Confessions on the 7:45

by Lisa Unger

  When things were easy like that, it meant you were in the flow, didn’t it? Isn’t that what they said these days? It made it easy for Selena to go back to work. It wasn’t necessarily what she wanted. But you did what you had to do, right? Graham would find another job. It wasn’t forever—though the money was nice.

  The way the camera was positioned, Selena had the best view of Geneva—who apparently liked to be on top. Was it Selena’s imagination? Geneva didn’t seem that into it. Though from the look on her face and the movement of her lips, she was surely making all the appropriate noises.

  On the other video feed from the downstairs camera, the boys were slack-jawed in front of Trollhunters. They were both scrubbed clean, fed, and in their jammies, waiting for Selena.

  Geneva was faultless on that count, which was odd to note in a moment like this. But Selena had really appreciated that Geneva wasn’t one of those nannies that tried to be the mommy. As soon as Selena returned home in the evenings, Geneva took her proper place, eagerly leaving as soon as she could, sometimes before Selena even came back downstairs from changing. The house was always clean, the boys were usually calm-ish—as calm as boys five and seven could ever be. But they weren’t wild like they were when Graham was at the helm. On the rare occasions when Graham had the kids for the day, they’d be filthy, overstimulated, out of routine—desperate for order and a way to calm themselves. Graham thought he was one of them, acted more like a corrupting older sibling than a parent.

  Like now. As he boned the nanny in the playroom while his young sons watched television downstairs.

  Why wasn’t she angrier about this?

  It had been a buzz in the back of her head since the first time she’d watched them three days ago. A barely audible thrum, something she pushed away and pushed back, down, down, down. Why wasn’t she weeping with anger, the sting of betrayal, jealousy? Why hadn’t she raced home after the first discovery, raging, and tossed him out, fired Geneva? That’s what anyone would do.

  But Selena was only aware of a kind of numbness that had settled after the first time, a mean, heartless apathy. But no. Beneath that numb layer inside was something else.

  Now, Geneva had her head back in pleasure. Graham wore that helpless look he had right before he was about to climax; he kind of lifted his eyebrows a little, lids closed the way violin players did sometimes when they were rapt in their music. Selena realized she was clutching the arms of her chair so tightly that her hands ached.

  She was distantly aware of another feeling, one she deeply pressed down for a good long time, long before this. At some point after the birth of their second child, Selena had started to dislike her husband. Not all the time. But with shocking intensity—the way he interrupted her when she was talking, hovered over her in the kitchen micromanaging, the way he claimed to share the housework when he didn’t. At all. Surely it was true of all couples who had been together for a long time. Then he lost his job—sort of gleefully, it must be said.

  Oh, well, I was looking for a change. And you said you were missing work.

  Had she said that? She didn’t think so, since she hadn’t been missing work.

  At some point after that, when she’d come home to find him in the same athletic pants two days in a row, or when she checked the browser history on the computer and couldn’t find a shred of evidence that he’d been looking for a job at all, she started to hate him a little. Then more. That svelte and charming man in the tux, the one who made her laugh and shiver with pleasure, he seemed like someone from a dream she could barely remember.

  Now, as she leaned in to turn up the volume again and heard him moan beneath Geneva, the depth and scope of her hatred was primal. She understood for the first time in her life how people might kill each other—married people who once loved with passion and devotion, who once cried happy tears at the altar, and went on a magnificent honeymoon, conceived beautiful children, built a lovely life.

  That thing lurking inside her, it was pounding to get out. She could hear it. But she couldn’t quite feel it.

  She’d been on autopilot with Graham, going through the motions, rebuffing his advances. If he’d noticed her distance, he hadn’t said anything. The truth was, it wasn’t the first time he’d cheated. But she thought they’d moved past it. There’d been counseling, tearful promises. She’d—foolishly it seemed—forgiven him and allowed herself to trust him again.

  “Graham.”

  The voice startled Selena, snapped her back to the present moment.

  Geneva had climbed off Selena’s husband, already pulled her skirt down. Both times there had been hasty dressing afterward, averted eyes and frowning faces. At least they had the decency not to lie around after sex, not to luxuriate on the playroom floor.

  “This has to stop,” said Geneva. Selena heard the notes of shame, regret. Good. Good for you, Geneva!

  Graham had pulled up his pants, sat on the couch and dropped his head into his hands.

  “I know,” he said, voice muffled.

  “You have a nice family. A beautiful life. And this is—fucked,” Geneva said, her face flushed.

  Oh, Geneva, thought Selena crazily, please don’t quit.

  “I think I should give notice,” said Geneva.

  Graham looked up, stricken. “God, no,” he said. “Don’t do that.”

  Selena laughed out loud. No, it wasn’t love. He wasn’t afraid of losing the lovely young Geneva. He was terrified that he would have to be the primary caregiver for Stephen and Oliver while he “looked for another job.”

  “Selena relies on you,” he said. “She appreciates you so much.”

  Geneva let out a little laugh, which made Selena smile, too, before she caught herself. How could Selena still like the woman who she’d just watched fuck her husband? She must be losing her grip. That’s what working motherhood did to you; it robbed you of your sanity.

  “I doubt very much that she’d appreciate this,” Geneva said.

  “No,” said Graham. He was pale with shame, rubbing at his jaw. He looked up and, with a strange rush of relief, for a second Selena saw him—her husband, her best friend, the father of her children. He was still there. He wasn’t a fiction she’d created.

  “Then, look,” said Geneva. She wrapped her arms around her middle, started moving toward the door. “You need to be around less. You need to find a job.”

  “Okay,” he said. His hair was wild; it looked like he hadn’t shaved in days.

  What did Geneva see in him? Truly? At least he and Selena had a history; their love affair had been epic, their travels full of adventure, their home life quite lovely. His infidelities, prior to this one, had been relatively minor. That’s what she’d told herself anyway—not affairs exactly. He’d been a decent husband until recently, a provider. He was her best friend, the person she wanted to share everything with first. Funny. Charming. Smart. Even now, in this ugly moment, she wished she could call him to talk about her monstrous husband who was fucking the nanny. He’d certainly know what to do.

  “It’s not a good idea for men to be home,” Geneva went on. “I’ve seen it a lot in recent years. It’s just—a bad idea usually.”

  “Yeah,” he said again, sounding ever more dejected. Poor Geneva. She didn’t know she would have to be Graham’s nanny, too.

  Selena slammed the lid on her laptop closed with more force than she’d intended, slipped it into the case, stuffed the case into her bag. She shouldered on her dark wool jacket, feeling a churning in her stomach.

  She was angry, hurt, betrayed—she knew that. But it was dormant, lava churning in a deep chasm within her, pressure building. She’d always been this way, the surface calm, the depths rumbling. She pressed things down, away—until she couldn’t. The eruptions were epic.

  By the time she’d reached the street, a pall had settled over her again. The gray numbness. The city was
a crush. She pushed her way through the crowded streets to the subway, then through the bustling station to the platform, just catching her commuter train home.

  She walked through the cars as the train hissed, seemed about to pull from the station, then stopped.

  There. A seat beside a young woman, who, for a moment, looked almost familiar. She had straight black hair, mocha eyes, a slight smile on red lips. Svelte, stylish—even from a distance Selena instantly liked her. Seeing Selena move toward her, the other woman lifted her tote to make room. And Selena sank into the space beside her issuing what must have been a telling sigh. She clutched her People magazine in her hand. All she wanted to do was lose herself in those fluffy, glossy pages for the next forty minutes, a blessed escape from her problems.

  “Rough day?” asked the stranger. Her expression—a half smile on full lips, a glint in her dark eyes—said that she knew it all. That she had been there. That she was in on the joke, whatever it was.

  Selena half laughed. “You have no idea.”

  TWO

  Anne

  It had been a mistake from the beginning and Anne certainly knew that. You don’t sleep with your boss. It’s really one of the things mothers should teach their daughters. Chew your food carefully. Look both ways before you cross the street. Don’t fuck your direct supervisor no matter how hot, rich, or charming he may happen to be. Not that Anne’s mother had taught her a single useful thing.

  Anyway, here she was. Again. Taking it from behind, over the couch in her boss’s corner office with those expansive city views. The world was a field of lights spread wide around them. She tried to enjoy it. But, as was often the case, she just kind of floated above herself. She made all the right noises, though. She knew how to fake it.

  “Oh my god, Anne. You’re so hot.”

  He pressed himself in deep, moaning.

  When he’d first come on to her, she thought he was kidding—or not thinking clearly. They’d flown together to DC to take an important client who was considering leaving the investment firm out to dinner. In the cab on the way back to the hotel—while Hugh was on the phone with his wife—he put his hand on Anne’s leg. He wasn’t even looking at Anne when he did it, so for a moment she wondered if it was just absent-mindedness. He was like that sometimes, a little loopy. Overly affectionate, familiar. Forgetful.

  His hand moved up her thigh. Anne sat very still. Like a prey animal. Hugh ended the call and she expected him to jerk his hand back.

  Oh! I’m so sorry, Anne, she thought he’d say, aghast at his careless behavior.

  But no. His hand moved higher.

  “Am I misreading signals?” he said, voice low.

  Stop. What most people would be thinking: Poor Anne! Afraid for her job, she submits to this predator.

  What Anne was thinking: How can I use this to my advantage? She really had been just trying to do her job well, sort of. But it seemed that Pop was right, as he had been about so many things. If you weren’t running a game, someone was running one on you.

  Had she subconsciously been putting out signals? Possibly. Yes. Maybe Pop was right about that, too. You don’t get to stop being what you are, even when you try.

  They made out like prom dates in the cab, comported themselves appropriately as they walked through the lobby of the Ritz. He pressed against her at the door to her hotel room. She was glad she was wearing sexy underwear, had shaved her legs.

  She’d given Hugh—with his salt-and-pepper hair, sinewy muscles, flat abs—the ride of his life that night. And many nights since. He liked her on top. He was a considerate lover, always asking: Is this good? Are you okay? Confessional: Kate and I—we’ve been married a long time. We both have—appetites. She couldn’t care less about his marriage.

  Anne didn’t actually believe in the things other people seemed to value so highly. Fidelity—really? Were you supposed to just want one person your whole life? Marriage. Was there ever anything more set up to fail, to disappoint, to erode? Come on. They were animals. Every last one of them rutting, feral beasts. Men. Women. All of society was held together by gossamer-thin, totally arbitrary laws and mores that were always shifting and changing no matter how people clung. They were all just barely in line.

  Anne neither expected nor encouraged Hugh to fall in love. In fact, she spoke very little. She listened, made all the right affirming noises. If he noticed that she had told him almost nothing about herself, it didn’t come up. But fall in love with Anne he did. And things were getting complicated.

  Now, finished and holding her around the waist, Hugh was crying a little. His body weight was pinning her down. He often got emotional after they made love. She didn’t mind him most of the time. But the whole crying thing—it was such a turnoff. She pushed against him and he let her up. She tugged down her skirt, and he pulled her into an embrace.

  She held him for a while, then wiped his eyes, kissed his tears away. Because she knew that’s what he wanted. She had a special gift for that, knowing what people wanted—really wanted deep down—and giving them that thing for a while. And that was why Hugh—why anyone—fell in love. Because he loved getting the thing he wanted, even if he didn’t know what that was.

  When he moved away finally, she stared at her ghostly reflection in the dark window, wiped at her smeared lipstick.

  “I’m going to leave her,” Hugh said. He flung himself on one of the plush sofas. He was long and elegant; his clothes impeccable, bespoke, made from the finest fabrics. Tonight, his silk tie was loose, pressed cotton shirt was wilted, black wool suit pants still looking crisp. Garments, all garments—even just his tennis whites—hung beautifully on his fit body.

  She smiled, moved to sit beside him. He kissed her, salty and sweet.

  “It’s time. I can’t do this anymore,” he went on.

  This wasn’t the first time he’d said this. Last time, when she’d tried to discourage him, he’d held her wrists too hard when she tried to leave. There had been something bright and hard in his eyes—desperation. She didn’t want him to get clingy tonight. Emotional.

  “Okay,” she said, running her fingers through his hair. “Yeah.”

  Because that’s what he wanted to hear, needed to hear. If you didn’t give people what they wanted, they became angry. Or they pulled away. And then the game was harder or lost altogether.

  “We’ll go away,” he said, tracing a finger along her jaw. Because of course they’d both lose their jobs. Hugh’s wife, Kate, owned and ran the investment firm, had inherited the company from her legendary father. Her brothers were on the board. They’d never liked Hugh (this was one of his favorite pillow talk tirades, how Kate’s brothers didn’t respect him). “We’ll take a long trip abroad and figure out what comes next. Clean slate for both of us. Would you like that?”

  “Of course,” she said. “That would be wonderful.”

  Anne liked her job; when she’d applied and interviewed, she honestly wanted to work at the firm. Numbers made a kind of sense to her, investment a kind of union of logic and magic. Client work was a bit of a game, wasn’t it—convincing people to part with their cash on the promise that you could make them more? She also respected and admired her boss—her lover’s wife—Kate. A powerful, intelligent woman.

  Maybe Anne should have thought about all of that before she submitted to Hugh’s advances. He wasn’t the power player; she’d miscalculated, or not run the numbers at all. She made mistakes like that sometimes, let the game run her. Pop thought it was a form of self-sabotage. Sometimes, sweetie, I think your heart’s not quite in it. Maybe he was right.

  “Ugh,” said Hugh, pulling away, glancing at his watch. “I’m late. I have to change and meet Kate at the fundraiser.”

  She rose and walked the expanse of his office, got his tux from the closet, and laid it across the back of the couch. Another stunning item, heavy and silken. She ran her finge
rs lovingly along the lapel. He rose, and she helped him dress, hanging his other clothes, putting them back in the closet. She did his tie. In his heart, he was a little boy. He wanted to be attended to, cared for. Maybe everyone wanted that.

  “You look wonderful,” she said, kissing him. “Have fun tonight.”

  He looked at her long, eyes filling again.

  “Soon,” he said, “this charade can end.”

  She put a gentle hand to his cheek, smiled as sweetly as she could muster and started to move from the room.

  “Anne,” he said, grabbing for her hand. “I love you.”

  She’d never said it back. She’d said things like me, too or she’d send him the heart-eyed emoji in response to a text. Sometimes she just blew him a kiss. He hadn’t seemed to notice, or his pride was too enormous to ask her why she never said it, or if she loved him. But mainly, she thought it was because Hugh only saw and heard what he wanted to.

  She unlaced her fingers and blew him a kiss. “Good night, Hugh.”

  His phone rang, and he watched her as he answered.

  “I’m coming, darling,” he said, averting his eyes, moving away. “Just had to finish up with a client.”

  She left him, his voice following her down the hall.

  In her office, she gathered her things, a strange knot in the pit of her stomach. She sensed that her luck was about to run out here. She couldn’t say why. Just a feeling that things were unsustainable—that it wasn’t going to be as easy to leave Kate as he thought, that on some level he didn’t really want to, that once things reached critical mass, she’d be out of a job. Of course, it wouldn’t be a total loss. She’d make sure of that.

  There was a loneliness, a hollow feeling that took hold at the end. She wished she could call Pop, that he could talk her through it. Instead her phone pinged. The message there annoyed her.

  This is wrong, it said. I don’t want to do this anymore.

  Just stay the course, she wrote back. It’s too late to back out now.