Heart of the Matter

by Emily Giffin

  “I read about fifty back-and-forth e-mails. And let’s just say . . . they left very little to the imagination. He might as well have taken pictures . . .”

  “Oh, April,” I say, letting go of any residual resentment toward her—for her call, for her condescending tone when she told me about Nick being spotted by Romy (a tone that was likely in my head), and most of all, for what I believed to be her perfect life. My mind races as I try to remember any time last year when April was less than her cool, collected self—but come up empty-handed. “I had no idea,” I say.

  “I didn’t tell anyone,” she says.

  “No one?” I ask. “Not even your sister? Or mother?”

  She shakes her head again. “Not even my therapist,” she says, releasing a nervous laugh. “I just stopped going to her . . . I was too embarrassed to tell her.”

  “Shit,” I say, exhaling hard. “Do they all cheat?”

  April looks out the window into the backyard and shrugs despondently.

  “How did you get through it?” I ask, hoping to at least glean an alternative route to the one my mother took.

  “We haven’t,” she says.

  “But you’re together.”

  “Cheaply,” she says. “We haven’t had sex in nearly a year . . . We sleep in separate beds . . . We haven’t even been out to dinner alone . . . And I . . . basically despise him.”

  “April,” I say, reaching out for her hand. “That’s no way to live . . . Did you . . . Is he sorry? Do you ever consider forgiving him?” I ask, as if it’s a simple matter of choice.

  She shakes her head. “He’s sorry. Yes. But I can’t forgive him. I just . . . can’t.”

  “Well, then,” I say, hesitating, thinking of my father, then Rob, then Nick. “Do you ever consider leaving him? Ending things?”

  She bites her lip and says, “No. I’m not going to do that. My marriage is a joke, but I don’t want to lose my whole life because of what he did. And I don’t want to do that to my children, either.”

  “You could start over,” I say, knowing that it’s not nearly as easy as I’m making it sound. That dissolving a marriage is one of the hardest things a person can go through. I know this because I saw it first-hand with my parents—and because I’ve been imagining it every day, nearly every hour, since Nick dropped his little bomb on me.

  “Is that what you’re going to do?” she asks.

  I shrug, feeling as forlorn and bitter as she looks. “I don’t know,” I say. “I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  “Well, I can’t start over,” she says, shaking her head sadly. “I just can’t . . . I guess I’m not that strong.”

  I look at my friend, overwhelmed with confusion. Unsure of what April should do. What I should do. What a strong woman would do. In fact, the only thing that I am certain of is that there are no easy answers, and that anyone who says there are has never been in our shoes.

  And now it is Christmas Eve and I am driving through the dark, mostly empty streets, watching snow flurries dance in my headlights. I have another hour before I can go home and have already exhausted my errands: buying a few final stocking stuffers for the kids, returning the sweaters I bought for Nick, stopping by the bakery to pick up the pies I ordered only minutes before Nick returned from his walk in the Common—including the coconut cream he dared to request the day before, knowing what he knew.

  I try not to think about this, try not to think about anything as I weave my way through the public gardens, turning onto Beacon, then over the Mass Avenue Bridge. As I reach Memorial, my phone rings in the passenger seat. I jump, wondering whether or maybe even hoping that it’s Nick—if only so that I can ignore him once again. But it is not Nick; it is my brother, who does not yet know what has happened. I tell myself not to answer because I don’t have it in me to lie, and I don’t want to burden him on Christmas. But I can’t resist the thought of his voice—the thought of anyone’s voice. So I slip on my headset and say hello.

  “Merry Christmas!” he booms into the phone over his usual background din.

  I glance at the Hancock Tower, its spire aglow with red and green lights and wish him a Merry Christmas back. “Got your card today,” I say. “What a gorgeous photo of the girls.”

  “Thanks,” he says. “Rachel gets the credit on that one.”

  “Obviously,” I say, smiling.

  “So what are you guys up to?” he says, sounding the way you’re supposed to sound on Christmas Eve—buoyant, blithe, blessed. I can hear Julia singing the kitschy version of “Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer,” her voice high and off-key, and my mother’s bell-like laughter, as I envision the sort of scene I used to take for granted.

  “Um . . . not too much,” I say as I drive across the Salt-and-Pepper Bridge, back into Beacon Hill. “Just . . . you know . . . Christmas Eve.” My voice trails off as I realize I’m making no sense at all, not even putting a proper sentence together.

  “You okay?” Dex asks.

  “I’ll be fine,” I say, knowing how revealing this statement is, and that there is no turning back now. But as guilty as I feel for tainting his night, I feel a sense of relief, too. I want my brother to know.

  “What happened?” he says, as if he already knows the answer. His voice is more angry than worried, the one thing absent from Cate’s reaction.

  “Nick had an affair,” I say, the first I’ve used the word, having decided only a few hours ago, in the bakery, that even “one time” constitutes an affair, at least when there is emotional involvement leading up to it.

  Dex does not ask for details, but I give a few anyway, covering Nick’s confession, that I kicked him out, that I have not seen him since, and that, although he has a few hours with the kids now, he will be spending Christmas alone.

  Then I say, “I know you’re going to want to tell Rachel. And that’s fine. But please don’t say anything to Mom. I want to tell her myself.”

  “You got it, Tess,” Dex promises. Then he exhales loudly and says, “Dammit.”

  “I know.”

  “I can’t fucking believe he did this.”

  His loyalty, so fierce and unwavering, makes my eyes water, my heart ache. I tell myself I can’t cry. Not right before going home. Not on Christmas Eve.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I say as I pass the Church of the Advent where families are mingling on the sidewalk, a service just over or one about to begin.

  “Can I call him?” he says.

  “I don’t know, Dex . . .” I say, wondering what good could possibly come from it. “What would you say?”

  “I just want to talk to him,” he says, making me think of a mobster going to “talk” to someone with a pistol tucked into his waistband.

  I drive along Charles, its storefronts closed and dark, and say, “There’s no point really . . . I think I’ve made my decision.”

  “Which is?”

  “I think I’m leaving him . . . I don’t want to live a lie,” I say, thinking of April, suddenly deciding that her way is not an option for me.

  “Good,” he says. “You should.”

  I am surprised by his definitive answer, especially because of how much he has always liked Nick.

  “You think he’d do it again, don’t you?” I ask, thinking of our father, certain that Dex is, too.

  “I don’t know. But I don’t think you should stick around and find out,” Dex says.

  I swallow hard, wondering how I could feel so conflicted by his sure advice. Although I am comforted by his black-and-white stance, I also feel the urge to soften it, force him to acknowledge that this is murky terrain.

  “You would never do this to Rachel,” I say. “Would you?”

  “Never,” he says with all the certainty in the world. “Absolutely never.”

  “But . . . you—”

  “I know,” he says, cutting me off. “I know I cheated before. But not on Rachel.” He stops suddenly, likely realizing his painful implication. That he wouldn�
�t cheat on his wife, the love of his life. That people don’t cheat on their true love.

  “Right,” I say.

  “Look,” Dex says, trying to backtrack. “I’m not saying Nick doesn’t love you. I’m sure he does . . . But this . . . This is just . . .”

  “What?” I say, bracing myself.

  “This is just unforgivable,” Dex says.

  I nod, my eyes filling with tears as I replay the word in all of its forms—unforgivable, forgive, forgiven, forgiveness. It is the word that echoes in my head as my brother and I exchange I love yous and good-byes and I drive back to Wellesley, past April’s house, its windows trimmed with scarlet-bowed wreaths, then into my own driveway where I see Carolyn’s white Saab parked in Nick’s usual spot. I can still hear it as the kids and I put sugar cookies and eggnog out for Santa and while I sit in the basement, wrapping presents, reading leaflets of small-print instructions, and assembling plastic parts. Can I forgive Nick? I think with every ribbon curled, every turn of the screwdriver. Can I ever forgive him?

  There are other questions, too—more than I can possibly keep track of, some that seem to matter, others that don’t at all but still can’t be silenced. What would my friends do? What will my mother say? Do I still love my husband? Does he love me, or another woman, or both of us? Does she love him? Is he truly sorry? Was it really only once? Would he ever do it again? Does he want to do it again? What does she have that I don’t? Did he confess out of guilt or loyalty? Did he really end things—or did she? Does he truly want to come home or does he simply wish to keep his family together? What is best for the kids? What is best for me? How would my life change? Would I be okay? Will I ever be okay again?

  40

  Valerie

  Valerie can never decide whether New Year’s Eve is more about looking backward or ahead, but this year, both make her think of Nick, both make her equally miserable. She misses him terribly, and is certain she still loves him. But she is angry, too, especially tonight. She feels sure he never confessed a thing to his wife, and can’t shake the romantic, cozy images of the two of them, ushering in the new year with champagne toasts and lingering kisses and grand plans for their future—perhaps a new baby so that Nick can really wipe last year’s slate clean.

  At one point, she becomes so convinced that he has forgotten her altogether, that she nearly breaks down and sends him a text, an innocuous one-line happy-new-year greeting, if only to spoil his evening and remind him of what he did.

  But she decides against it, both because she is too proud and because she doesn’t really mean it. She doesn’t want his new year to be happy. She wants him to suffer as much as she does. She is ashamed of this, and ponders whether you can truly love someone you wish misery upon. She is not sure of the answer, but decides it doesn’t much matter, because the answer won’t change anything. There is nothing she can do to change anything, she thinks, as she sits down at the kitchen table with Charlie and suggests that they write down resolutions for the coming year.

  “What’s a resolution?” Charlie asks, as she slides a sheet of lined yellow notebook paper toward him.

  “It’s like a goal . . . A promise to yourself,” she says.

  “Like promising to practice the piano?” he asks, something he hasn’t done much since the accident.

  “Sure,” she says. “Or resolving to keep your room clean. Or make new friends. Or work really hard in therapy.”

  He nods, gripping his pencil and asking her how to spell therapy. She helps him sound out the word, then writes on her own paper: Eat fewer processed foods, more fruits and vegetables.

  For the next thirty minutes, they continue like this, concentrating, spelling, discussing, until they’ve each come up with five resolutions—all practical and predictable and utterly doable. Yet as she tapes their lists to the refrigerator, she knows that the exercise, while productive, was something of a sham—that there is only one resolution that matters to both of them right now: get over Nick.

  To that end, she makes the night as fun and festive as possible, playing endless rounds of go fish, watching Star Wars, and letting Charlie stay up until midnight for the first time ever. As the ball drops in Times Square, they drink sparkling cider out of crystal flutes and toss handfuls of confetti that they made with a hole punch and construction paper. Yet all the while, she can feel the hollow, forced joy in her efforts, and worse, she senses it in Charlie, too, especially as she tucks him into bed that night. His expression is too earnest, his hug around her neck too tight, his words too formal as he tells her how much fun he had, actually thanking her.

  “Oh, sweetie,” she says, thinking that she must be the only mother in the world who wishes her son would forget to say thank you. “I love spending time with you. More than anything.”

  “Me too,” he says.

  She pulls the covers up to his chin and kisses both of his cheeks and his forehead. Then she says good night and goes to her own bed, checking her phone one last time before she falls asleep and wakes up to the new year.

  She has always hated January for all the usual reasons—the postholiday letdown, the short, dark days, and the miserable Boston weather that, despite having never lived elsewhere, she knows she will never get used to. She hates the nor’easter gales, the ankle-deep gray slush, the endless stretches of painful, single-digit cold—so bitter and biting that thirty-degree days actually feel like a reprieve, a tease for spring, until the rain comes and the temperature drops like a stone, freezing everything solid once again.

  But this year, this January, is especially unbearable. And as the days pass, she starts to worry that she will never emerge from her funk. She feels profound disappointment over Nick, along with near-constant worry for Charlie, both coagulating in her heart, fading into plain old bitterness, a state of being she has always guarded against, even at her lowest.

  One afternoon toward the end of the month, Summer’s mother calls her while she is at work. She feels a spike of negativity, remembering her daughter’s words on the playground, bracing herself to hear about another incident.

  But Beverly’s voice is warm and breezy, no hint of trouble anywhere. “Hi, Valerie! Did I catch you at a bad time?” she asks.

  Valerie glances at the pile of documents on her desk, her stomach in knots as she replies, “No. Not at all . . . It’s nice to have a break from the fascinating world of insurance recovery.”

  “Sounds only slightly better than the fascinating world of accounting,” Beverly says, laughing robustly, reminding Valerie that, against all odds, she actually likes this woman. “So how’ve you been? Did you have a good holiday?” she continues.

  “Yeah,” Valerie lies. “It was good. How was yours?”

  “Oh—it was okay, but absolute chaos. We had my husband’s kids this year—all four of them—and his former in-laws . . . which is a long, totally bizarre story I won’t bore you with . . . So to tell you the truth, I was really ready to go back to work. And I don’t even like my job.” She laughs again as Valerie decides, with relief, that if something went wrong at school today, it can’t be all that dire.

  “So did you hear the news?” Beverly asks, amusement in her voice.

  “The news?” Valerie says, refraining from telling Beverly that she is not in the social loop at school—or anywhere, for that matter.

  “About the latest love connection?”

  “No,” Valerie says, unwittingly picturing Nick, always picturing Nick.

  “Summer and Charlie,” Beverly says, “are an item.”

  “Summer and Charlie?” Valerie echoes, sure that Beverly has her facts wrong—or perhaps is making some sort of bad joke.

  “Yeah. Apparently it’s pretty serious . . . In fact, we should probably sit down and start hammering out the details for the wedding and rehearsal dinner. I think we should keep it low-key . . . don’t you?”

  Valerie smiles, slightly disarmed, as she says, “Low-key is always good with me . . . Although, I must confess, I don’t hav
e a lot of experience with wedding plans.”

  It is something she wouldn’t ordinarily say, the sort of personal information she always keeps close to the vest, and feels uneasy until Beverly laughs and chimes in with, “No worries. I’ve done it three times. So together we’re just about normal.”

  Valerie laughs a real laugh, her first of the year, and says, “Normal would be nice.”

  “Normal would be very nice. I can’t fathom it, though . . .” Beverly says with merry acceptance. “So anyway. Yes. Charlie and Summer . . . I’m really pleased . . . Wasn’t wild about her last boyfriend. At least, I wasn’t crazy about his mother—which is all that matters, right?”

  Valerie asks who her last boyfriend was, feeling a rush of cheap delight when Beverly says Grayson’s name. But she still refrains from making a derogatory comment about Romy, and instead says, “Did they have a . . . falling-out?”

  “Not really sure of the details. I know they—she—called it quits right before Christmas. I think his gift wasn’t up to snuff . . . or at least it couldn’t compete with the beaded bracelet Charlie gave her.”

  Valerie’s mouth falls open, as she remembers the bracelet Charlie made in therapy, the one she assumed was for her, but never showed up under the tree. “Really? He didn’t tell me,” she says, shocked—in a good way.

  “Yeah. It was purple and yellow—Summer’s favorite colors . . . You’ve clearly taught him well.”

  Valerie smiles, appreciating this spin on Charlie’s gesture, appreciating any scrap of approval she can get, especially in the parenting department. “I try,” she says.

  “So anyway, I was just calling to see if the two of you wanted to join us this Saturday for a playdate? A chaperoned first date of sorts?” Beverly says.

  Valerie turns toward the window, watching dusk and sleet fall upon the city. “That sounds great. We’d love to,” she says, surprised to realize that she actually means it.

  Later that night, over tacos at Jason’s, she decides to tell Charlie about the playdate with Summer. She is excited for her son, although part of her still wonders if the crush has been manufactured by Beverly, spawned from maternal guilt.