“Yeah, why not?”
“I’ll think about it,” I say, casually. “Might be an option. You guys have fun. I’ll text if I end up going.”
“Okay. Love ya.”
After we hang up, the Uber takes less than five minutes to arrive. I feel a flutter in my stomach as I walk into the bookstore, a little more confident this week, but when I arrive I get half-hearted, mumbled greetings from the table—an anticlimactic moment—as everyone is busy passing out copies and offering disclaimers about their work to one another.
“Do you have copies?” Jonathan asks.
“Oh, I thought I’d just read mine, save a tree, ya know.”
“That’s fine, though it’s easier for us to read along so we can make notes as we go. Can’t guarantee you’ll get detailed feedback this way.”
“I’ll take my chances,” I say, smiling. Then I see him. Luke Ellison is cornered by about a half dozen women. The bookstore has moved his reading to the back of the store, and I’m pretty sure it’s because Jonathan complained about the noise. Luke looks past the women, his eyes darting around the bookstore; he pauses and cocks his head a moment, straining to see into the café. Who is he looking for?
Then his eyes meet mine and his face lights up. Or did I imagine that? I look behind me to make sure he’s not waving at someone else, but he smiles and points at me, making a “you” gesture so I know it’s me. I smile and wave back. Then I quickly drop my head and sit in my place at the table, feeling distracted and confused. Did I really wear this dress because it’s hot outside? Now is not the time to question myself. I am confident. I can let these strangers hear my writing and not crawl into a hole and chug a bottle of wine when it’s over. I take a deep breath and refocus.
I can hear a faint, low rumble of a male voice from across the bookstore when Luke’s reading starts, but it’s not upstaging Jonathan and his feedback this time, so after letting everyone else go first, I finally agree to read my story. My hands are trembling involuntarily, so I keep my pages on the wooden tabletop and hold my hands in my lap as I read without touching the paper.
Before the house and Collin and kids, I never thought that writing about my life was an option. There was nothing to write. A teacher once told me, only write what you know. I’ll never understand that so-called rule. If J. K. Rowling wrote about her own life—about what she “knows,” then goddamn it, I’ll have what she’s having.
For lack of imagination though, I take the advice and write what I know, and it’s cathartic. I am not writing about magic and fantasy or the meaning of life, but what I am writing is relatable, honest. I read my story about Collin’s dad’s funeral. I didn’t know where else to start. I remember how Collin hadn’t known how to weep and simultaneously be strong for his family. He was so afraid that if he let himself crack, the cancer of his sorrow would spread and damage his kids, so he never shed a tear. Claire was led up to the casket first, and she’d made a wailing sound I’ll never forget and tried to get into the casket to lie next to her husband one more time. Ben had begun screaming and run out of the funeral home. Claire never really spoke much again. Her health had seemed stable before that moment. Rachel says she’s dying of a broken heart. None of us have ever been the same, really.
I’d turned all of this into a sort of short story. When I finish reading, I see Vanessa wipe away a tear. CJ does a weird slow-clap, and I’m elated that I wasn’t laughed out of the bookstore. I can’t believe that I just poured out the ugliness of my own life and...they liked it. It’s not New Yorker bound, but it’s a start. I smile shyly, but inside I’m so excited I’m freaking out a bit. I feel accomplished. Accomplished in a way that’s not the same as motherhood. I listen to a few notes they offer, but we’ve gone overtime tonight. It’s almost ten and they’re closing up.
I’m still riding the high after everyone else has left. I sit at the table a moment in the semidarkness, taking it all in. Then I take out my phone to order an Uber home. In a normal household, Rachel might be old enough, at thirteen, to hold down the fort for a half hour while Collin picks me up, but Ben’s behavior can be unpredictable and Claire scares her even though she’d never say it, so I won’t ask Collin to get me. Loading up the kids at this hour would be ridiculous.
Before I can punch my location into the app, I hear a voice behind me.
“Fancy seeing you again.” Luke is there, on his way out it looks like.
“Hi.”
“You came back.”
“I came back, yes.”
“I wasn’t eavesdropping, but it gets quiet in here close to closing. I may have heard a bit of your story from the café.”
“Oh my God. Really? No.” I am mortified.
“It was really good.”
“No.” I gather my things, not knowing what else to do, trying to brush off the compliment I don’t know how to take.
“Can I buy you a drink across the street?” He nods in the direction of a tavern a few doors down. I freeze.
“I’m married,” I blurt out, like a total basket case, but he doesn’t react the way I thought he would.
“That’s okay. I was just intrigued by your story.”
“Oh.” I’m embarrassed. Was I being presumptuous? “Sorry. That’s so...that’s nice of you to say.”
“No funny business,” he says, holding up his hands. “The offer stands if you ever want any help with it.” He starts to go.
“No. I mean, yes. I’m sorry. Of course. I would love to hear what you have to say, I mean that would be...”
I don’t say “a total dream come true.” I am high from the reaction I already received tonight. I have not done something for myself since I don’t even know when. To be praised for work that has nothing to do with how much you are able to take as a caregiver seems like...well, for a moment it seems like I’m living someone else’s life. Why would I turn this opportunity down?
I call Collin. I tell him that a few of us are gonna grab a drink after group and chat. That’s not a lie. That’s perfectly honest. That’s what I’m doing. Maybe not a “few” of us, but that’s just semantics. It’s professional. He tells me to have fun, that he’s thrilled for me, and he’ll be in bed catching up on a golf thing he DVR’d when I get in.
I sit nervously across from Luke at a pub called Stella’s. It’s a place I’ve been many times over the years, but tonight the familiar wooden booths and sticky rows of bottles behind the dark bar seem unfamiliar, intimidating.
He tells me about his years trying to write the great American novel, but no one wanted it, so he tried his hand at sex, and—
“What do ya know? Sex sells.”
I sip at my vodka gimlet and we talk about the authors we love. I don’t talk about my kids or Claire. It feels like a betrayal somehow, and I don’t know why. But we have plenty to say regardless.
It feels like a teenage romance as we go back and forth emphatically about music, showing each other videos on our phones when we come across one the other hasn’t seen. I’m tipsy as I exclaim that anyone who can’t admit Ray LaMontagne is a genius doesn’t deserve to live, and he puts my number in his phone and texts me a few book titles I have to read. We order a couple more drinks, and he laughs at my jokes. They’re not that funny, but the alcohol has loosened me up and I have little inhibitions at the moment. He tells me he’s leaving for Florence sometime in the fall.
“Like...moving there?” I ask. “To Italy?”
“Just spending six or so weeks writing.”
“In Italy,” I repeat.
“Yeah, why not?”
“Why not!” I sort of slur, gesturing widely with my arms. “Why not?”
“Have you ever been?” he asks, and I’m quiet a moment.
“I almost went once. During college. Didn’t work out.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“So. So you can just, li
ke, you can just decide you feel like writing in Italy for a while, and just like that, you go do it.”
“I guess.”
“Wow.”
“Well, it’s my full-time job, if you look at it that way. Obviously it’s a mobile line of work, so I like to go where the inspiration strikes.”
“That—wow—I just...I can’t imagine that life. When do you leave?”
“Not sure yet. I’ll feel it out.”
“Really? Just whenever the mood strikes?” I ask. Perhaps it comes out bitterly.
“I suppose you could say that, yeah. Right now I like being here.” He looks in my eyes and gives a shy smile. I swallow down a lump rising in my throat at the sudden realization, that no matter how long I keep a tiny sliver of hope alive that one day I could be a writer, hanging out in Italy or wherever I fancied, that is no longer any sort of possibility. I have children. Ben’s school is my top priority and Rachel has sports and friends. Collin hates to fly. Two-hour flights max. Not to mention that I haven’t written anything and I’m not independently wealthy, so there’s that. It’s ridiculous to even entertain for a second. I stare at Luke, wondering if he appreciates his exotic life and freedom.
“I mean, I know you have responsibilities here, of course. But if you ever needed a writing getaway, my place is open. I hope you don’t take that the wrong way, just sayin’.”
“No, I mean...that’s very nice of you.”
I think a moment of how the conversation would go, asking Collin if he can work full-time and also take care of Ben (a full-time job by itself) and Claire (also a full-time job by itself) while I go find myself in Italy for a month, and laugh to myself a little. Fantasies are nice sometimes. But when they are so far from reality, they’re just depressing.
“I should probably get going,” I say, and start to get my things together.
“Of course. Um, you’re...driving?” he asks, and pulls my chair out as I stand.
“I...didn’t drive. Actually. No.”
“Oh.”
“I planned to just hop in a cab.”
“Well, let me give you a ride.” He sees the look on my face that says I’m about to protest, and adds, “I insist.” I nod, gratefully, and follow him out.
The humid air is rich with the hum of crickets as we walk the couple blocks to his car. We are chatting away so it takes me a few minutes to realize how far we’ve walked.
“Parked kind of far away, huh?”
“I walked. Actually—” he points ahead “—I’m just there, around the corner.”
“Oh my gosh, now I feel terrible. You live this close. You’re already home, I can just get a cab.”
Then I see his place. A gorgeous house. It’s one I’ve always seen in passing—a stunning two-story French Creole mansion, with a broad roofline and a stately wrought iron fence around the property. It’s been empty forever. I stare at the beautiful columns.
“This is where you’re staying?”
“Believe it or not, I rented it for a steal because it sat empty so long.”
“Probably since no one in this town can afford it.”
“Well, the price was right. I certainly don’t need all this space, but I really wanted a pool.”
“Wow. I’ve always wanted to see what it looks like. Is it updated? Does it still have the original molding and hardwood?”
“Well, come on,” he says, and he’s walking ahead before I can really say no.
I follow, admiring the manicured lawn. In this town, one block off the main street can feel like a rural ghost town. Even though we’re just a ten-minute walk from the main strip the property is private, butted up against a huge ravine and wooded area. The sprinklers hiss on and we duck in the front door, laughing, dodging them.
“Sorry.” He turns a handle near the front door and the water stops. He walks me through and I point out the original French doors and wraparound mantels. The drinks are buzzing between my ears, and I feel like I’m in someone else’s life right now. I don’t even feel like I’m in my own hometown. I feel like a character in a book.
“It’s just beautiful,” I say.
“It is. It’s nice to find someone who really appreciates the old character and history it has to offer.”
“What a life you live,” I say, and look at him as we stand at the bottom of a grand staircase. I eye the door, and I should say that we should probably go, but when I feel that he hasn’t taken his gaze away from me, I look back and we just let ourselves stare a moment, each deciding what we should do. If this is happening.
He steps closer. I let him. In one move, he runs his fingers through my hair and pulls my face close, and he kisses me. Again, I let him. In moments, we’re fumbling with buttons and I land on top of him as we let ourselves fall to the stairs. I pull his shirt off of his shoulders and he takes me by the hand and leads me upstairs. We don’t take our hands or mouths off of each other the whole way. It happens so fast. I don’t think about how late it is, the great sin I’m committing, my children, my future regret, none of it.
I don’t stop myself; there is somehow not even a moment of hesitation. I squeeze him between my thighs, I push him into me. I hold the slats on the iron bed frame behind me as we make the ancient floorboards creak and moan. I wrap my legs around him as he picks me up, shoving everything off the nearby dresser, and sits me down on it. I’m not self-conscious about my nakedness, my breasts in his face. I hold him closer and kiss every part of him that I can reach, sweating, as we make love in every inch of this room, and I feel nothing but exhilaration. I don’t care about anything else in this moment.
When the Uber drops me off in front of my house, it’s dark and silent. I take off my shoes and hold them in my hand as I quietly slip in the side door. I click the door shut behind me, trying not to make any noise and then I hear myself let out a bloodcurdling scream when I see what’s in front of me.
There is a gun and a figure. I hold my hands up, gasping for air. Then I see that it’s Collin, standing across the kitchen with a handgun pointed at me. I breathe in short panicky bursts, my hands in the air.
“What are you doing?” I scream hysterically.
“Mel?” He flips on the light. “What the fuck?” He puts down the gun and rushes to me, but I pull away, shaking frantically. In that flash of horror, I thought he knew.
“I thought you were a goddamn prowler or something!”
“I said I’d be late.”
“Well, Jesus, Mel. Babe, I’m so sorry.” He tries to hold me, but I don’t want him to smell the sex on my clothes or another man’s cologne, so I turn the attention to the footsteps we hear coming down the stairs.
“Mom?” Rachel calls, clearly too scared to come down. Collin hides the gun and stands at the bottom, looking up at her.
“It’s okay, hon, your mom saw that possum. Must have gotten in the back door tonight.” He looks to me for approval for the lie. I nod.
“Oh my God, eeew.”
“We got him out. Go back to bed before Ben wakes up, okay?”
We hear her trudge back to her room and close the door.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I heard someone in the kitchen earlier, and the TV was on. I was sure it was you a couple hours ago, so when I heard the door open, I thought it wa...I don’t know.”
“Rachel always comes down for TV when she can’t sleep. God, Collin. A little overboard with the gun, don’t you think?” I say, and he sits at the counter and sighs.
“I thought I heard something last night too.”
“Really? Like what?”
“I don’t know. You were asleep. I checked on Mom and the kids. Just a noise. Something.”
“You should have told me.” I take off my earrings and pull up my hair while we talk, trying to appear normal.
“It was nothing, apparently. But when I thought I heard
it again tonight, I was trying to protect us. It’s after midnight. I had no idea it would be you.”
“Sorry. We all just got to talking and I didn’t even notice how late it was. I wasn’t gonna call and wake you.”
“No, it’s fine, just...God. You scared the shit out of me.”
“Likewise. Sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry.”
We both sit there a moment.
“Well, if you’re not gonna shoot me, I’m gonna take a shower. We all went to Stella’s so I reek like cigar smoke.”
“Yeah, okay,” he says mindlessly, already busy putting the gun away and getting ready to go back to bed.
I sit on the floor of the shower while the water pours over me. I try to cry as quietly as possible. If the last hour of emptiness and regret is any indication of how the coming days will be, I’ve created a kind of hell for myself. But just underneath the weight of my insurmountable shame, I feel the rush, the pleasure, the lust.
6
IT’S SATURDAY. A couple weeks have gone by and I tell Collin I skipped out of writing group the last two weeks because I’m working on a big story and I need a little time to write it before I share it with the group. I said I could spend the next couple Thursdays just writing and that I’d go back to the group in a few weeks. I couldn’t go back until I knew Luke’s reading series was over. He was only meant to be there one more Thursday, but I couldn’t chance it. I had given him my number, but I told him never to contact me after I left his house. He promised. And he hasn’t.
This morning Ben is in the pool with Pink Panther floaties on his arms. He’s whipping the surface of the water with a pool noodle, which has Rachel yelling at him and guarding her phone. She lies on a beach towel, tanning herself. Ben seems upset the last couple of days. He’s withdrawn and agitated, and I can’t help but think he senses my sins—my active role in potentially destroying my family, but I don’t really know why he’s on edge. It could be anything.
I’ve wheeled Claire out to sit with us, but she stares off until she falls asleep sitting up in her chair. I dab the drool on the side of her mouth with my breakfast napkin as I clear the outdoor table. Rachel sees this, then looks away, swallowing hard. I give a breezy smile like it’s no big deal.
Such a Good Wife Page 5
