The Social Affair: A Psychological Thriller
Page 17
I follow him through the house to the back door. I could probably find my way if I wanted to. I know it from Instalook, I know every room. I’ve studied it. Designed the layout in my mind. I wasn’t far off. Except the kitchen—it’s bigger than I thought. I have lived and breathed these rooms. I have imagined myself sitting, loving, sleeping beneath this roof, and now here I am. I follow him onto the patio.
He points. “In there.”
“Thanks,” I say. I take a deep breath in and let it out. Gosh. This is so much easier than I thought. All you have to do is act like you belong. Like you’re meant to be. So long as you look and act the part they want you to play, people are much more accepting than you imagine. This is why I’m wearing the workout gear I’m wearing. It’s why I got eyelash extensions and a blow out. I maxed out my credit card. But here I am, standing in the center of the Dunns’ world. Who knew it would be as simple as that?
She sits cross-legged on the floor with headphones over her ears. I watch as she bobs her head to the beat. She looks different in her own environment. More sure of herself when she doesn’t know anyone’s watching. Most of us are. You could be my step-child.
I lean against the wall, placing one foot up behind me. She senses movement and she looks up. Unlike her brother, she knows my face. She lifts the headphones. I watch as she places them on the floor. There’s something in her expression that reminds me of Josie. I can’t place exactly what that something is. “Did you forget?” I ask, checking my new watch. It’s the kind everyone is posting on Instalook. It’s expensive and edgy. Seems like something a girl like her would appreciate.
She shrugs. “My mom probably forgot to tell me.”
I roll my eyes. “Moms.”
She almost snickers, and her youth shows. We talk about dance stuff for a bit and then I work with her on technique. Once we’re both properly sweating, me more than her, I go in for the kill. “So—” I say, careful to choose the right words. Kids are better than adults at picking up on deception. That’s why I don’t like them. “What exactly happened with the dance team? You seem pretty good. It doesn’t make sense why they would cut you.”
She looks away.
When she doesn’t answer, I plop down on the hardwood floor. I don’t really know anything about dance. I lied. My mom never owned a studio. What I do know is how the click of a few tabs on the internet can open up whole new worlds. “Show me your latest routine.”
After several moments she complies.
“Yeah,” I say again. “It makes no sense why they’d cut you. At my school—with your talent—you would have been captain.”
“Exactly,” she says rolling her eyes. “Someone wanted the lead. I guess that someone found a way to get it…”
“That happens sometimes.”
She looks at me then as though she and I share a secret, some unspoken portal into the workings of the universe.
She stops after practicing several turns. “They expelled me over it.”
My eyes grow wide. I hadn’t realized that part. Maybe I should cut Grant some slack. His kid is a delinquent. “Like kicked out of school—expelled?”
“Yeah, for something I didn’t even do.”
I lean back on my palms and scan the room. Then I look at her directly. “Wow…”
She studies herself in the mirror. I can tell she doesn’t like what she sees. Girls her age never do. “What should I do about it?”
“What does your mom say?”
She scoffs. “My mom. I haven’t told her.”
“Surely, she knows you were expelled?”
“Oh, she knows.”
“Really.”
She moves closer to the mirror and studies her face. “Yeah, she knows about that. But the rest of it—” she says, picking at something she’d be better off leaving alone. I would tell her, but sometimes it’s nice to hold back. People rarely listen to warnings anyway. “She doesn’t know about the rest of it.”
“Oh.” I consider what to say next. I can’t tell her I know about the messages, even if I do. I especially can’t tell her it was me who sent them. I chew at my bottom lip trying to find a way around it.
“Why don’t you tell her?”
“The truth?” She eyes me like I’m an alien that’s just landed in her studio. She thought she knew me. Now she realizes she doesn’t know me at all. “God, no,” she says. “That would cause all kinds of problems.”
“And your dad?”
She gives me a funny look. God, I have so much to teach her. More than dance I learned on the internet, that much is clear. In the meantime, it’s good to let people think they’re smarter than you. That way, they drop their guard. “What kind of problems? Maybe I can help.”
“You mean like you’ll tell my parents? Um… yeah. No. Thank you.”
“No, I mean like give you advice. I’m not a parent. Thank God.” I make sure my eyes bulge for good measure. Teenagers appreciate drama. So do grown women for that matter. “I don’t even like kids, really.”
She accepts the truth in my lie. “There’s nothing I can do…” she confesses sadly. “They let me back in school. But now everyone treats me differently.”
“There’s always murder,” I say. I should be careful. The power of suggestion is far-reaching.
She laughs. I do too.
“My friends abandoned me. I mean—” she starts and then she pauses. Her breath catches, and I can see Grant Dunn really does have his hands full. It’s no wonder it takes him six hours to respond to a text. It takes half as long to get the truth out of his kid. He’s still working at it.
It looks like she might cry, and God— I do hate kids. Finally, she takes a breath. “I can tell they think I did it.”
I shrug. “Anyway. Who needs friends?”
She studies my face carefully. She can’t tell if I’m serious. Eventually, she offers a tight smile.
“Anyway—you have me now.”
I watch her eyes. They always give it away. I’ve said too much. Sometimes I like to apply a little pressure just to see how far I can get.
She turns toward the door. “My mom will be back soon.”
“From work?” I ask, although I know Josie doesn’t know real work.
She shakes her head. “No, from church.”
“Your mom goes to church?” I already know the answer but details would be nice.
She furrows her brow. “She invited you. Remember?”
Shit. I bite my lip. Now, I’ve made her suspicious. “Yeah, I don’t really like church.”
“That’s too bad,” she says. “You might not want to mention that to my mom. She practically is the church.”
That, I didn’t know. “And your dad? Does he go too?”
“Are you kidding? He created religion.”
I assume this is the teenager in her coming out. I don’t know what to make of it. I recall the way her father bent me over in the woods. I remember the way he laid into me on the hood of his car, the way he pushed my head down in the kitchen at Lucky’s, further and further, until there was no more give. Nothing seemed particularly religious about that. Maybe I don’t know religion like I thought. That reminds me, I never took Josie up on her offer to get me to church. Now, I realize I need to rectify that.
Avery leads me through the house. She’s taking me straight through to the front door, I realize a tad too late.
“Say,” I whisper. “Can I get a water for the road?”
She turns on her heel, like a ballerina and beckons me to follow.
Josie is in the kitchen putting away groceries. We catch her off guard. “Oh,” she says, shoving a carton of OJ in their sub-zero fridge. “You.”
She looks from her daughter to me and back. I can see she’s wondering if she’s forgotten something. “I didn’t know you were coming—”
I jut my bottom lip out. Avery hands me the water. “Hmm, I—”
The door closes in another part of the house. I hear footsteps I can’t see. Josie
glances toward the front door. “It must have slipped my mind,” she says. She presses her hand to her chest. She’s not sure of herself. I can tell by the way she rolls her eyes. “Thank God you’re not an axe murderer.”
I narrow my gaze. “Me a murderer? No,” I say. “Seems like a lot of work. ”
She laughs. Avery stares at her mother, her mouth open. She looks like most teenagers look when their parents have overstayed their welcome in their presence. “What?” Josie laughs. “It was a joke.”
I want to tell her, her joke isn’t funny, but then Grant walks in. He has his phone in his hand. He’s punching at the screen. I wait for him to look up. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Missi—.
I watch in amusement as he lets the phone go. Just like that, his fingers release it, and it goes crashing to the floor. Suddenly, all eyes are on me. But it’s only Josie’s expression that gives anything away.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Josie
“Not another one,” I say to Grant as he retrieves his undoubtedly cracked phone from the marble floor. Another grand down the drain, just like that. I wouldn’t know this time, though. I’m looking at her. She meets my gaze briefly before turning her attention to my husband. I can’t help but follow suit.
“Whoops,” he says. His eyes are narrowed. His mouth contorted. He holds up the pieces of his lifeline to the world and suddenly it’s show and tell. His lips part slowly. “Didn’t expect to see anyone standing there.”
Seeing his reaction, I feel dizzy. Faint. Sucker-punched. Like the wind has been knocked out of me. I thought I knew that feeling. But not like this. My eyes scan the room, they scan faces, bodies, they scan my whole life.
“I’m from the coffee shop,” she smiles shyly. “Lucky’s.”
“Right,” he says. The muscles in his jaw go slack. “I thought you looked familiar.”
“She’s working with Avery on some dance stuff,” I say. I brace myself. There’s been an earthquake, and it seems I’m the only one who felt it.
Grant cocks his head slowly. He’s precise in his movements. Calculated. “You’re a dancer?”
She blushes. “I used to be.”
I grip the countertop. It’s all there in the red of her cheeks. It isn’t infatuation I see. I’m used to that when it comes to women and my husband. But this time there’s more, a lot more, and as much as I want to, I can’t not know anymore.
I lean against the doorframe and watch my husband brush his teeth. I must have done this same thing dozens, if not hundreds of times over the years, but we both know this time is different. “How do you know Izzy?”
He knows it’s coming. I can see it in the way his shoulders tense when he meets my gaze in the mirror. His brushing slows. My legs feel like jelly. You’ve held it together this long. Breathe. We’ve eaten dinner as a family, discussed the ins and outs of our days. I’ve helped with homework, signed permission slips, hugged my children. I’ve completed our normal routine as though nothing were amiss, as though the foundation of my life has not been ripped at the core.
“Who?” He spits foam into the sink and flips the faucet on. Everything sharpens. Nausea gnaws at my insides. My pulse throbs in my teeth. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the flush on her cheeks, the familiarity in their conversation, has an explanation. Maybe my husband likes coffee more than I thought.
Maybe I already know the truth.
“Izzy,” I say speaking over the sound of the water. “The girl who was in our kitchen earlier.” The girl you’ve been fucking behind my back. The one I was stupid enough to invite into our lives when she’d clearly already had a place in yours.
He spits another mouthful of foamy toothpaste into the sink and then meets my eye. “The girl from the coffee shop?”
I cock my head. Did I not try hard enough? Where did I go wrong?
“Do I know her?” he says drying his hands. “What is that supposed to mean?”
It means— how long have you been fucking her behind my back? How long have I, this life, been a joke to you? How did I not see that you wanted out? How did I misjudge her? It means—silly me. I hadn’t assumed her pretty enough to grab your attention. Somehow I failed to see her youth, her eagerness to please, her perky tits. How is it I’ve become a part of a competition I never knew existed? “It means what I asked… do you know her or not?”
He turns and smiles with one side of his mouth. He takes a few steps forward. He shrugs, noncommittally. It makes sense given the context of the conversation. His smile fades. “I’ve talked with her a few times while waiting for my order. But I’d hardly say that qualifies as knowing her.” He doesn’t admit he’s slept with her. But he doesn’t outright lie either. There’s safety in the gray area. He’s smart that way. He knows there’s not much you can do with the in between.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Izzy
“I can’t believe you would come to my home, Isobel,” Grant says pacing the length of Lucky’s. Back and forth, back and forth. He stops suddenly and pinches the bridge of his nose. He won’t look at me. This is good. It means I’m winning. I have to admit, it’s nice to see him sweat things. I pull the cord, turning off the warm glow of the open sign and then click the lock on the door. He resumes his pacing. “Just tell me what was going through your head to make you do something so stupid?”
He’s like a lion in a cage. Caught. Trying to find his way out. “I-I…”
He stops abruptly. His hands go to his hips. Finally, his eyes meet mine. “You what?”
“I hadn’t heard from you in almost a week. I was desperate to see you.” Love is sweet misery, and you see Grant, I can play too.
He looks exasperated by my answer. He’s just realized I’m a loose cannon, and he’s trying to figure out how to reign me in. He doesn’t know it, but deep down this is the part he enjoys the most. He likes losing control even if it’s what he fears most. “So you thought going to my home would be a way for us to spend quality time together?”
My eyebrow rises. “No—”
“You know my situation Isobel,” he tells me. There’s a hint of warning in his tone, a hard edge. He’s playing daddy, and I like it. “You know I’m married… and you know my family is the most important thing in the world to me.”
Ouch. That stings. I stare at the tiles on the floor. You will not put me in my place, Grant Dunn. Unless my place is with you.
Still, bile creeps up the back of my throat, and it tastes like regret. I knew I shouldn’t have gone. I thought it would give me insight as to how to get closer to him, to better understand his life. But I can see now it’s only done the opposite. I hadn’t given a lot of thought as to how he might react, and honestly, I sort of expected he would be happy to see me. I thought it would make things wild and dangerous. I thought it would add fuel to the fire. On the plus side, he’s here.
And yet…it had the opposite effect. I know what he’s about to say but that doesn’t make it hurt any less when it comes.
“I think we’re going to have to stop seeing each other.”
“Grant—look—” I have to stop myself. Jesus. He’s being melodramatic. I exhale long and slow. What comes next will be more meaningful that way. “I’m sorry….”
“My wife is asking all sorts of questions. Do you have any idea how hard it is to hide an affair when it’s out in the open?”
I fold my arms over my chest. “Sounds like you have experience.”
He eyes me from head to toe, evaluating me in his meticulous way. Finally, he softens a bit. I can tell by the way the corner of his eyes relax. The crow’s feet thin out. He looks around at the mess the teenagers left in their wake. Trash, wadded up napkins, empty cups. “Are you almost done here?”
“Yes,” I say, although I have at least an hour’s worth of work to do to get the place in shape for the morning shift. Screw it. I’ll just come in early.
“Good.” He glances around once more. “Because we need to talk, and I’d rather not do it here.”
He pulls off the highway and takes a feeder road. We drive forever. Finally, just when I think we’ll never stop, he pulls over. He doesn’t kill the engine, he simply puts the car in park and stares straight ahead.
“Look,” I say trying to remedy the silence. I want to fill the space. I want to close the gap I’ve caused between us. “I’m sorry. But I can fix this.”
He cocks his head and studies my face. “How do you plan to do that?”
“I don’t know. But I will.”
“My wife suspects an affair, Isobel. I’m afraid this thing we have,” he motions between us, “is going to have to end.”
“But it doesn’t,” I plead. “She doesn’t know for sure. We just have to be more careful is all.”
He shakes his head slowly. “She will take everything, you know. The house, the kids, my practice, she’ll get it all.”
“She can’t take your work from you.”
“She is entitled to half of everything,” he assures me. “She can, and she will. Combine that with the support I’ll have to pay her for the kids and well…I might as well pack it in.”
I don’t know what to say, except I’ve heard it all before.
He checks his phone. “I saw it happen to our friend Tom. He nearly lost everything.”
“But you aren’t Tom.”
He almost smiles. “You’re so young,” he says, trailing his finger down my face. “You really have no idea how nasty divorces can be do you?”
He knows I don’t. My husband is dead. I shake my head.
“I’m in love with you, Isobel. But I can’t lose everything.”