks in the hamper or pick up the dry cleaning like some of my friends do with their husbands. He’s tidier than anyone I know. “I don’t care,” I say. “You have plenty of suits. Come to bed.”

  “I said I will,” he says shortly.

  We both go quiet. Nathan’s head is over his shoulder, but his eyes are on the floor. I slouch back against the bed. It doesn’t concern me that Nate goes drinking with friends. I encourage it. He’s social. I’m not as much. When he’s happy, I’m happy. Tonight, though, there was no text or phone call like I’d assumed there’d be. Nathan and I used to be in continuous touch—virtually and physically. He’d text me just to say hi or tell me something about his day. He’d take my elbow when we crossed the street and leave me love notes in unexpected places. He got hungry for me at unexpected times. We were always in touch.

  To go from one extreme to another is jarring. Before now, when Nathan went out with his friends, it was with reluctance. He didn’t want me to be lonely. He wanted me with him, but when I’m there, he goes out of his way to make sure I’m having a good time. None of his friends do that with their wives, and that’s part of why I stay home two nights a week. He should have fun with them, not worry about me.

  When it becomes clear Nathan isn’t going to apologize for his tone, I slip back under the covers and pull my pillow under my head. “Excuse me for wanting my husband to fuck me.”

  He says something under his breath. My temperature rises as I try to guess his comeback. I think it’s “give me a break.” Uncalled for and unoriginal. Neither of us is good at fighting. We don’t do it often. I should be better considering my parents did it on a weekly basis when I was a kid and still do. My dad started drinking when I was a kid, and his unhappiness soon spread through the family. My mom picked up the addiction next. She was a shy drunk. During a fight, she’d run into their bedroom. It was the scrape-click of the door’s deadbolt that would send my dad over the edge. When my brother was older, my dad picked fights with him. Andrew would barge into my room and lock the door. Although Dad never came after me, Andrew’d find me under the bed or in my closet. Coloring when I was younger. Playing music or reading magazines when I was older. Escaping. He’d kiss me on the forehead before climbing out my window and speeding off on his motorcycle. Like my mom, I hid until it blew over, which it always did.

  I turn to my side, away from Nate, and take a meditative breath. I don’t want to go there with him. He’s sensitive, and I’ll probably say something I don’t mean. “Turn out the lights, please,” I tell him. “And don’t touch me tonight. Or any night until I say you can.”

  I expect a retort, maybe some more muttered, passive-aggressive attitude. It doesn’t come. The floor creaks. Nathan turns out the light but doesn’t get into bed. Seconds later, I hear a burst of voices in the next room before it gradually lowers to a soft hum. TV glares flashes into the bedroom. My side of the mattress sags.

  “You’re like the goddamn princess and the pea,” Nathan told me once over breakfast. We’d been dating a month or two and had slept in the same bed a handful of times. “I had to hug you all night just to keep you still.”

  I blushed, smiling. “How do you know I wasn’t faking so you’d cuddle?”

  “Because you already know I don’t need any excuse to cuddle with you . . . Princess.”

  “Princess?” I asked, surprised. He’d never called me that before. “Says who? I’m no princess.”

  He grinned. “Then I guess
that makes you a pea.”

  Six months later, when he affectionately referred to me as ‘pea’ for the third time, I stopped him. “I don’t like that nickname.”

  “Why not?” he asked, serious. “You don’t want to be a pea?”

  “A shriveled green ball that people pretend to like but actually hate?” I stuck out my bottom lip.

  He laughed and laughed. “Yeah. That’s exactly it. That’s you.”

  Every few months, after I thought he’d mercifully forgotten about it, he’d call me pea out of nowhere. “More wine, Pea?” he’d shout in a crowded restaurant, or, another time, when we were alone, “My dear Pea, I took out the trash so you won’t have to.”

  Tonight, I stare at the wall, unable to sleep. My problems are little green veggies under the mattress. I never could get him to shake that dumb nickname, but now I can’t remember the last time he used it. It’s just one more addition to a growing list of things I took for granted.

  I get out of bed. Now, I’m not just hot for him, but nostalgic too. It’s a lonely combination. I stand in the bedroom doorway. It’s dark, except for the flash of the TV, and I know he can see me from where he lies on the couch in his boxer briefs. There are tools I haven’t used on him yet, and I think it might be time to get them out. When he looks over, I strip off my dowdy pajama top, then slowly peel my panties off.

  “Nathan,” I try again. “Come to bed. You know what I want.”

  He stares. If he doesn’t answer, I might have to beg. I’m not above it. Nathan’s never made me doubt his attraction to me until now, and two months isn’t enough to extinguish my confidence.

  After a moment, he responds, his voice raspy. “What do you want?”

  “You know,” I repeat. I run a hand between my breasts, down my stomach. As I reach my mound, ready to do whatever it takes, he rises fluidly from the couch.

  Briefly, I think of Finn, who sat there not hours ago. His beer-breath, later, as he told me his name.

  I forget all about him when Nathan stalks toward me.

  Suddenly, I’m nervous—to have sex with my own husband. He stops in front of me. The only sound is our breathing. I can’t wait any longer. I rise onto the balls of my feet and press my lips to his. I wait there. Finally, he slides his hands in my hair and kisses me back. I hug his neck. And he thaws—right there in my arms. This is the Nathan I know, the one who adores me no matter what’s going on his head.