Skipping a Beat

by Sarah Pekkanen

“You’re shaking,” he said, wrapping his arms around me. I leaned into his warmth for a second, then I pulled away, before he could.

  “You didn’t have an affair,” I said. I forced myself to look into his eyes and say it: “But I did.”

  * * *

  Twenty-nine

  * * *

  IT ONLY HAPPENED ONCE.

  No, I’m not being honest. Twice. It happened twice.

  Okay, okay, three times. But the third time doesn’t really count because we didn’t finish.

  If you were trying to get revenge on your husband for having an affair, what kind of a man do you think you’d pick? Maybe a hot young surfer with shaggy blond hair and a tattoo of a heart on his smooth, tanned chest, right? You’d probably pick someone sexy and virile, someone to make you feel young and gorgeous and desirable—all the things your husband had stripped away from you.

  But I picked a man who was exactly the opposite of that.

  I was in my early thirties, and I didn’t want to be compared with nubile college coeds who could casually do the splits while peeling a banana. I wanted to be the more desirable one. I wanted a man to whisper in my ear that I was beautiful, that he couldn’t keep his hands off me. The way Michael used to.

  So I had an affair with a totally average guy. I met Brad through work; he was a chef at a catering company we sometimes booked, and he made the world’s most decadent chocolate-covered strawberries. At first, I don’t even think he knew that I was the wife of one of the richest men in town; I didn’t wear my big diamond or other expensive jewelry to work, and Michael never came to my events. To Brad, I was just Julia, the woman who raced around like a maniac with a clipboard, growing more and more frantic as the time for the wedding or party approached, and then, like an actor walking out onto a stage, morphed into someone else entirely, someone calm and smiling, who could fill in for a missing bartender and mix cosmopolitans, or expertly duct-tape a wobbly table leg.

  A couple of weeks after my mother died, I oversaw an evening wedding reception. After the bride and groom sped away and the guests had all left, I stood in the middle of the empty room, watching the cleanup crew vacuum red rose petals and break down the chocolate fountain. Michael was in town that night for a change, which meant I wanted to be anywhere but home.

  I hadn’t confronted him. I was planning to gather evidence first, to protect myself in case he and I divorced. I’d found the name of a good private investigator, and I was going to call him the next morning. Michael was leaving for another business trip that week; it would be the perfect time to have him followed. Then I’d research the best divorce lawyers and see if Michael’s infidelity would make our prenup invalid.

  Yet the thought of it all—the battles and accusations and hurt awaiting me—made me feel as though I were splitting open from the inside out. I was so exhausted that I seemed to be constantly walking through a thick cloud of fog, and it was seeping into my brain, too, making my thoughts feel heavy and damp. Even brushing my teeth in the morning was an effort, and chatting on the phone with clients—forcing my voice to be light and bright—left me so worn out that I sometimes put my head down on my desk and catnapped in the middle of the day. I was sinking into a depression, I realized. I’d lost my mother and my marriage in the same day, and I wasn’t strong enough to bear it.

  The worst moments came when I wondered if Michael had fallen in love with Roxanne. Maybe he’d willingly throw me a few million so he could walk away from our marriage.

  She’d called late last night, but she hadn’t left him a message; I’d seen her number on his cell phone log while Michael was in the shower, and I’d deleted it, my finger viciously pressing the button over and over again, as if I could somehow erase her, too.

  I walked outside the hotel ballroom, my shoes crunching on the scattered birdseed everyone had thrown at the laughing couple as they departed, and I spotted a favor someone had dropped on the ground. It was a cookie glazed with the image of the newly married couple. Liam and Lisa, the pink script on the bottom read. But someone—maybe even the bride herself, in her pointy heels as she ran for the car—had stepped on the cookie, and there was a jagged break between their faces. I looked down at it for a long moment, then reached into my purse and felt around for the cold metal of my keys.

  “You’re not going to eat that, are you?” a voice said. I looked up from the cookie and saw Brad leaning against the outside wall of the building, smoking a cigarette. “I could cook you something better, you know.”

  I forced a laugh and put the cookie pieces into a trash can, then walked over to stand next to him.

  “Want one?” he offered, tilting his pack of Marlboros toward me.

  I instinctively started to shake my head, then said, “Why not?”

  He lit it for me. His fingers were long and graceful and seemed like they should’ve belonged to another man, someone who played the piano or painted landscapes, not a slightly pudgy guy whose blond hair was thinning on top. But he was funny and kind, and sometimes he slipped me little tidbits of the treats he was cooking at receptions—a scallop browned so perfectly that the top layer was almost caramelized, a slender stalk of baby asparagus dipped into lemony hollandaise sauce, one of those scandalously good strawberries encased in alternating layers of dark and milk and white chocolate.

  Now those talented fingers reached toward me again, to light my cigarette. I inhaled and managed not to cough; I hadn’t smoked since college, when I used to occasionally have cigarettes between classes with Stephenie. She’d quit when she decided to get pregnant, and without a smoking buddy—someone to feel illicit with—I’d dropped the occasional habit, too.

  “You did a great job, as usual,” Brad said.

  “The weather helped,” I said, looking up at the sky. It was clear and cool, and there wasn’t any breeze at all. “Brides hate it when it rains, even though it’s supposed to be good luck.”

  I looked over at Brad and was surprised to see he’d inched closer to me. Or had I been the one to move?

  “A few of us are going to Matchbox for a drink,” he said. “Want to come along?”

  I didn’t even have to think about it. “I’d love to.”

  A drink turned into three, and the waiters and catering staff we’d come with slowly began to leave Matchbox, trickling away in pairs and trios, and then it was just me and Brad. The crowd had thinned out, and we’d nabbed two barstools, but it was still crowded enough that we had to sit with our seats jammed close together. Brad’s knees were spread open, and mine were between his. We were as close as it was possible to be without touching.

  I was different that night; something was fueling me from within, some need I couldn’t quite identify. It wasn’t lust or anger or a desire for revenge, but a murky sense that I had to do this. I surreptitiously unbuttoned an extra button on my shirt, and I laughed harder than usual. I held Brad’s brown eyes over the rim of my dirty martini as I took slow sips and licked my top lip afterward. When my cell phone buzzed, I reached into my purse and turned it off without even checking to see who’d called.

  Then Brad’s leg grazed mine, and the air between us suddenly turned electric. I knew it was a test; the evening was about to go into one of two directions. I could squeeze my knees together more tightly, or get up and go to the bathroom, or do any of a dozen things to shift course. But I didn’t. I let my leg relax against his, and through his jeans and the thin silk of my wrap dress, I could feel his warmth. By not moving away, I’d traveled down the second path.

  “Want to go somewhere else?” Brad asked, and I nodded without saying anything. We paid the bill, and I looked around, suddenly panicked I’d see someone I recognized. But the lights were dim and I knew I was safe. Besides, I hadn’t done anything. Not yet.

  We stepped outside, and Brad put his motorcycle helmet on my head and fastened the strap under my chin. I climbed on behind him and wrapped my arms tight around his waist. As we sped away, I emptied my mind of everything but the rush of
explosive sound.

  He lived in an apartment in Adams Morgan, just off a strip of Eighteenth Street filled with hip restaurants and bars. As soon as I crossed the threshold into his place, I panicked. Brad shut the door behind me, and I felt as if I was being sealed inside. I can still leave, I told myself frantically. It wasn’t too late.

  “Do you want something to drink?” Brad offered.

  I shook my head, suddenly unable to speak. I was still standing there in the hallway, wearing my coat and clutching my purse in front of me like a shield. If he’d stepped toward me or said something suggestive, I might’ve even whacked him with my bag, like a little old lady, and then run away screaming. But what Brad did was so surprising it completely disarmed me.

  “Can I make you something to eat? You barely ate anything all night.”

  “You noticed?” I asked in surprise. My voice sounded rusty, and I cleared my throat.

  “Come here,” he said gently. He took away my purse and put it on his couch, then led me to the kitchen with both hands. He left on my coat; maybe he knew I wasn’t ready to shed even that layer of clothing yet.

  “Sit down,” he said, pulling out a chair.

  He opened his refrigerator and began rummaging through it, narrating the contents.

  “Let’s see, fried chicken, fettuccine primavera, pumpkin soup …” Then he looked at me and made a decision. “An omelet.”

  I loosened the buttons on my coat but kept it on. I knew I wouldn’t be able to eat anything, but as I watched Brad’s fingers mince chives and slice thin, even strips of Jarlsberg, I felt my body slowly relax. He cracked three eggs with one hand and gently folded in the ingredients with the other. It was a virtuoso performance; he knew his little kitchen so well that he moved around it with the economy and grace of a dancer, sliding a drawer shut with his left hip while opening the refrigerator with his right hand, then swirling sizzling butter in a cast-iron pan with an expert flick of his wrist. Here, in this inexpensive apartment with open windows that let in the sounds of the city—honks and yells and revving engines—Brad was quietly, intently focused on making the perfect omelet. His white dress shirt had become untucked, I noticed. He slid the omelet off the pan with a well-practiced motion of his wrist, and it landed exactly in the middle of a cerulean blue plate.

  Then he fed it to me.

  That’s what did it; the tenderness with which he forked off a bite and lifted it to my lips melted my last defense. Every bit of his attention was focused on me. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was until that first bite of omelet filled my mouth. It was so light and fluffy it was almost a soufflé.

  We could still recast this evening as nothing more than a mild flirtation brought on by too many dirty martinis, I told myself, even as my hand closed around Brad’s over the fork. I could button up my coat and kiss him on the cheek and go hail a cab, then send him a joking e-mail tomorrow about being so drunk that he had to feed me like a baby. “Next time I’ll bring a bib,” I’d write.

  Then I remembered that husky voice with a secret smile in it answering Michael’s hotel room phone, and I suddenly leaned forward, almost as if I was tipping over, and rested my head on Brad’s chest and closed my eyes. He began stroking my hair, running those fingers through it and massaging my neck and scalp. After a few minutes I lifted my face, still with my eyes closed, and he bent over and kissed me.

  If he’d rushed things—if he’d tried to unbutton my shirt, or grabbed my ass—maybe I’d have run to the corner of the street and hailed down a taxi and hurried home, after all.

  But he took his slow, sweet time. Eventually I let Brad’s gentle fingers undress me, and then I followed him into the bedroom. I didn’t feel passion, but that wasn’t why I’d come here tonight.

  With Brad everything felt different. His chest was covered in thick, curly blond hair, whereas Michael’s was smooth. He whispered in my ear while we had sex, telling me how much he wanted me. Michael and I never talked much during sex, but sometimes, early on in our relationship, we looked into each other’s eyes. Brad’s lips felt thicker, and he used his tongue more when he kissed, and he smelled different, too. He brought the aroma of everything he’d cooked that day into bed—his fingernails smelled faintly of raspberries as he brushed back my hair, I tasted cognac on his tongue, and his skin seemed steeped in spices.

  Afterward, Brad wrapped his big arms—so different from Michael’s wiry ones; not better or worse, just not the same—around me and held me for a while, spooning me from behind. I waited for the flood of guilt, but it never came. I didn’t feel much of anything at all.

  After a while, I slipped out from under the covers and got dressed while Brad propped himself up on an elbow, watching me.

  “I guess you can’t stay,” he said.

  “No,” I whispered. “But I’ll come back.”

  During my third visit, Brad began to talk about us going away together for a weekend. “I could rent a room at this great little inn in Virginia,” he said as he traced tiny circles around my belly button with a fingertip. “We’ll eat and drink and stay in bed all weekend.” I pulled away and looked at him in surprise. That’s when I saw in his eyes that this meant more to him than a few illicit nights together.

  “I can’t. I’m sorry,” I said, hoping my tone conveyed the fact that I was also apologizing for not feeling the same way about him. I hadn’t ever considered that maybe Brad wanted more from me than I did from him. That he wanted an actual relationship.

  “You could leave him,” Brad said, getting out of bed. He walked over to look out the window, keeping his back to me. His voice was casual, but his posture was tense.

  “Leave Michael?” I asked. My voice sounded strangled, and I cleared my throat.

  Brad shook his head. “I didn’t even know his name. You never talk about him, Julia.”

  I sat up on the bed and leaned over to retrieve my shirt from the floor. I toyed with the tiny pearl buttons so I wouldn’t have to meet Brad’s eyes when he turned around. My body felt heavy from the half bottle of good red wine I’d drunk, and my eyes were gritty and tired. I suddenly saw myself as if from above—naked except for my gold wedding band, my mascara smeared and my hair disheveled—and guilt finally overwhelmed me. But I didn’t feel it because of Michael. It was because of what I’d done to Brad. I’d thought he understood this was just temporary; I’d thought he was benefiting from it as much as I was. I’d been sexist, assuming that, because he was a guy, he’d be happy to have sex with no strings attached. How little I’d known about him, after all.

  “It’s complicated,” I finally said. And now I’d made it even more so. “I can’t leave him. Not now, anyway.”

  “He’s really rich, right?” Brad abruptly pulled on his Levi’s. “Someone said something about it the other day. About wondering why you worked, when your husband had all that money.”

  “Brad, it isn’t like that,” I said, even as a shameful little voice inside me asked, It isn’t?

  “I loved Michael before he had any money,” I protested. “We’ve been together since high school.”

  “So why are you sleeping with me?” Brad asked.

  I looked down at my shirt again, not knowing how to answer.

  “I should go,” I finally said. “I’m sorry.”

  Brad shrugged, as if he didn’t care, but I could see him fighting not to speak. He probably wanted to say something cruel and cutting; I’d hurt him, and now he wanted to lash back. But he was too nice a guy to give in to the urge. I’d made such a mess of everything.

  I left Brad’s apartment without another word, and I didn’t see him for months. Once I called him late at night, but my voice abandoned me when he answered and I hung up. I still didn’t know what to say to him, how to explain what had happened between us. It would be months before I figured it out for myself.

  By the time we worked on another job together, Brad was clearly over what had happened—over me. He smiled at me, and quickly squeezed my arm in greeting,
and then turned his attention back to the pastry-wrapped filet he was cooking. After plating the artisanal cheeses with fig spread and setting out the mini berry cheesecakes for dessert, he took off his apron and washed his hands. I caught myself staring as those elegant fingers caressed one another. Then I heard someone call his name, and I turned to see a nice-looking woman with glasses and short blond hair walk up to the outskirts of the reception area. Her eyes searched the crowd, and when she saw Brad, she smiled in a way that told me everything I needed to know. They left together a few minutes afterward, and Brad never once looked back at me.

  I was relieved—so relieved—that he didn’t hate me. And I was lonelier than ever.

  Otello is considered by many to be Verdi’s finest opera. The Moor Otello becomes convinced his wife, Desdemona, is cheating on him after he assembles pieces of evidence. Of course he’s dead wrong. But an interloper named Iago—someone a lot like Dale—whispers in his ear, goading him and fueling his suspicions.

  I’ll always wonder what would’ve happened if I’d chosen to talk to Michael during that raw, terrible time. Would I have changed the whole course of our marriage? Maybe I could have thrown down his cell phone and held his BlackBerry hostage until we’d pieced together exactly what had happened, not just with Roxanne but between the two of us.

  It took me a long time to figure out why I cheated, but I finally realized it didn’t have anything to do with revenge. It was because I was facing an impossible choice: If I forced Michael to admit he was having an affair, I knew I wouldn’t be able to stay married to him. But if I left him, I’d lose everything—our house, our cars, the luxury I’d always craved. By having my own affair, I’d managed to carve out another option. I could pretend to myself that I’d evened things up, somehow, and stay married to Michael and keep clinging to our glittering new lifestyle.

  I think part of me did it because I still loved Michael and couldn’t bear to let him go, as warped and crazy as it sounds. But another, uglier part of me was willing to trade love and trust for security and luxury. I never told anyone, not even Isabelle, about what I’d done. In my mind, Michael’s offense was worse—he cheated first. That’s how I tried to justify it, anyway.