He reached for Cass, put his hand on her arm to guide her out of the apartment. When the door was closed behind them, he felt his wife fold into herself like a Chinese fan. Condensed, she turned toward him and buried her face in his armpit. Soon the sleeve of his button-down was drenched.
“Let’s go to the hotel,” he said. “You should rest.”
“No. There’s a place I want to show you.”
He looked back at her blankly and she, perhaps remembering he wasn’t necessarily hers to boss around anymore, added, “If that’s okay with you.”
“Of course.”
* * *
♦ ♦ ♦
HE’D HEARD SO much about Luigi’s it felt surreal to be there. Cass said the restaurant hadn’t changed a bit since she was a kid. Twice she’d gotten to eat there when she was invited along with other families. She remembered the meatballs and spaghetti being amazing (they weren’t) and the soft drinks being free refills (they were).
Cass finished two glasses of Chardonnay before the breadbasket was even set down. The wine, five dollars a glass, was no less potent than the double-digit glasses they swilled in New York City and soon his wife’s head was bobbing.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, putting down her drink. “I’d better stop with these. Our appointment is first thing tomorrow morning at the hospital. Can we not talk about my mother, though?”
“Of course,” he said. “What should we talk about?”
“Well, Dahlia was invited to join the cast of The Real Housewives. She might actually do it.”
“You’re kidding. Did you try to talk her out of it?”
“Yes, but no one is taking advice from me all that seriously these days. Can you imagine?” She looked at him sheepishly. “Oh, and Alexi might get a part in this new sci-fi movie that Marty—that Spiegel Productions is putting out. What about you? What’s going to happen to your job?”
“Who knows? I’m the third most senior guy there, after Russell, who I think is toying with the idea of trying to take over, though he doesn’t have the name or track record. I really just don’t know what the future holds.”
“You always did love throwing yourself into work,” Cass said. “I’d hate to see that disappear for you.”
“So did you,” he said. “I guess we both did.”
She smiled and twirled her fork into her spaghetti.
“First carb I’ve had in a while. The only thing I miss about living in the Midwest is the different body standards. I’m a ten here. In New York and L.A., a seven at best.”
“It’s not true, Cass. You’re a ten in any state. You know that.”
He reached across the table for her free arm, started to stroke the inside of her wrist.
“I’m not really that hungry anymore,” he said. “And I’m exhausted. Did you really book us at the Townsend?” It was where they stayed on their infrequent trips to Michigan, and Jonathan had been surprised Cass had been planning for them to brave a night at her mother’s this time.
“Yes,” Cass said. “I realized staying with my mom wasn’t going to work out. I just didn’t anticipate the chain-smoking hillbilly.”
Jonathan left two twenties on the table (when had he last ordered dinner for two that cost less than a hundred dollars?) and stood up. They waited outside on the desolate street for their cab, Cass standing so close to him he thought she might lean her back into his chest any second. When they arrived at the hotel, Cass approached the front desk. He had still not asked her if she had booked one room or two, knowing the answer would reveal itself in time.
“Checking in,” Cass said. “It’s under Coyne.” She added something more quietly to the clerk that he couldn’t make out. The clerk then handed over two keycards to her and guided them to the elevator. As the doors slid open the clerk asked, “Ma’am, did you still want me to hold that second room for you?”
Cass shook her head from side to side.
The sounds of the key sliding into the slot and the click of the door opening were the only noises for the next few minutes, as though the king bed taking up most of the room filled the silence. Cass plugged in her phone, scrolled it with her thumb, then fished around in her rollaway suitcase for something or other. He mimicked her with his phone, reading but not really absorbing his stream of work emails, and texting his sister a thank-you for the latest box of cupcakes.
“So?” he asked her when he couldn’t take the silence any longer. Cass had slipped into the bathroom but the door was open.
“So,” she responded.
“Why did you leave your wedding bands on top of that photo?” he blurted out. It had been driving him crazy since he’d discovered it, but he couldn’t raise it over text message. This moment was his best opportunity, in person but not face-to-face. “The sonogram.”
“I did?” she asked, sounding genuinely surprised. “I’m sorry. I really wouldn’t have done that if I’d realized. You know me better than that.”
Do I? he mused. Do I know you at all? And what was with Cass apologizing directly? Something was afoot. He shifted on the bed from side to side nervously; it was like the mattress was filled with simmering coals.
She emerged from the bathroom, completely naked. He scanned her from head to toe, noticing bones he’d never seen before jutting from her frame. Skin more golden than ever. He’d never known Cass to tan like that—maybe it was fake. And she was fully shaved, just a slice of flesh where a neat triangle had once been. The two of them used to joke that her pubic hair was shaped like a downward arrow, guiding entry. Had someone asked her to get rid of it? Nipples, the cherry pits on her nearly flat chest, stood at attention.
“So,” she repeated, and walked toward him, reached her hand down his pants, found the state of what she was looking for to be acceptable. He saw this from her satisfied grin.
He thought about the condoms he’d packed. They were still in his suitcase, which he’d yet to open. Luckily, it was only a few feet away and he could grab one and be back under her in no time.
“I need a second,” he said, scrambling to free himself from her grasp.
“No, it’s fine,” she said, reading his mind. “We’re good.”
That either meant she was back on the pill, or that she was okay with them chancing a baby, or that she was in a place in her cycle when conception was highly unlikely. He’d lost track of her rhythm, she’d been gone that long. And right now it just didn’t matter.
But it was something else. She got on all fours and guided him behind her.
“You’ve wanted to try this, right?”
“Yes,” he said, nearly exploding. He’d only done that once before, with Marielle, ironically also in a hotel room. Maybe that was where such things were meant to take place. It was frantic and fast, and the room was so dark he could only make out the outline of his wife as he pushed into her. When it was done, they lay side by side, their puffy breaths in perfect harmony.
In the middle of the night, they came together again. He reached for her and she spryly submitted to him. It felt so natural to be back with her; it was like they were jigsaw puzzle pieces. When he entered her, she moaned so loudly with pleasure it was like the walls, the blankets, even the air disappeared and it was just them.
* * *
♦ ♦ ♦
MORNING CAME TOO quickly, the sunlight blinding them both into unattractive squints. They hadn’t remembered to draw the shades. Hadn’t even brushed their teeth, or at least Jonathan hadn’t. Cass was already up, propped against the headboard, on her phone again. He slipped into the bathroom quickly to clean away the stink in his mouth.
“I gotta go,” she said, coming up behind him suddenly. She put a hand on his waist. “My mom’s appointment is in twenty minutes.”
“Okay,” he said and watched as she threw on a sundress and applied makeup. She kissed his cheek, leaving th
e stain of her reddish lip gloss on his face.
“Good luck,” he said.
And she was out the door. He looked back in the mirror to wipe off the makeup she’d left behind. It looked like his wife had taken a bite out of him.
After Cass departed, he read the paper on his iPad for a bit, then ventured outside for a walk. It made him feel like a tool, but he couldn’t beat back the grin that kept creeping up the corners of his mouth. He marveled at how good it felt to have something back that he’d lost. The plan was to meet Cass back at Donna’s place around lunchtime. They would get a bite together (Cass had been militant last night about taking her mother to a decent restaurant) and then head back to the airport. It was a quick visit, but enough to show their concern and for Cass to straighten out Donna’s treatment plan.
He headed off in the direction of a shopping center that the concierge had suggested. Maybe he’d pick up something nice for Donna, a sweater or a scarf, earn some brownie points from his wife and mother-in-law. Or better yet, maybe he’d see a Godiva store. He was three blocks from the hotel when his cell phone dinged three times in a row. Three messages from Brett, which arrived out of order. His head began to spin and he found a nearby bench where he could piece together the messages.
(2/3) okay with it, I’ve had more time to think. You need to sort out your life before I can see you again. My son is upset with how often I’ve been traveling to New York and I can’t lie to him anymore about why I’ve been
(1/3) Jon—I hope all is okay in Michigan, or as good as can be expected. While I appreciate that you were truthful with me about you going to visit Cass’s mom with her and I was initially
(3/3) going. Please don’t be in touch with me until you are certain Cass is out of the picture. I fear otherwise I will become collateral damage. B.
He took a deep breath and began to type.
B: You have been so understanding of my situation and reconnecting with you has been a lot of fun. As it turns out, I was going to get in touch with you because Cass and I did reconcile on this trip to Michigan. I truly was planning to tell you as soon as I got back to New York. Please forgive me for everything. Best, J.
He sent it off like a hot potato and then made the mistake of rereading it. “Reconnecting has been a lot of fun?” Even he hated himself for writing that. But a follow-up message apologizing for his insensitivity seemed like it would only make things worse. Instead he turned off his phone, even though he knew the chance of her responding to his message was minimal, and continued on his errand. He chose a Chanel perfume from a cosmetics store because he knew Donna would be impressed with the label.
He walked back happily with his package to the hotel, where he put on a fresh polo shirt and powered up his phone again. Nothing from Brett (no surprise), but a message from Cass saying she and her mother were going to be late, at least a few hours. He should get lunch himself and then they could just meet at the airport later to say good-bye if the timing allowed. He looked down at the Sephora bag in his hand. He’d give the perfume to Gloria tomorrow at work.
He texted back: Got it. Hope it’s going okay. Call if you need anything. xo
27. CASS
SHE COULDN’T STOP staring at the text from Jonathan, specifically the x and o. Two letters, one consonant and one vowel, and her stomach was in knots. She didn’t bother deluding herself that it was just a casual reference meant to offer some nourishment during a difficult time. Why would it mean only that when she’d given Jonathan every indication that they were now back together? In one night she’d undermined the gravitas of the separation, and for what? Jonathan certainly didn’t deserve any more sudden drops on the roller coaster she’d forced him on. And to make matters worse, she was physically suffering as well. She couldn’t sit comfortably for a week, her own body punishing her for recklessness. The flight back to L.A. was particularly brutal. She walked up and down the aisles for most of the four hours like a parent with a crying toddler.
Though she tried, it was impossible to pinpoint what drove her to eschew the extra hotel room and to offer the kind of sex that had never been part of their repertoire. Leave her husband for six months to figure things out—that was daring. Have porno sex, toy with said husband’s emotions and confuse the hell out of him—that was audacious and borderline cruel. Now she was Icarus feeling the burn.
She didn’t want Jonathan to think she’d done what she’d done as a show of gratitude for his accompanying her to Michigan—that felt coldly transactional—so when he’d made another move in the middle of the night, she’d played along, moaning and groaning like it was the best screw of her life. It was good, their problems didn’t specifically lie in that sphere, but her theatrics were overblown.
Why had she done it?
Maybe it was about outdoing Brett.
Maybe it was desperation for release after being around Donna.
Maybe it was because she really missed her husband.
And maybe it was just because she knew she could. That possibility was the worst. The least excusable.
While she didn’t understand her motivation, she was certain that it wasn’t part of any nefarious plan. Would Jonathan get that? And now what? Thank God he hadn’t seen the flowers Marty sent her mother. Or rather that Minka or Brie sent, but they were signed from him: To Donna, Wishing you strength. Marty Spiegel. Donna had almost shit herself when she read the note, leaving Cass to explain that her boss did this kind of thing for all of his employees. It was after the bouquet of lilies arrived that Cass realized she couldn’t face Jonathan again that day without risking a nervous breakdown, and so she texted him that the doctor’s appointments were going to run late. Then she switched her flight to a later one to avoid any chance of an airport run-in. But still it was only a tiny stopgap, because they were scheduled to see each other again almost immediately to exchange Puddles. She was booked on a red-eye to New York in a few days to hand off the dog at the crack of dawn.
What she wanted now was to reenter her L.A. life for a day, even if it was an escapist cop-out. She wanted to immerse herself in the shiny people, watch the obsequious assistants zigzag around and listen to the buzz of Variety columns setting the office ablaze. This alternate life was so abstracted from anything she’d ever predicted for herself that she could try to pretend that everything between her and Marty was simply part of a made-up script. Opening credits: The role of “Girlfriend” will be played by Cass Coyne. Or better yet, live theater, where she could hand off the role to an understudy if necessary.
The next morning she woke up earlier than usual and avoided her email and phone like the plague. To have gotten this far into the intermission only to have risked everything in one reckless night was going to kill her, unless Jonathan murdered her first. She certainly wasn’t prepared to tell him Michigan was all a big mistake and that she wanted a definite split. But she also wasn’t ready to cut the separation short and attempt another stab at domestic bliss just yet. How many more chances would her husband give her, especially when another warm, waiting body with cherry-flavored lips and a sexy thong was available to him?
At least one good thing did come out of Michigan. When Jonathan was talking about the possibility of his career cratering, she didn’t flinch, on the outside or the inside. The idea of him having to start over didn’t scare her and she’d been tempted to tell him so—that she wouldn’t care if they didn’t have a lot of money. But she was afraid to because it might require admitting to Jonathan just how important to her that had once been.
She couldn’t overlook the fact that in the midst of a major professional crisis, Jonathan had picked himself up and gotten on a plane to be there for her. He’d left Brett behind, explaining his departure God knows how, and had been every bit the supportive husband any woman would dream of. She didn’t know what the hell her problem was. Here was a man with everything to offer: hardworking, smart, handsome, and faithful too—before th
e intermission anyway. How often had she eavesdropped on the Winstar wives and the ladies at her gym saying they didn’t mind “looking the other way” because “he’s such a good provider and father.” The problem, she reasoned, might lie in Jonathan’s goodness. He wasn’t a man who deserved to be deceived in any way. So if she went back to him, it would have to be with all the cards on the table this time.
Cass found herself yawning repeatedly during the morning commute. Tension, coupled with a confused body clock, woke her before dawn. At least she had slept for a decent stretch, though her dreams were a terrifying montage of treachery: rocky cliffs she tried to scale without shoes, downpours with broken windshield wipers, fires smoldering everywhere. She fiddled with the radio tuner in the Camry, but it was Taylor Swift on every station and those lyrics were like horoscopes—you could find some way to relate them to your life no matter what and it was just too vexing. She switched to the news, letting talk of stocks, terrorism and political corruption occupy her until she cruised into the parking lot.
Marty was at work early, catching the worm. She knew he was there the moment she stepped off the elevator and saw his door closed. It was kept open when he was out of the office and closed when he was there, like the flag flying outside of Buckingham Palace when the queen was in residence. She needed to thank Marty for the flowers he’d sent to her mother. Maybe he’d suggest dinner that evening. If not, she’d sleep over. Her appetite for sex wasn’t normally so strong—she sometimes wondered blithely if one forgettable fuck with a hot trainer at Equinox could have quenched her thirst and rendered the intermission unnecessary. But now, oddly, sex had become like medicine. It offered the briefest but most effective of reprieves, like a lozenge for a sore throat. Ten minutes of blankness. Of transparency.
She knocked gently.
“Hang on,” Marty called. A moment later the door swung open. He had a guest, the tawniest and lankiest woman Cass had ever laid eyes on. The woman’s bronzed collarbone protruded into the room flagrantly and she wore a denim miniskirt with gladiator sandals that coiled around her calves until the kneecap.
The Intermission Page 31
