In Nathan’s face just now, I saw real pain from my accusations. I should’ve trusted my gut. He wouldn’t betray me, but he isn’t innocent in all this. He tested my limits, and this is where it’s gotten us. The last few weeks, I’ve lost sight of us—myself, our relationship, and him, the man he really is. I could lock him in a room with Cindy Crawford and give him free reign. He wouldn’t touch her. But me—not me. In my blind rage, I put my own sins on Nathan’s head. Would Nathan ever understand how desperate I must’ve been to react that way?
I inhale a few more times and return to the table. Amelia and Misty have ordered food. They’re all business, except when Misty turns to me and asks, “Is this the best fucking pastrami you’ve ever had?” followed by, “And if you think I’m holding an event within a mile of Trump Tower, you’ve lost your damn minds.”
We laugh, talk business, and bullshit back and forth. Misty agrees to give AVEC a try. Once we’ve shaken hands and Misty shows us her red-bottomed shoes on her way out the door, Amelia and I melt into our seats.
“Fuck,” she says.
I nod slowly. “Yeah.”
“We pulled it off, though.”
“No thanks to me.”
“True.” We exchange a smile. “I’m kidding,” she says. “You did great all things considered. Misty is a known theater buff, and that shit was better than Broadway.”
I laugh a little despite myself.
“So what the hell happened?” she asks.
“Remember my friend? The one with the cheating husband?”
“Right. The friend.”
“Turns out, her husband wasn’t cheating. Turns out, my friend was completely wrong and made an ass of herself in front of a bunch of people.”
“Sadie . . .” Amelia studies me. “When I confronted Reggie, same thing happened. He denied it. Made me feel like a complete loon. Turns out, not only was I right, but I didn’t even know half of what was going on. Men who cheat are master manipulators. Are you sure he isn’t lying? Who was that girl?”
“Oh. My. God.” I sink in my chair and put my face in my hands. “Gisele. We’ve known her a long time. My outburst was totally unwarranted. I’ll have to send flowers.”
“Or the whole flower shop,” Amelia suggests.
I grimace. “It was bad.”
“Do you need to be excused for the day?”
I give her a pleading look. “Please don’t make me. I’ll just sit and stew until Nathan gets home.”
“Your call,” she says, and we stand.
As we head back to the office, I pray for a boatload of work to keep myself occupied. Because each time my mind drifts, I replay my conversation with Nathan. I don’t believe in my gut that he’s been unfaithful, but in a way, I wish he were. Because the alternative leaves me with a sinking feeling. If he isn’t neglecting our relationship because he’s found someone else, then it means to him, the only problem is me.
TWENTY-SIX
On the way home, I stop for takeout. Nathan and I may have a long night ahead of us, and I don’t know that I’ll want to make food once we get started. It’s bright as day underground on the subway and dark when I come up the stairs. New York can be stark—a peaceful cluster of trees sandwiched between concrete slabs. A passing stranger’s hello on a bad day that can feel like a raft in deep waters. Sometimes the sinking sun streaks the sky red, purple, and orange, reflecting off mirrored skyscrapers and blanketing the city. It forces you to stop—walking, driving, hailing, talking—and look, but only for a second, because there’s somewhere to be.
I spot Finn outside of a market on our corner. He waves with a plastic bag in his hand. “Hi, beautiful.”
I slow down. Finn’s the most shameful part of this—the affair is bad, but the hypocrisy worse—and still, I stop for him. He doesn’t feel anything other than warm and golden. “Hello again.”
“And again and again.”
He leans in to kiss my cheek, but I pull away and mumble, “Sorry.”
He straightens up. “Can I walk back with you?”
In my pocket, my fingernails bite into my palm. I shouldn’t, but I can’t tell him no. I want to spend a few minutes numbing myself with him.
“Or should I stay a few feet behind?” He pretends to check out my ass. “I really wouldn’t mind.”
I crack a smile. “Come on.”
It’s almost a block to our building, less than five minutes. He doesn’t waste any time. “When can I see you again?”
I look at the ground as we walk over brittle leaves and pockmarked concrete. Nighttime in the city is filled with light. I don’t even know where it comes from half the time. “You’re seeing me now,” I say.
“It’s not good enough. Hours away from you are beginning to feel too long.”
I rub my brow. Between Nathan and work, I’ve only thought of Finn abstractly today, as one half of the affair. Yet, being around him now, this afternoon already weighs a little lighter on my shoulders. Finn has a calming effect on me. He’s adoration, passion, and promise. There are no wounds between us too easy to open. No words flung that would’ve been better left unsaid. “I had a rough day.”
“Did you? Tell me about it.”
“No time,” I say, looking ahead.
“Then come over.” He bumps me with his shoulder. “I have wine. Once you’re loose, I’ll massage the day right out of you.”
“That sounds nice,” I admit, but I don’t even have to think about it. Nathan will be home by now. As much as I’d like to avoid the aftermath of today’s argument, I hold on to the hope that I’ll come out of it with a clearer understanding of where his head is. “I can’t, though.”
“Are you all right?” he asks. “Did something happen with—him?”
“No.” For whatever reason, I’m suddenly protective. I’ve said enough about Nathan to Finn the last couple weeks, and I’ve had enough spectators for one day. This, whatever’s happening, is between Nathan and me. “It’s just work stuff.”
“Let me guess. Boss problems?”
“A little,” I say, because there’s some truth to it. She rode me a little harder than usual once we got back from lunch. “She can be tough.”
“Amelia, right?”
I glance over at him. Her name out of his mouth surprises me, like it’s a word I’ve never heard before. “How’d you know that?”
He shrugs. “Researching the company for our photo shoot. Work’s a big part of your life. I’m interested.”
I bite my lip against the urge to warn him he’s coming on too strong again. I’m not in the mood to be pried open tonight. But just the thought of an argument tires me. “Oh.”
At the entrance to our building, Finn lets us in with his key. When we’re alone in the elevator, he touches my chin and lifts my head. “Hey. Sorry for your bad day.”
I take a lungful of elevator air and Finn. He smells like a lumberjack tonight, nature-fresh and a bit musky. Soothing. I rise up to kiss him because we’re almost at our floor, and I want to, and I think he’s trying to be respectful. His lips are more pliant than usual as he lets me take the lead.
We’re separated by the ding of the elevator. When I go to leave, he pulls me back by my wrist. He hesitates.
“What?” I ask.
“Remember that I’m just across the hall. Thinking about you. Wishing you were sleeping by my side. If you need me, knock.”
I hear him and the sincerity in his words. Being cared for, even for a few moments, is a relief from what I’ve been going through. I reach up and trace his mouth with my fingertips. “They’re the first thing I noticed about you back then,” I say. “Your lips make me weak in the knees, always.”
“Prove it.”
We kiss once more, two unfaithful mouths pressed together, and then walk to our respective apartments without another word.
The apartment is dark when I get home, and I wonder if Nathan is waiting in the bedroom. I’m unpacking the takeout bag onto the kitchen table when I ge
t a text from him.
Stopped downstairs for a beer.
My heart drops. He should be here. There are too many words hanging between us, both said and unsaid. Why doesn’t he want to fix this? Does he think it’s too late?
He’s at a bar that’s next to the corner market where I stopped to talk to Finn. We would’ve walked by it together. Normally, when Nathan goes there alone, he sits at the window to people watch or read a book. There’s a chance he saw us walk by. The Nathan I know isn’t the jealous type, but he has his limits. He makes his presence known when I encounter overly friendly men—at restaurants, on the train, trolling farmer’s markets. An ex-coworker made an inappropriate comment about my skirt once, so Nathan came over on my lunch break and set him straight. He wanted me all to himself then. But does he still?
A tear slides down my cheek. I sniff, wiping my face. I’m more exhausted than sad, tired from an emotional day. I wish I’d never made eye contact with Finn in the hallway while simultaneously craving more of our last kiss. I remember how deep inside me he was this weekend. I’ve never thought seriously about other men before Finn. Nathan could satisfy me blindfolded with his hands behind his back. He knows my body. He’s had me on my stomach, on my back. He’s had me half-asleep, outdoors, in my childhood bedroom. In silence, and in chaos. He has not, though, had me recently.
I take Ginger out, but I don’t walk her. It’s especially cold tonight, and I don’t want to run into Nathan on the street like a couple of strangers. Back upstairs, I change out of my work clothes, shuddering as I pull on my flannel pajamas. Even though it’s still several days to the twenty-first, I break our tradition and switch on the heater. I’ve had as much cold as I can take.
I take my soup to the couch and turn on a documentary about Scientology. My mind wanders, though. When he comes home, what will I say? What will he? After the past few months, he doesn’t have as much right to be angry as he thinks he does. How do I explain that to him without feeling like a hypocrite? This afternoon’s adrenaline from seeing him with another woman has worn off, and the threat of confrontation makes my stomach churn. Growing up, the smallest things turned into the rowdiest fights. My dad tripping over a vacuum cord would end in my mom throwing dishes. Andrew fought that way with Shana, Bell’s unpredictable mom, before she left him. Why shouldn’t my story be the same? Nathan doesn’t raise his voice at me or take his anger out on inanimate objects. Would he, if we really fought? I don’t even have to wonder. He’s miles from my father.
I hear his key in the door and then his voice. “There’s my girl,” he coos to Ginger. “Did mama take you out already?”
I change the channel to a sitcom and ignore him. At the heart of it, I’m sad Nathan would rather be alone than here, fixing our marriage. But on the surface, I’m angry. About this afternoon. About tonight. I feel as though I’ve been chasing him down for weeks. I want him to come to me, but I’m tired of the charade. Since nothing else seems to work on him, I decide to try forcing his hand by acting like a five-year-old.
“Well, unless you were wading in the tub, I guess you’ve been outside.” Ginger’s tags clink as he scratches her neck. “Soggy paws,” he says to me. “Dead giveaway.”
As if on cue, a laugh track sounds on the TV. Everybody Loves Raymond. When the grass outside is wet, Ginger tracks mud through the foyer. Nathan’s mentioned it before, and he usually gets the mop out. It only seems to happen after I’ve walked her. It’s not like Ginger understands wet grass means a dirty floor, so I guess it’s my fault. “Sorry.”
He stands there another second petting Ginger. “For what?”
I don’t answer, and I don’t look at him. I feel him watching me, though. “New coat?” he asks.
I finally glance over at him. He’s in his suit, and his face is flushed, either from the beer or the cold weather.
He nods back into the entryway. “I haven’t seen that one before today.”
I swallow. I didn’t mean to bring the Burberry coat home. I forgot to return it to Finn’s. I’m not sure how I can explain a thousand-dollar item of clothing without it showing up on our bank statement. I’m not sure I have to, either.
“I’ll take it back,” I say, turning to the TV again.
“Why? It’s nice.”
I change the channel again. I’ve never been a fan of Raymond.
“You ate?” Nathan asks, noticing my soup container on the coffee table.
“Yours is in the kitchen.”
Nathan gets his soup and the sandwich I bought to make up for his missed lunch. He sits in the loveseat by the couch. “Was that Going Clear you had on?”
I switch back to the documentary. At least it’ll give me something to focus on. I try to listen to the words, but I can’t. I don’t have to look at Nathan to sense his every move, to know what he’s doing. He eats some soup. It’s been sitting out, and I should put it on the stove and heat it for him, but fuck it. He takes three more spoonfuls and then has some of his sandwich.
“I had a cigarette on the way home,” he says.
The abruptness of his confession is enough to get me to look at him. Nathan used to smoke. Not a lot, but now and then. One of his few flaws. I didn’t like it, but I knew it wouldn’t last. He was healthy in every other way.
“That’s why I smell,” he continues. “It’s also why my suit smelled after visiting my dad in the hospital. And why I wasn’t out front of Brooklyn Bowl when I said I’d be. I went around the corner to take a few drags. It’s the stress. I’m sorry.”
On the TV, David Miscavige pontificates in grainy footage. I actually open my mouth and attempt to speak. I’d like to tell Nathan it isn’t the smell that bothers me. It’s his health. It’s what it says about his state of mind that he’d smoke while his dad is dying of stage-five lung cancer.
He’s that anxious.
Nathan sets his soup on the coffee table and leans his elbows on his knees. “All right. The silent treatment. I get it, and I deserve it. You’re pissed.”
I shrug, because I sense this plan is working and will lead to what I want—an actual, honest conversation.
“No?” he asks. “Then how come you broke our tradition by turning on the heat?”
“I get cold. At night. By myself.”
He has the decency to frown. He scoots over on the loveseat. Our knees brush. “Not much for words tonight, are you?”
I look up at him. He’s stifling a smile. When I realize he’s teasing me, my façade cracks. It feels like progress. Maybe it’s relief, or stress, or anger, but whatever I’m feeling makes my eyes water.
He puts a hand on the curve of my neck and squeezes. “You crying, Pea?”
The old endearment squeezes a tear from me. It wasn’t long ago I feared he’d never call me it again. “No.”
“Good. You know I turn to mush when you cry.”
Something in my chest gives, and I shed a few silent tears. My blubbering has always made him soft, and I’m glad that hasn’t changed. “I hate that nickname,” I say.
“I know. I won’t call you that anymore.”
I wipe my face. “Never stop calling me that.”
“This has been tough for you, I know. I didn’t mean for things to get this far, but the longer I hold my feelings in, the harder they are to get out. And figure out.” He rubs my shoulder. “But this afternoon—something broke through. The fact that you’ve been so confused, you thought I could cheat . . .” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry I got so mad, but try to understand where I was coming from—”
I shoot up. His hand catches under the collar of my nightshirt before he jerks it back. It’s possible he picked the worst thing to say to me tonight, when I’ve been attempting to figure out what’s going on in his head for months. “Try to understand where I’m coming from,” I say.
“Okay.”
I shut my mouth, startled. I hadn’t expected that response, but why shouldn’t I? Nathan and I don’t typically talk over each other, even in an argument.
Standing above him, we’re toe to toe, bare feet versus dress shoes. He looks up at me, unbuttoned, his collar open, his tie loose and sagging. “I’m lonely,” I tell him. “You’ve made me feel small. Unimportant. In my own home.”
He glances at the ground and back up. “I know. I mean, I don’t really know, Sadie. I’ve tried not to think too hard about it.”
“Why? Why are you pretending not to care?”
He shakes his head. “Because when I care, it hurts. It hurts me to know I’ve hurt you. I . . .”
He stops talking. I’ve lost him. His eyes are fixed on my chest, so I look down. When I stood, my button opened, exposing my breast. Nathan stares as if he hasn’t seen more of my own body than I have.
“Nate?”
With one hand, he undoes another button. The hair on my arms prickles as his fingertip grazes the space between my breasts. He stops and looks at me. The heat in his eyes is sudden but raw. He’s asking permission. Nothing is resolved. Through it all—my anger, my confusion, my heartbreak—one thing has remained the same. My body craves his touch. Limiting his affection has only made my desire stronger.
I want this. He knows it.
He lifts the hem of my shirt to expose my stomach, but doesn’t take it off. My favorite plaid pajama bottoms, which were once technically Nathan’s, are several sizes too big and droop to my hipbones. My cotton gray underwear covers more than should be legal. My eyes feel puffy, and I haven’t shaved my legs since yesterday, but Nathan sticks one finger in the elastic and slides the flannel over my hips like it’s fine lace. My breath snags as his knuckle trails down my upper thigh. He pulls on my pants until they drop to my feet.
He takes my waist, pulls me to him, and presses his face to my stomach. He breathes so hotly on the fabric, I feel it on my skin. “I’m hungry, Sadie.”
“I’ve never denied you.”
Pushing my top up under my armpits, he commands, “Take it.”
I’m not sure why I can’t just remove it, but I don’t ask. I hold the shirt up. My body trembles like a teenager’s.
Slip of the Tongue Page 25
