I’m overheating. I push for real this time. “Nathan’s waiting.”
He backs off, his body noticeably tense. “I’m waiting, Sadie. Ten years I’ve been hoping to turn a corner and run into you.”
“You don’t mean that.”
He puts the heel of one hand to his forehead. “I’m not trying to come off as a creep. It’s not like I thought I’d ever see you again.” He massages his temples with long, strong fingers. “But I kept my eyes open whenever I was in this neighborhood. I’ve spent more money at Quench than one person should. I hoped. I watched. For you.”
“Me?” I ask. “Or anyone who isn’t Kendra?”
He sets his jaw. “What kind of a question is that? Kendra and I have our own shit. It has nothing to do with you.”
“Fine.” I don’t want to get into it with him. If I know Nathan, he’s still dead to the world. His hangover remedy is to sleep the next day away. I want to be there when he wakes up. I want to be there if he reaches for me again. “I’ll see you, Finn.”
“When?”
“Whenever I see you. I can’t make any promises.”
He’s hurt. I’m going to walk away. I am. But ten years ago, I would’ve dropped Ethics and Media for another chance with the golden boy I’d let get away. For an irresistibly sexy, shirtless Finn, asking me to stay. When I’d thought of him after that day, it was with regret. I’d walked out on something special. The way Finn believes we’re meant to be, I’d believed myself a fool to go with Becky.
My heart softens a little. “You really looked for me after that day?”
He takes my hand and kisses my palm. “I did. You are not just anyone to me. You’re the one who got away.”
He begins wrapping up my croissant. I sigh, not with longing, but with a sinking feeling in my stomach. “Keep it. I don’t think I’ll be around today,” I say, as though a pastry is a consolation prize. The truth is, I could stay here. It scares me that I want to just as much as I want Nathan to pull me back under the covers. It scares me that I don’t know if Nathan would care beyond missing his coffee fix. Finn looks like he’s going to be as sick as Nathan, but at least he’d accept my comfort. I glance down the hall. “I’ll walk Ginger before work tomorrow,” I tell Finn.
He frowns. “I’ll be there.”
I pick up the coffee, wake Ginger, and enter my apartment with as little noise as possible, slipping off my tennies. Ginger wraps me in her leash trying to get to Nathan. Her tail goes a mile a minute.
“Hush,” I whisper when she whines. “Daddy’s sleeping.”
We’ve been gone less than an hour, but when I let her go, she bounds into the other room.
It doesn’t matter that I tried not to wake him, though. Nathan’s not on the couch anymore.
I look around the quiet apartment. Has he left? When? I swallow thickly. It’s disarming to think he was somewhere out there while I canoodled Finn, and not fast asleep as I’d blindly assumed. “Nate?”
“Got coffee?” he answers from our bedroom.
I breathe out, relieved that he’s still here. After this morning’s breakthrough, I have a shred of hope this could be a good day for us. I find him in front of our closet, freshly showered with a towel around his waist.
I lean against the doorway and take in the scene before me. “Are you going somewhere?”
He avoids eye contact as he takes his coffee from the tray and tastes it. “It’s almost cold.”
“Blame it on Ginger,” I say. “She wants to smell everything. It’s not easy walking her while balancing two coffees.”
He turns back to surveying the closet. When he takes another sip from his cup, his towel loosens. He catches it with lightning speed. Nathan hasn’t undressed in front of me since I sucked him off in the doorway. I think about Finn’s morning wood. Did Nathan jerk off in the shower? It’s been almost two weeks. It seems ridiculous to hope for a glimpse of my husband’s cock.
For a brief second, he has the decency to look sheepish about it. It passes. “Is there food?” he asks.
“I’ll get it.” I push off the doorway and go get the pastry from my purse. It’s the least I can do, considering the real reason his coffee is cold.
In the ten seconds I was gone, Nathan has changed into his underwear and hung the towel in the bathroom. I can see the push and pull of his muscles when he moves. He’s chiseled, but lean, thanks to his six-foot-three frame.
Nate takes the bag from me, looks inside, and groans. “How’d you know exactly what I wanted?”
I warm with pride. “Gisele picked it out.”
He cuts his gaze to me, sharp as a knife, as if I just admitted to tossing his laptop out the window. “Gisele,” he says, deadpan.
“Yeah.” I scrunch my eyebrows. “From Quench.”
His jaw is clenched like he’s trying to snap it. Her name has set him off. Why? She’s been a friend since she started at Quench last Christmas. She’s young. And beautiful—there’s no denying that. Nathan once defended her from a handsy businessman. It was sweet. She kissed him on the cheek. I hugged his waist and did the same.
I tilt my head. Gisele. Is it her? I blanch. Gisele makes more sense than Joan. She’s younger than me, and prettier too. Nathan and I have joked that her French boss is in love with her, and that’s why she basically does what she wants during her shifts. Like give my husband free pastries.
“Why are you pissed now?” I ask him.
He relaxes his expression and moves on to the donut, unperturbed. He takes a large bite. “I’m not. I just think it’s funny.”
I taste bile in the form of chocolate and pistachio. The man thinks it’s fucking funny to jerk me around. “What is?”
“Forget it.” He swallows the food in his mouth. “I’m going to volunteer.”
“Again? You just did that.”
He plucks a t-shirt from a shelf. “You say that like it’s a strip club. It’s a soup kitchen.”
I hold my coffee to my chest and feel nothing. I wish it were hot. I’m losing this conversation, and I don’t know if the way to get answers is to rage or submit. His nonchalance makes me think the conversation is over.
“I know, and I love that you’re so generous, but . . . I miss having you around here,” I say gently, trying for kindness. “I thought maybe we could chill today. Sleep off that hangover.”
He looks puzzled as he pulls on his shirt. “Are you hungover?”
It’d be easy to blame last night on the Kahlúa, but it only loosened me up. “No.”
“How’d it go yesterday with the photos?”
I’m surprised by the question. It’s maybe the only topic I don’t want to discuss, yet that’s what he finally decides to ask about. “Fine . . .” I glance away. “I think we got what we needed.”
“Good. Are we paying for it?”
I shake my head. “Amelia is.”
“Even better.” He stands in his shirt and boxer briefs, watching me. I wonder, since he makes no move to put pants on—is he debating staying in?
“We can watch whatever you want,” I tempt him. I meant what I said. I miss him. “I’ll make sandwiches. With bacon.”
“I know you don’t get the volunteering thing,” he says, “but to me, it’s worthwhile.”
I don’t know how to take that. Spending time with me isn’t worthwhile? I’ve wondered before, even when things were good, if it ever bothers Nathan that I don’t give back the way he does.
During one of our first dates, he told me he believes all people are inherently good. I’d thought it was really sweet—and possibly an embellishment. It wasn’t. Since then, Nathan has turned down a promotion to help a father who’s never been quite present in his life. Nathan over-tips for bad service, especially around the holidays. He’s gotten Ginger into a dogfight because he was too polite to ask a woman on the sidewalk to put her poodle on a leash. And now more than ever, he gives up personal time with me to help at the shelter. Generosity is important to him in a way it isn’t to
me. I believe people earn what they earn. Like how Nathan and I each worked hard enough to move into better positions at better pay. Unlike a sulky waitress who’d rather be at a New Year’s Eve party than serving us champagne. I’m generous with him. With Andrew and Bell. It’s not something I just give freely.
“I’m trying here,” I tell him. “If you don’t want to stay here, I’ll go with you.”
He smiles wryly, but not at me. At a heap of jeans. He pulls a pair out. “You hate the soup kitchen.”
“I don’t hate it. I’m just not one of those people who loves it. I don’t get the satisfaction you do from—”
“Being selfless?”
A lump forms in my throat. It makes it hard to swallow. Nathan insinuating I’m shallow bothers me, because compared to him, I am. I don’t cross the street to give a homeless man my boxed leftovers. I’ve never spent a Sunday morning calling friends to find a home for a stray dog. That’s Nathan, not me.
Am I selfish? I look around the room. My nightstand is piled with books and magazines I’ve been meaning to start. My drawer is a collection of displaced things—coins, paperclips, pens, birth control, receipts, lip balm, an old watch, and more. On his side sits The Martian with a bookmark in it. I thought he was reading Erik Larson, but it turns out he’s burning through his stack. His drawer holds a flashlight, an extra phone charger, and no clutter. He’s been watching less TV.
I swallow any shame and raise my chin. Maybe I don’t often put others first. Maybe I don’t notice the small things like he does. Does it make me a bad person? Do I deserve to be shut out? No. He isn’t being fair. I’d rather spend my Sunday taking care of him instead of others—that’s how I’m selfless. It was my idea to get Ginger from a shelter instead of a store. I’m messy sometimes, because doing dishes or laundry can wait and sated, post-meal cuddling on the couch shouldn’t. I’ve always been this way, and he knew it when he married me.
“I’m not as good as you,” I say. “That’s what you’re trying to say?”
With his back to me, he pulls on his jeans. “No . . .”
“What then?”
He sighs, muttering. “I don’t think I even know.”
I latch onto the hint of concession in his words and his puzzled tone. “I am making an effort, Nathan,” I say. “I’ve been taking Ginger out more to help you. I’m coming to the shelter with you on Thanksgiving like you always wanted. I came to your bowling game.”
“Yeah,” he says, turning back to me. He puts his hands on his hips. “That is pretty selfless, trudging down to Brooklyn like that.”
I can’t tell if he’s teasing me. “Well, it is Brooklyn,” I joke.
He shakes his head almost imperceptibly. He’s not playing.
“Come on,” I say, exasperated. “You’re defending that place to the death. It’s the home of skinny jeans and vegan booze. What happened to the guy who once moved a ‘stroller parking’ sign in Williamsburg from a restaurant to a trashcan?”
He walks around me. “We’re overstaffed as it is,” he says, both ignoring me and shutting down my offer in one sentence. “Apparently, everyone’s in the holiday spirit.”
I follow him through the living room, and Ginger follows me. “Then why do you have to go?”
“Because it’s part of my job.”
“No one else in your office does it as often as you.”
“And because I like doing it, Sadie.” He picks his hoodie off a hook by the front door. “It reminds me why I do what I do. I don’t have a religion. Serving others is how I get clarity—you know that. Is that a crime?”
“No,” I say immediately. “I love that my husband is such a good person. Even if he can be a real fucking jerk.”
He freezes in the middle of zipping up his hoodie. Even Ginger sits back and stops panting.
“Nathan,” I say to his profile when he doesn’t respond.
“What.”
“We need to talk.”
He runs a hand through his damp hair and scratches his scalp. “I know.”
I chew the inside of my lip. I can’t feel him here, and it scares me. I want to touch him, but if he recoils, I don’t know what it would do to the fight building inside me. And I can’t lose that now that I’m starting to find it. “I’m ready. Now.”
“Not now.”
“Why not? Work can wait.”
“I need time to gather my thoughts.”
“What thoughts?” My stomach aches. This is real. Whatever’s happening, we can’t ignore it anymore. “I’m afraid.”
He closes his eyes. His jawline is sharp, not with anger, but as if he’s holding in tears. He doesn’t cry, though. Not ever. I know my Nathan—he shows his love by hiding his pain from me, and sometimes I forget it’s even there. “I don’t think I know what I want yet,” he says, “and I’m afraid if we talk now, I’ll get even more confused.” He swallows. “I need to come in with a clear head.”
I almost don’t speak, because just the threat of his tears stuns me. He really is hurting, and that means he still cares on some level. It’s not enough for me, though. I need him to care enough to turn to me. “I can’t keep going like this, Nathan. You won’t even look at me.”
He meets my eyes. “Helping others always puts things into perspective for me. So I’m going to go do that. When I’m ready, I’ll come to you.”
“This isn’t fair. You can’t shut me out indefinitely. We fix this by talking, not by each trying to do it on our own.”
“You don’t think I know that?” he asks. “Who’s the one that concedes in every argument we have? Who goes the extra mile to fix problems in our marriage before they even reach you? Me. I do.” He stabs a finger in my direction. His face is red now, and any pain has cleared. “And you just float along, never paying attention to anything other than yourself. I’ve held your hand through this entire marriage. Maybe, for once, one goddamn time, you could be the one who—” His face falls when he realizes he’s yelling.
My heart pounds as my face heats. I can’t remember Nathan ever raising his voice at me. How long must this have been bottling up for him to explode? Does he mean what he says, or is he just trying to hurt me? I can’t decide if I want to scream back at him or burst into tears, but the look on his face stops me. Finally, I see the awareness and compassion that disappeared two and a half months ago. I think he might even close the distance between us, wrap me in his arms, tell me everything is fine. Everything will be okay. It’s all I’ve wanted for months—for him to lower his shield and show me the path back to him.
“What?” I ask. “Keep going. I can take it if it means we end this horrible silence.”
He picks his keys up from the bureau. “I’m too amped right now, and outbursts like that’re exactly what I’m trying to avoid. I already told you, I’m not trying to hurt you, and—just . . . I’ll see you later.”
“Think you’ll be sleeping here tonight?” I ask, letting the sarcasm drip. At some point, I curled my hands into fists. If I thought I could get it out without my heart stopping on the spot, I’d throw Gisele and Joan in his face. Even though an affair is unlikely, at least it would shake him up. “Or will you find somewhere better? Maybe Family-kind has an extra bed.”
He says nothing and sticks his feet in his tennis shoes, not bothering with the laces.
I don’t want nothing. I’d rather he told me to fuck off than remain mute. I’d take the worst thing he could think of over nothing. “I’m sick of this asshole bit, Nathan,” I warn. “I want my husband back.”
He opens the door.
“I’m going to check on you. I’ll call all the soup kitchens in the city.” I know he wouldn’t lie about volunteering, but at this point, I’ll say anything to get a reaction. “You better be there. If you’re not, I won’t even give you a chance to explain.”
He glances back at me, a look of pure confusion on his face. Then, his furrowed eyebrows draw inward. His expression sours. He shakes his head at me like I’m begging for
a second chance I won’t get. I’m not begging, though, so why does it make me feel pathetic?
I wait through the few seconds it takes him to decide how to proceed. I wait for him to tell me I’m insane. I want him to. I want him to lose control and call me names if it means we’ll finally have it out.
When he leaves, he doesn’t even care enough to slam the door.
TWENTY
Each step beyond the entryway where Nathan left me feels like a great distance. The mysterious gulf in our relationship is murky and flooding over. Will the gap get even bigger? I don’t know if I’d be able to build a bridge over an ocean. Or if Nathan even wants to.
His silence echoes louder in our apartment than his words. Ginger is sprawled on the floor as if it’s just another day. On the TV console, Nathan’s watch, hastily left behind, ticks loudly from under some discarded receipts. Movies line the shelf beneath it. I’ve never purchased a DVD in my life, but all my favorites are there.
A few winters ago, Nate brought home groceries and a movie. While I made popcorn in the microwave, he came up behind me, wrapped me in a blanket, and kissed my cheek. I never wondered how he knew when I was cold. I didn’t remember mentioning The Princess Bride. Nathan just knew these things. I thought it was normal. I was happy without realizing it was because of those small details. I thought they made him as happy as they made me.
I inhale a deep breath. Why does that small, insignificant memory hurt this much? There are so many to choose from. Our wedding day. The first time Nathan kissed me. The night, early in our relationship, when he let me stain his dress shirt with mascara and never made me tell him why. But no, it’s a random night in front of a microwave.
I pick up a receipt for fifty-seven dollars worth of Subway sandwiches. Once a month, he treats his office, even though I’ve asked him not to. It’s not his job to be a hero. I crumple it up, my small act of rebellion.
His open laptop stares at me from our desk in the corner. I go over and tap the space bar until the screen flickers alive. There isn’t a single thing on his desktop. Mine is cluttered with folders, photos, files.
Slip of the Tongue Page 19
