Slip of the Tongue

by Jessica Hawkins

  I lean my shoulder against the doorframe. “Did you have fun?”

  “Bowling? Not really.” He glances over his shoulder and opens his mouth as if he’s going to launch into some story about how dumb his friends act when they’re drunk. I’ve heard it before. Instead, he says, “It was fine.”

  “Oh. Did you move to the couch last night?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Your side of the bed is made.”

  “That’s what you get for marrying a neat freak. Almost made it with you in it.”

  I smile a little. He hands me my coffee and gets milk out of the fridge. As he’s shutting the door, he stops and looks back inside. “You drank beer last night?”

  I take a sip from my mug. He wouldn’t question me if I said yes, but why would I lie? Our neighbor came over for dinner. Our neighbor, whose name I didn’t want to know, and who is noticeably, ruggedly handsome, came over to avoid a second trip to the diner in one day.

  If our roles were reversed, though, I’m not sure I’d be so understanding. Women love Nathan, his boyish charm and infectious smile. A fool could see why. If he had someone in my apartment while I was gone, I wouldn’t like it. Not that he’d turn anyone away. I was being polite, and Nathan would’ve done the same.

  “And wine?” Nate asks, picking up the half-empty bottle of Pinot Noir from a shelf inside the door. “Should I be worried?”

  “Someone came over,” I say.

  “Who? Jill? She hates beer.”

  “No. We have a new neighbor in 6A, finally someone our age.” I drink more from my mug. Nathan meets my eyes over the lip. “He hadn’t unpacked his kitchen yet, so I invited him in for dinner.”

  “He?”

  “Yes. Is that okay?”

  He slowly replaces the wine in its spot. “Of course. It’s fine.” He shuts the door, and I can practically hear him thinking.

  “What?” I prompt, curious. Seeing as I don’t really talk about other men much, it isn’t often I get to see his reaction when I do.

  “You cooked for him?” he asks.

  Aha. Nathan and his meals. He eats with love what I make with love, always. Even now, it’s one thing we haven’t lost. I shuffle a little closer to him, taking advantage of the chance to comfort him. “I felt bad,” I say with a shrug. “Also, his radiator something-or-other broke, and he can’t shut it off. He doesn’t seem to be dealing well with the heat.”

  “Huh. Playing phone tag with the super?”

  “Sounds like it.”

  He laughs to himself. “Just like when we moved in, only the opposite. Bastard should be thankful he’s got heat at all.”

  “That’s what I said.” With a tiny bit of hesitation, but still more than I’m used to, I wrap my arms around Nate’s middle. It’s not the least bit soft—he dedicates a weekly gym session to abdominals, after all—but it’s my happy place. I smell his aftershave. There’s a new, subtle scent too, though. It must be the styling pomade that appeared on the bathroom counter a few weeks ago. “I was thinking about that too. Thank God I was sleeping next to a human heater. Remember how cold it was?”

  “Not really,” he says. “I was too happy to notice.”

  I look up. From this angle, I can clearly see the dark circles under his eyes. The lines around his frown. They make me ache from my core, because I know something is keeping him up at night. Part of it must be his dad’s declining health. But there’s more too, and it has to do with me.

  “Our first real place together,” he says. “We were so happy.”

  “Are happy, honey. It’s a good memory, but I’m just as happy now as I was then.” We may be going through a rough patch, but it isn’t enough to erase the last seven years. “Aren’t you?”

  “This apartment is just—cramped.” He flexes his muscles against me. “It would be nice to have more space.”

  “You think? We’d be hard pressed to find anything bigger for what we’re paying.”

  “In Manhattan, yes.”

  “Yes,” I repeat, “but where else is there?”

  “I don’t know.” He checks his watch. “I have to go. Can you take Ginger out?”

  Ginger is already sitting by the front door, ready for her morning walk. Nate started the tradition when she was a puppy. Back then, it was an excuse to smoke a cigarette. He quit years ago, though, worried tobacco could lower sperm count. He and Ginger continued their morning routine.

  I sigh. “If this is going to be a habit,” I say, since it’s the same argument we had yesterday, “I need to know so I can wake up a few minutes earlier.”

  “And I’ve walked her almost every morning the last four years without complaint.” He tries to pull away, but I hold fast. Argument or not, I’m not ready for the moment to end. “I’ve only asked you to do it a few times,” he says.

  “But you love it. You used to joke she was the only woman you’d been on more dates with than me.”

  He tenses. “Sadie. I have to go.”

  “All right, all right. I just want to stand with you a minute and tell you I love—”

  “Sadie—can you—” He pushes my shoulder a little harder than I think he means. I stumble back. He whirls around to brace himself against the sink. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  I’m shaken by the shove, but it vanishes when he heaves. I’ve only seen him throw up once or twice since I’ve known him. I touch his back. “Honey?”

  He takes a couple deep breaths. “Hang on. It’s passing.”

  Once I see it’s not serious, I lose my fight against a smile. “So,” I tease, “not wasted, huh?”

  He shakes his head, his knuckles white.

  I run my hand down his spine. “Call in. You must have a ton of sick days saved up. You never use them.”

  “I’m saving them. In case my dad—you know. He might need me.” He pushes off the counter and turns, his hand at his stomach. “I can go over to the neighbor’s after work and take a look at the radiator.”

  Nathan and I used to talk about his dad’s cancer more. I haven’t asked him how he’s dealing, and he hasn’t offered. I let the subject change slide. “You’d do that?” I ask. Since we spent those three weeks without heat, Nate has become good with fixing things around the apartment himself.

  “Sure.”

  “That’s nice, babe.” I hesitate. Even though I think Nathan might like Finn, there’s always a possibility a friendly neighbor could intrude on our alone time. “It’s not our problem, though.”

  “It’s the neighborly thing to do.” He moves to go around me, but I have him cornered.

  “I’m sorry about your beer,” I say. “Should I swing by Brooklyn Brewery and get another six-pack?” I don’t know where the offer comes from. I’ve never been good with guilt—feeling it, dealing with it. Sometimes it manifests in weird ways. Is it because Finn was here?

  “Don’t be silly. Beers are meant to be drunken.” He wrinkles his nose. “Drunk? Drank? Whatever.”

  I laugh a little.

  “I would take leftovers, though. It’ll save me a trip downstairs at lunch.”

  “Oh.” I scratch behind my ear. “There weren’t any, actually. Sorry.”

  He just nods once. “No big deal.”

  “I’ll take Ginger out,” I say, a consolation.

  “Okay.”

  I make no move to let him by. We’re physically closer than we’ve been in a while outside of our bed, and I want a kiss. It’s not unreasonable for a wife to want a kiss from her husband.

  “I . . .” He puts a heavy hand on my shoulder and pecks my forehead. “I’ll try to be home for dinner.”

  As dedicated as he is to his job, Nathan almost always leaves at five o’clock. I want to ask what he means by that. Our jobs are equally demanding, but I make a point to cook him dinner each night I know he’ll be home.

  I step aside. He leaves the room. I want to say more, but I don’t know what. Things are a little better, but after last night, we should be more connected.<
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  I go to the entryway, where he’s shrugging on his coat. He kisses Ginger on the head, like he just did to me.

  There is one thing guaranteed to melt his heart. “Bell would be so mad at me,” I say.

  He looks up quickly, his eyes big. “Bell? How come?”

  Bingo. My coat is hanging by the door. I reach into the pocket and pull out a fun-size Snickers bar from the weekend. “I almost forgot to give you this from her.”

  He takes it. “Candy? She got it trick-or-treating?”

  I nod. “She said it was uncle Nate’s favorite. I tried to tell her you love Twix, but—”

  “I hate Twix.”

  I cock my head at him. The hostility in his tone is disarming. “I know that, Nathan. I’m teasing you.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Thanks.” He fixes his tie. “See you tonight.”

  “You messed it up. Now it’s crooked.” I go to him.

  “It’s okay,” he says, stepping back. “I’ll redo it on the train.”

  He leaves, and I stand there a few more moments by myself. My heart pulses under skin Nathan didn’t touch—the forearm he didn’t pull to bring me close. My unkissed mouth.

  Ginger whines at the door Nathan just walked through. Every day she wants go with us. Every day she’s disappointed.

  Later, while I’m tucking in my blouse, I remember Nate’s pile of clothes from the night before. I pick it up and separate each piece into an already brimming bag of dry cleaning. His gray, checked Prada tie was my Christmas gift to him years ago, purchased with my first bonus check. He knows what it cost, which is why I’m surprised to find it wrinkled at the bottom of the heap. I uncurl it, sliding the silk through my fingers. There’s a smeared red mark near the edge.

  My heart stops before I register any real thought. I hold the fabric up to my face and examine it. The stain is small. I could’ve easily missed it. I rub it with my thumb, but it’s already set. Lipstick?

  A lump forms in my throat. No. My Nathan would never, ever let another woman rub lipstick on his tie. My Nathan respects what we have. Respects me. We’ve shared enough conversations over the years about friends’ infidelity to know where the other stands. Urges are natural. Temptation can’t be avoided. I don’t care if Nathan flirts, even though it isn’t in his nature. When we’re out together, he doesn’t even look at other women. But he’s supposed to come to me if it ever gets to the point that he’d act on it. This is the smart, sensible decision we’ve come to—together.

  Ginger’s wet nose against my pant leg is a reminder that she needs to go out. I’ll be late for work if I dawdle anymore. I shove the tie in the bag, but shove and bury as I do, I don’t think I’ll be able to put it out of my mind. Even though I know in my core—my Nathan would never cheat on me.

  But I haven’t seen my Nathan in months.

  FIVE

  As I predicted, the lipstick stain on Nathan’s tie sits like a nugget in my brain all day, uncomfortable enough that I can’t forget it for very long. As a result, I find myself standing over the laundry bag as soon as I get home from work, trying to decide how to proceed.

  Trust isn’t really an issue in my marriage. After five years, though, Nate’s behavior has become less predictable—practically overnight. He’s distant—physically and emotionally. He’s made subtle changes in his appearance, styling his hair differently, spending more time at the gym. And, as much as I want to pretend like our marriage is perfect, I may have one flaw so great, I couldn’t blame him for withdrawing.

  Nathan gives me everything and asks for very little. The one thing he does want, though, he hasn’t been quiet about. While I once wanted it as badly as he did, the weight of both our disappointment on my shoulders has become too much. After seven months of trying to get pregnant—seven months of heartbreak every time I got my period—I went back on birth control. It was Nathan’s suggestion. Watching me go through it was too hard for him. He thinks it’s temporary. “We’ll try again later,” he told me. “There’s no reason it has to be now.” But the more I think about it, the less I’m able to see myself walk that painful path again. Children might not be in our future because of decisions I made in my past. If I force myself to, I can accept that. Can Nathan, though?

  Maybe not. Maybe the last couple months, he’s been preparing himself for the possibility that I can’t give him what he really wants.

  I reach into the laundry bag and pull out his tie. The stain is small—almost nothing. There are two possible outcomes to asking Nathan about it.

  One—he’s innocent, and I’ve just broadened the gap between us by making an unfounded accusation. Is this really enough evidence to draw such a drastic conclusion?

  Two—Nathan had sex with another woman. The thought knots my stomach, and I have to breathe through the discomfort. It’s too unexpected. Too sudden. No husband can go from doting to heartless in so little time.

  I’m almost angry. The whole thing is just too stupidly cliché. If Nate were going to cheat, he’d be more creative about it. He’d make at least this small effort to hide it.

  I sling the bag over my shoulder. I can’t see any benefit from bringing it up. My faith in him is stronger than a tiny blemish. Ginger follows me to the front door, where I leash her and put on my coat. With Ginger and the laundry bag in tow, I head down the hall to elevator.

  Just as I step inside, I hear, “Hold it, please.”

  I catch the doors, stopping them just as they’re about to meet. His voice shouldn’t be so familiar after a day of living here, but I know it’s 6A.

  Finn boards the elevator. Ginger greets him with a wagging tail. He ruffles the fur on her head.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hello again.”

  It reminds me of when we met, when he said the same thing. “Keys?” I ask.

  He pats his pocket and nods. “Those auto-lock doors will take some getting used to.”

  “Fight it as you might, you will lock yourself out at some point.”

  “Good thing I have a cool neighbor.” He grins. “What’re you two pretty ladies up to?”

  I shrug and try not to blush at his sugary words. “Just the usual stuff,” I say. “Public defecation, sniffing butts, things like that.”

  He chuckles. “I hope you’re talking about Ginger.”

  “She has all the fun.” I show him the sack over my shoulder. “I got stuck with the errands.”

  “Dry cleaning?”

  “Yep.”

  “The place by Home Depot?” he asks. “That’s where I’m going. I’ll walk you.”

  With a ding, the elevator doors open. “Thanks.”

  “Did your husband mind about the beer?” he asks as we head outside. “What’s his name again?”

  “Nathan. And no, not a bit. He was happy to share.” Nathan didn’t question me, and isn’t having a man alone in the apartment worse than a potential lipstick stain? Is it? If so, why didn’t Nathan care? He seemed more concerned about missing out on the leftovers.

  “Sounds like a good guy.”

  The bulky bag is like a barrier between us. A good guy. That’s one accurate way to describe my husband. For some reason, I’m tempted to pull out the tie and show Finn. Get a man’s opinion. Ask how a cool wife would handle this without making it worse. I don’t know why, but Finn also seems like a good guy, and a good guy would be appalled by his friendly neighbor’s philandering husband.

  “How could anyone cheat on someone like you?” he’d respond. “I’d kill to have someone make me a homemade meal each night. Especially if that someone were you.”

  I’m getting ahead of myself in a million different ways. Why would Finn care if Nate were unfaithful? Unfaithful. The thought rings ridiculous. Nathan is the gold standard of husbands.

  “I’ve been wondering,” Finn says as we cross a street, Ginger trotting alongside me, “if you can recommend a gym within walking distance?”

  “We go to New York Sports Club.” Nathan got a trainer who tries to get me to si
gn up whenever I tag along, which isn’t often, and much less lately. “It’s on Twenty-Third.”

  “Cool,” he says excitedly. “I had a membership there when I was younger. With everything going on, gym time was the first thing I cut out. Need to get back to it.”

  I look sidelong at him. He hasn’t shaven since I last saw him, and he wears scruff well. Emboldened by the fact that I’m carrying Nathan’s marked tie, I drop my eyes to where I really want to look. His sculptured shoulders. Biceps that stretch his sweatshirt. His sleeves are pushed up, displaying brawny forearms. Normally, I’d bite my tongue, but now I wonder if Nate bothers to bite his anymore. “Well, it doesn’t look like you’ve missed even a day,” I say.

  My face warms. I look at the sidewalk. Unless it’s my imagination, Ginger shakes her head at me. I can’t believe I said that. I’ve admired other men before, but once I hear what I said to Finn out loud, it doesn’t sound like meaningless flirting. And I don’t really want to take it back.

  “Thank you.” Finn rubs his stomach. I can’t dream up anything less than a six-pack under his hand. “But I’m normally in better shape.”

  He’s in excellent shape. “Could’ve fooled me,” I say.

  “Well, maybe moving has helped.”

  “Do you need help?” I ask. I have a hard time picturing a man like him decorating. “With the little things, I mean. Making it into a home. I’m good at that kind of stuff.”

  “Sure. Maybe.”

  I wonder if I’ve overstepped some male-female friend boundary. I’m new at this. The only males I socialize with anymore are either my friends’ husbands or my husband’s friends. None of them rank even close to Finn—or Nathan—in the looks department. Does that mean we shouldn’t be friends?

  I need something to ease the weird tension, so I choose a safe topic. “So, what kind of job did you have on Wall Street?”

  Before he can answer, Ginger bolts after a squirrel and yanks the leash out my hand. “Ginge—”

  Finn takes off. Within seconds, he chases her down and gets ahold of her leash. With a hearty laugh, he squats and scratches her behind the ears. She’s still on full alert with the squirrel in her sights, but then she sits back and licks his cheek.