“Light bulb,” Finn says, holding one up. “From Home Depot.” He’s tall enough that he doesn’t need a chair to reach the ceiling.
“Do you have a flashlight?” I ask.
“I’ll grab it.” He sets the bulb on a table and comes toward the doorway. He’s mostly a silhouette, barely lit by the glare of candles in the other room. The hollows of his cheeks are shadowed. He stops. It could be the low ceiling, but he seems twice my size.
Adrenaline jolts me. This place is unfamiliar. Dark. Private. The air between us changes, growing heavy, uncertain.
He lays a warm hand on my shoulder. “Excuse me.”
Goose bumps rise over my skin. I’m blocking the doorway. I step aside so he can pass. My brain recovers slowly, unwrapping a thought piece by piece like a package. I like the easy way he moves. His unassuming charm. The way his bottom lip seems stuck in a perpetual pout. I’m attracted to him.
“Do you mind?” he asks.
I nearly jump out of my skin. “What?”
He holds out a flashlight. “So I can change the bulb.”
“Oh.” I take it. “Yes. Okay.”
He gets into position. I turn the light on and shine it at him.
He waves his arms in front of his face. “Jesus. I need to see the lamp—it doesn’t need to see me,” he says.
I giggle and shift the glare to the ceiling. “Sorry.”
“You will be if you blind me. Then you’d be forced to take care of me.”
I mock gasp. “How do you figure?”
“Out of guilt,” he says simply.
“Guilt?” I tease. “What’s that?”
“Ha. How much time do you have?” He screws the light bulb in and brushes his hands on his jeans. “That should do it.”
I flip the light on. Nothing happens. “Is it in all the way?”
“Yes. Are you sure that’s the right switch?”
“It is in our kitchen.”
I aim the flashlight along the walls, searching for any others. Finn removes the bulb and blows on it.
“I think we’re screwed,” I say. “That’s a little light bulb humor for you.”
“Very funny.” He tosses the bulb in a full garbage can near the sink. “Thanks a lot, Home Depot. Now what?”
I get two candles from the living room and set them on the kitchen counter. “We forge ahead. There’s a job to do.”
He tilts his head. “Are you sure?”
“The show must go on.”
He chuckles. “I should invite you over more often. You’re like a human inspirational poster.”
“Hmm.” I try to think of something uplifting that relates to switching on a light bulb. A familiar quote comes to me. “I will love you the same in the dark as I do in the light,” I murmur, though I probably should’ve kept it to myself.
“Now you just sound like a Pinterest board.”
“It’s from Nathan’s vows.” I force a smile. “He wrote that.”
“Oh.” Finn leaves the room and returns with a box in his arms. “Pots and pans.”
I peek inside. “A lot here for someone who doesn’t cook.”
“How about under the stove?” he asks, as if this is our apartment.
“Makes sense. Where’s the rest?”
“Outside the doorway, to the left.”
I find a box labeled Silverware. Finn’s handwriting is unusually neat. I take the one underneath it too, since it has other drawer items, including a utensil organizer. The first two of its three labels have been crossed out with black marker: Marissa. Donate. Kitchen.
Marissa? An ex-girlfriend? Is that the real reason Finn moved?
I don’t ask. It isn’t my business, and I tell myself I’m better off not knowing. I return to the kitchen and get to work unpacking the boxes in a way that seems right to me. The sterling tings each time I drop silverware into the organizer. I have to squint to make sure each one goes in the right slot. Finn’s making a lot of noise trying to get all the pans to fit.
“By any chance, was your kitchen in Connecticut a little bigger?” I ask.
“What gave it away?” He sighs, pulling out a solid black pan. “What the hell is this thing? Can I get rid of it?”
“Cast iron skillet,” I say. “Why on Earth do you own it if you don’t know what it’s for?”
He does a bicep curl and sets it on the counter. “Hell, I don’t even need a gym membership while I have one of these.”
“Skillets make frittatas, not muscles.” I say muscles flirtatiously. It’s a good word for that.
“A fri-whatta?”
I squeeze my eyes shut as I laugh. His furrowed brow alone has me doubling over.
“I’m serious,” he says.
“I know.” I gasp for breath. “That’s why it’s so funny.” I point behind me, into the other room. “There’s a box that says donate if you want to put it in there.”
He glances over but leaves the skillet where it is. “Thanks, but since you interrupted my workout, I think I’ll squeeze in a few reps as we go.”
I smile, and in the silence that follows, I think about Finn’s arms. How they might feel around a woman. How they might feel around me. It’s nice to be held. I wish Nathan would knock on the door. Drag me home. Put his own arms around me. Make love to me. Remembering his vows has made me feel warm inside, fuzzy. And maybe even a little guilty? Which is odd for me. I’ve never been a big believer in guilt or regret.
I remember a recent discussion Nathan and I had over the summer. A friend of mine admitted over drinks to having second thoughts about her fiancé. I came home, turned on a bedside lamp, and told Nathan.
“Will she marry him anyway?” he asked.
“I think so. Out of guilt if nothing else.”
“You wouldn’t have gone through with our wedding if you’d had any doubts,” Nate stated.
I agreed. “And I hope you wouldn’t have either.”
“Probably not. I have no way of knowing, though. I never had any.” He sat up against the headboard, his eyes sleepy but engaged. “But she’s staying with her fiancé out of guilt and nothing more. How sick is that?” he asked. “Imagine if no one felt guilt. We’d be free of our own demons.”
“Without guilt, there’d be no remorse,” I said. “Sure, we’d all be happier if we could forgive ourselves for this or that. But imagine the world we’d live in if people had no reason to think twice about how they treated others.”
“All right, but hypothetically speaking—if we could learn as a society to deal with our guilt in a healthier manner, we’d function better. Don’t you think?”
“Give me an example.”
He thought a moment. “Take your friend. If she didn’t feel guilty about calling off the wedding the week before the ceremony, she’d save herself a lot of misery. Yeah, it would suck. People have flights and hotel reservations and both parties have put a lot of money into it. But now, what’ll happen is—they’ll get back from their honeymoon, and reality will settle in. Maybe they won’t realize it at first. Maybe they even have a kid or two. Ten years down the line, they’re divorcing, tearing the family apart, fighting each other tooth and nail, taking years off their lives from the stress.”
I nodded along with everything he said. Nathan’s not only smart, but emotionally intelligent. I love that about him. “Or stay together and set a bad example for the kids,” I said, thinking of my own parents. “But I think what you’re talking about is shame. She’d be ashamed to call it off because of how it would look and what it would cost everyone. She wouldn’t necessarily be remorseful.”
“What about you?” he asked. “You claim that you never feel guilty.”
I waggled my eyebrows at him. “And imagine if the rest of the population were like me?”
“The horror.” He reached out and pulled me flat on the bed for a kiss. “Terrifying, really.”
I touched his cheek. “I want to be more like you.”
“How am I?” he whispered.
“Space,” he mused. “That’s something I’ll never give you too much of. Promise me the same?”
I promised, of course. Was I breaking that promise now by not pushing him harder to tell me what was bothering him? Each day I’ve thought about bringing it up, something has stopped me. I’ll wait until the weekend in case it’s a big deal, I’ll think, or, After the holidays. Or, Maybe tomorrow he’ll be different. Then there’s the fact that he’s already hurting over the sudden decline of his dad’s health. I don’t want to needle him.
But this tiny, red-stain of a clue—I’m more worried now than I was.
“You’re quiet over there,” Finn says.
Sweating, I shrug my cardigan off my shoulders and place it on the back of a chair. My tank top sticks to my stomach.
“Hot?” Finn asks.
“Kind of.” There’s another box at my feet, though I don’t remember it being there before. It looks heavy, so I open it on the ground. Carefully, I lift a set of dinner plates onto the counter. “I was thinking about what you said earlier.”
“I’m sorry about the Pinterest joke. I’m not even really sure what that website is . . .”
“Not that,” I say. “I’m not that sensitive. I meant the guilt thing, when you asked how much time I had. What do you feel guilty about?”
He clears his throat. “Oh. You mean . . . right now?”
“In general. What are you holding on to?”
He blows out a sigh that ends in a laugh. “That’s a tough question. If you want to see an American panic, ask them what they did wrong today. Sometimes I’m surprised we aren’t all curled into balls by breakfast time.”
“Interesting. You make it sound like an epidemic.”
“It kind of is, but I’m guilty of it too.” We both laugh. “Guilty of feeling guilt.”
“I don’t feel guilt,” I declare as if I’m on trial. As if I’m trying to convince him. “I don’t have regrets.”
“About anything?” he asks, surprised.
“Pretty much. Most things, I can’t control. And those I can, I always try to make good decisions with the information I have. At least, decisions that work best for me.”
“And your husband.”
I stop rinsing out a bowl. “Well, yes. I mean, what’s best for me is almost always best for Nathan.”
“And if it isn’t?”
I dry the dish and place it on the shelf with the others. Once, a long time ago, I made a decision for Nathan. It hadn’t been easy. Many people would even say it was bad. Wrong. But my life with Nathan is better for it, so how can I feel guilty about that?
I try to think of a choice I’ve made that wasn’t best for Nathan, but I did it anyway. Nathan is the most important thing in my life. Do I know, though, without a shadow of a doubt, that I can and will put him before myself? In an ideal world, the answer is yes. And most of the time I do.
But then, I think about our trouble getting pregnant. Nathan may have been okay with me going back on birth control for now, but that won’t last. He’s prepared to exhaust every option. I know better, though—some people don’t get everything they want. And there has to be a point, when the heartbreak becomes too much, where someone says—enough is enough. A hard decision to make, but one that’s in both our best interests.
“Compromise,” I say. It’s a canned answer, but the alternative is the truth, which is that I don’t know what I’d do if faced with a choice between what’s best for me and what’s best for Nathan.
“Where is he?” Finn asks after a moment.
“Who?” I pick up a heavy serving dish, blow on it, and designate a musty corner cupboard with extra space to be the party platter home.
“Your husband.” He clears his throat. “Where is he?”
“Oh.” With some effort, I slide the large plate into its spot, close the cabinet, and take a breath. “I don’t know. We have a very relaxed—”
“So you’ve said,” he says. “You don’t care where he is?”
I look down at my hands. Finn continues to press an issue I don’t want to think about. I came here to distract myself, not confront demons. I could try and guess where Nathan is, but the point isn’t that he’s not here. It’s why. What’s keeping him away lately? Another woman? Or, worse—me? Except for bowling nights, it takes a lot for him to miss dinner.
“Of course I care,” I say. “But I trust him.”
“I didn’t realize we were talking about trust.”
Neither did I.
“Something wrong?” Finn asks.
I keep my back to him. “No.” I take out another dish in a floral pattern. Where the hell did he get this—a flea market? Men.
Finn wipes his hands on a rag, takes the plate from me, and sets it aside. “I know we don’t know each other very well—”
“We don’t know each other at all.” I turn to face him. “We’re half a step up from strangers.”
He winces, almost imperceptibly. “Okay . . . well, then, think of me as a stranger. Sometimes it’s easier to confide in someone you don’t know.”
My chest is tight. Actually, Finn doesn’t feel like a stranger, but more like we’ve known each other a long time. Longer than Nathan and I, even, which makes no sense. Meeting Nathan felt fresh, like a beginning, as if he’d just been born and walked right into my life. Finn could be an old friend, though, a t-shirt I’ve worn a thousand times.
“I found something.” The words tumble out.
“What did you find?”
“It’s stupid. And cliché. It’s dumb to even mention it.” I roll my eyes and lean my back against the counter. “I found a lipstick stain.”
“When?” His expression closes. “Where?”
“Last night, on his tie.”
“Jesus, Sadie.” Finn runs both hands through his hair as if I’ve just told him something about his own spouse. He makes a face. “I’m sorry.”
“You are?” My heart skips. “Why? You think it means something?”
“Oh. I—” He scratches under his collar. “Probably not.”
“You’re lying.”
He exhales a nervous laugh. “I just—I mean, how would I know? I’ve never met the guy. But every time I see you, you’re alone.”
“I told you, last night he was bowling.”
He raises both palms. “I’m not saying anything. Are there women at the bowling alley?”
“I don’t know.” I haven’t been to a game. Maybe I should, though.
Finn reaches out and hesitantly rubs my bare shoulder. There’s a sheen of sweat at the base of his neck, and my scalp grows hot. I move my hair over one shoulder as he slides his hand a little higher and presses his thumb along my collarbone.
I part my lips, and when he does it again, I close my eyes. “That’s nice.”
He isn’t gentle. I can feel the strength of his hands as he massages my shoulder, then my neck.
“The thing is,” I say in the dark, “I haven’t always been the best wife, but he’s been a flawless husband. That’s why it doesn’t make sense.”
“Have you asked him about it?”
“No. It seems ridiculous to even bring it up. Anyone who knows us . . .” I pause, unable to think of how to explain it. “He wouldn’t.”
We stand quietly for a minute. Finn slips his fingers under the strap of my tank top. It slides down my shoulder. “Sorry,” he mutters.
I don’t fix it.
He continues to work the tension out of my neck. “When you say you haven’t been the best wife . . .”
“That’s not what I mean.” I shake my head. “I’ve never been unfaithful. It’s just, when one half of the relationship is perfect, the other half is bound to be a let down, any way you cut it. I don’t always say and do the right thing.”
“And he does?”
“Always,” I whisper. “Until these last two months.”<
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“What happened two months ago?”
I bite my bottom lip hard. It’s what I’ve been asking myself over and over. One day, he was himself. The next day . . . off. “He found out his father is dying.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He turned down a promotion at work so he could stay available for his dad. But a few months ago, I took a promotion, and now I’m making a tiny bit more money than him.”
“Would that upset him enough to ice you out?”
“I don’t think so. The difference is negligible, really.” The Nathan I know wouldn’t be so petty, but lately, I’ve been learning quite a bit about the man I married. “He seemed happy for me.”
“So, you think maybe . . .?”
“What?” I ask.
“I’m not stupid,” he says. “I’m not going to say it first.”
“That he met someone? No. I don’t think so. There must be another explanation.” I open my eyes, and Finn seems closer than he was a few seconds ago.
“Hi,” he says, “again.”
“Hi.” My voice is creaky. “What’s the diagnosis?”
He slides a finger up the back of my neck. Goose bumps light up my skin. “Some tightness, but relatively knot-free.”
“That’s good.”
“Yes, it is.” He inhales deeply and stares at me. “I have to tell you something.”
My hairline prickles. I can sense it’ll be heavy, and I’m not sure I want to hear it. I force a crooked smile that probably looks as awkward as I feel. “I smell like dog food?”
“I want to kiss you,” he says without missing a beat. “I won’t, but I just thought you should know.”
My stomach drops as if I’m in free fall. I bite my lip involuntarily, then release it, afraid it’ll look like an invitation. Can he really come out and say that? Without prompting, without wavering? You can want to kiss someone and not say it. Should I be angry he confessed that? I’m not. I’m curious. Stirred, even. Since we’re being honest, I ask what I want to ask. “Why?”
“Why do I want to kiss you? Or why did I tell you?”
My heart rate picks up. I lose my nerve. “The second one. That’s not the kind of thing you just come out and say to a stranger. A married stranger.”
Slip of the Tongue Page 6
