Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Two days later, I squeeze myself into the back seat of L’Wren’s Range Rover, wedged between Halston’s empty booster seat and an impressive basket of kid snacks—animal crackers, fruit tape, and several tiny, neglected boxes of raisins. L’Wren sits in the passenger seat up front while her husband, Kevin, drives. I sit behind him, his seat pushed so far back that I have to angle my knees diagonally to fit.
Late last night, on impulse, I texted Jasper. I told him again how much I enjoyed his show. It was one sentence, which I typed and retyped four times.
Then I spent an embarrassing amount of time trying to decide whether to add an xx. In the end, I left it off and hit send. I slipped my phone onto the nightstand and told myself it would be tomorrow before I heard back.
But his reply was instantaneous:
I guess because we missed seeing more of each other in Dallas, you’ll have to come visit me in London.
Then a pause—three dots appearing, then disappearing, while my heart pounded—before he added:
Must be late for you there.
I will my fingers to move quickly, as if my typing could somehow convey the kind of nonchalance I can’t actually muster. Couldn’t sleep. Lots of insomnia these days.
Uh-oh. I’ve rubbed off on you.
It read like an invitation to be dirty.
Didn’t it? I don’t overthink it, just type:
It’s true.
Three dots appear, then disappear. Once. Then twice. Then:
Good night, Diana. xx
To say I haven’t been checking my phone all day and, worse, thinking about flying to London, would be a massive lie.
“Who are you texting back there? Bet I can guess!” L’Wren calls from the passenger seat. Kevin shoots her a be quiet look. He’s on a conference call over the car’s speaker that we’re all forced to listen in on. In just under two minutes I’ve gathered: The guy on the other end of the call is named Howie; Howie is very disappointed with a guy named Jeremy’s lack of transparency; Kevin’s job seems very boring.
“No one,” I whisper from the back seat. No new messages. I slip my phone back into my purse.
L’Wren ignores Kevin’s warning. “I have Capri Sun, hon, if you’re thirsty?”
I shoot her a thumbs-up and grab a fruit punch. I try to quietly unwrap the straw as Kevin tells Howie he’ll “circle back next week.”
“You got it, bro,” Howie says before hanging up.
L’Wren rolls her eyes. “Ugh.”
“What? Howie’s a good guy.”
“He’s a weenie. And he shouldn’t be calling anyone bro. Ever.”
“That weenie-bro paid for this car.”
“That defense is getting so tired. Diana, we should start a new drinking game—every time one of Kevin’s bros says ‘guardrails’ or ‘pain point,’ we drink.”
“You’re adorable.” Kevin sighs and squeezes her knee.
“Is this weird?” I pipe in from the back. “Me tagging along with you guys?”
“There is no right way to do this, Diana. We’re happy to all go together. Right, Kev?”
“Absolutely. I love it when my wife’s best friend crashes date night.” L’Wren swats his shoulder. “Ow. I’m kidding.” Kevin looks at me in his rearview mirror and smiles. “And yes, going to a school musical is considered a hot date these days. That’s apparently where we are.”
“Oh my god.” L’Wren turns to face me. “We have date nights all the time. Kev just works right through them so they’re more like meetings.”
“When was the last time we had a real date?”
“Maybe if you planned them instead of assuming I’d do it on top of my ninety other to-dos.”
“Hear that, Diana? I’m a to-do!” His tone is light and cheery, but I still want to get us off this rocky terrain.
“Well, don’t take marriage advice from me, am I right?” It’s supposed to be funny but lands with a thud. Kevin makes a slow left into the parking lot while I blather on. “You guys are supposed to give me advice is what I meant. Like when we get inside, do I save a seat for Oliver? Or do I assume we sit apart? Should we sit apart? If he’s already there, do I see if he’s saved me a seat or just grab the first seat I see?”
Since Oliver moved out I’ve kept comically busy. I’ve spent hours volunteering at Emmy’s school: I’ve shelved books in the library, designed the school’s end-of-year-picnic T-shirt, collected money for the teachers’ gifts, and yesterday I replied enthusiastically to an email about fitting in a recorder concert before the end of the year, for which I will organize refreshments on my own, no problem.
At work, I keep my head down, trying not to think too long about the fact that I’m still employed by my father-in-law, despite being separated from Oliver. I also try to avoid wondering about what my co-workers think of me being there, which means I avoid the office kitchen and too many trips to the mailroom, copier, or bathroom.
On evenings when the calendar is empty, I go to bed early, only to fail hard at falling asleep. Eventually I give up and pad down to the kitchen, the floorboards creaking under my feet. I’ll buy a new rug, I think, to drown out this awful sound. Do they make those—rugs to cure your loneliness? I pour myself a bowl of Emmy’s cereal and turn on the TV. My program of busyness is a failed experiment. I’m tired but not sleeping. And the sadness and confusion over separating from Oliver still creeps in.
L’Wren can see I am lost in my thoughts. She reaches into the back seat and squeezes my hand.
“Diana. It’s a first-grade sing-along and Emmy will be thrilled you’re both here. Just, you know, be in the moment.”
“She’s right,” Kevin agrees. “Let it happen organically.”
Organically was not a Kevin buzzword until last month when L’Wren sent him on a “wellness retreat” because he works too much—even in semiretirement—and she’s afraid he’s going to drop dead of a heart attack from the stress. “It happens,” she would often repeat.
On the first day of the retreat they confiscated Kevin’s phone, and for the next three days he studied his chakras and “ate seeds,” he said. But then he came home praising L’Wren for adding five years to his life. He scattered rose quartz crystals around the house, bought raw nuts in bulk, and started blending his own hemp milk. L’Wren was relieved he was taking care of himself. Until the next week when she heard him on a series of conference calls, closing a deal to franchise the wellness center. When I reminded her, “At least he’s driven, right?,” she gave me a sad, tight smile.
“You’re right. Let it happen.” I unbuckle my seatbelt. “It’s just that we haven’t both gone to the same school function since he moved out. We split up Emmy’s soccer games and activities—”
Kevin sighs, wistful. “I wish we could do these things apart…” He pulls into a parking spot, then spies an even better one and reverses.
L’Wren pretends to be offended. Or maybe she really is. I try to read her posture as she admonishes him. “So you could stay home while I go and listen to ‘This Little Light of Mine’ performed for the three hundredth time?”
“Heck, yeah.” He turns off the car and kisses his wife on the cheek. L’Wren smiles, her shoulders relaxing, and a potent mix of envy and loneliness rolls through me. I look down at my flats, pretending to gather my purse so I don’t tear up. Tears come so easily lately. I blame the insomnia. It’s not like this experience is anything new—I’ve always noticed, being around L’Wren and Kevin, how they bicker and then easily forgive, how their annoyance or disappointment always seems to dissipate so quickly. Whenever Oliver and I disagree, it’s like the tension can never evaporate. It takes over the whole mood, the entire room, hanging over us thick and stifling.
Inside the school auditorium it smells like Lysol and little kid sweat, and seats are filling up fast. “Do you see Oliver?” I keep my eyes glued to L’Wren and avoid looking for him myself. “Is he already here?”
“Jesus, Diana. He’s not the Rock. Just beware the Hat Lady.”
“ Raleigh. ” I remind her of the name of the fellow school mom Oliver slept with, even though I know she knows it perfectly well.
“Mmm.” L’Wren presses her lips together. “She’ll be ‘the Hat Lady’ till she takes her last conniving breath.”
We find a half-open row and sit, an empty seat beside me. “Should I put my bag here? Just in case?”
“Oh my god. Diana.” L’Wren laughs. “Put the bag on your head if you want. You are seriously overthinking this.”
Jenna’s blond curls bound straight toward us. “It’s a literal wall of body odor backstage with the sixth graders.” L’Wren’s friend since high school, Jenna makes a big show of inhaling, her nostrils vibrating. “I can finally breathe. Can they not smell themselves? Y’all know what’s strange? Brooksie’s body odor actually smells like his dad’s. It’s so bizarre. I wonder if that means Alice’s will smell like mine? Oh my god”—she looks over my shoulder—“Oliver. Eleven o’clock.”
“Subtle, Jenna,” L’Wren scolds.
“Is he alone?” I whisper.
“All by himself. Are you saving that seat for him? What’s the plan?”
“No.” I rest a tentative hand on my purse.
Jenna straightens. “Got it. Good. Let him sit in the nosebleed section with the caregivers. Am I right?”
The houselights flicker on and off to let us know it’s time to take our seats. Jenna balls her fists. “Crumbs! I gotta go hairspray some third graders.”
As soon as Jenna disappears, I place my purse on the empty seat to reserve it.
“Thanks for saving me a seat.” Oliver rushes into our row and I almost don’t recognize him. There are no awkward apologies as he makes his way to us, stepping over annoyed parents. He moves quickly and confidently as if gracing the auditorium with his presence. “Sorry I’m late.” He lowers into the seat beside me. “I lost track of the miles.” He’s freshly showered, his hair still wet.
“How far did you run?”
He checks his watch. “Nine and a half.”
“Miles?” I think of how often Oliver used to melt into our couch and how much time he’d spent there. Sometimes while watching TV, he would sink so far into the depths of the cushions that I had to pull him up with both hands.
The houselights dim completely and the kindergartners are herded onto the bleachers onstage, where soon they are busy staring into the audience, searching for their moms and dads and bumping into the little bodies in front of them. Oliver smiles at me, eyebrows raised—a familiar look that says, here we go. Usually I dread how long these performances are, but sitting next to Oliver feels good, as if I were the one who’d just gone for a brisk run.
A mop-headed kindergartner in head-to-toe denim takes center stage. He opens his mouth and belts the opening of “You’ve Got a Friend in Me” with the voice of an angel. With every note he hits, my nerves for Emmy triple. Singing is not her gift.
Oliver leans in close, a worried look on his face. “Do you remember caroling with Emmy last year? She was so confused when people would back away midchorus…”
“I’m still scarred. Her class is up next…”
The woman in front of us turns her head, whipping her ponytail to register her annoyance with our talking. As Emmy takes the stage, a nervous, giggly feeling rises in me. Oliver and I don’t dare look at each other as the first graders sing “Happy.” Emmy keeps her eyes on her teacher just in front of the stage, smiling big and following the teacher’s every cue. I relax, my body finding the back of my chair for the first time since she’d taken the stage. But then, near the end of the song, Emmy takes a step forward, moving to the front row of the bleachers, then onto the stage floor, as if to separate herself from her peers.
“Her voice is really cutting through, isn’t it…” Oliver whispers.
“It is.”
“What is she doing with her arms?”
I shake my head. “She’s gone rogue.”
Emmy hits a high—too high—note and Oliver reaches for my thigh, squeezing nervously.
“This is your fault, really,” I tell him. “She has your mother’s voice.”
“My mother sounds like Eleanor Roosevelt.”
I snort, I can’t help it, and this time the ponytailed woman shushesus.
This only makes it worse, both of us trying not to laugh and failing.
L’Wren leans into us. “What is going on here, friends? Huh? Got the giggles?”
I clear my throat and look straight ahead, tears quietly streaming down my face. From the corner of my eye, I see Oliver purse his lips together, showing the same determination. The song ends and the audience claps. This is good. We’re going to make it out of here tonight without getting in any more trouble.
And then the stage lights dim and the spotlight finds Emmy.
“Oh no,” Oliver exhales. And I lose it, Oliver’s genuine panic tipping me over the edge. The piano teacher starts playing “True Colors” and my shoulders heave while I bite down on the inside of my cheek. Donotlaughdonotlaugh. You cannot laugh while your daughter sings, which is exactly why we cannot stop laughing. Beside me, Oliver covers his mouth and I swear I hear him hiccup, like a choked giggle gone wrong. And then, in the dark auditorium, we clasp hands.
We squeeze each other’s hands and will a kind of calm into each other. We make our faces go stone-cold sober while listening to Emmy sing her heart out, never hitting a single right note.
After the show, Oliver and I mill on the empty stage with L’Wren, waiting for Emmy and Halston to change.
“What do we say?” I ask.
“Compliment the process,” Oliver says, quoting from a parenting book we skimmed but never read years ago.
He opens his arms wide as Emmy jumps into them. “Can I sleep over at Halston’s? We’re going to do the whole show again!”
L’Wren doesn’t miss a beat. “Girls. I love that. But even better, let’s hold the show in our hearts.” She holds a hand to her chest. “Forever in our hearts.”
“We want to do the show again for Daddy!” Halston pipes in, hopping from one foot to the other. “He was sleeping, I saw him.”
“Daddy?” L’Wren feigns surprise. “No, no. He did rest his eyes, maybe for a few seconds, and then he popped right back up.”
We follow Halston’s gaze into the audience, where the seats have emptied and Kevin is napping, his head tipped up to the ceiling, his mouth slack.
L’Wren leans into me and whispers, “Kevin owes me so big …” And then to the girls, she chirps, “Let’s go, ladies! Wake up Daddy on the way out! Oh wait, Diana.” She stops downstage. “Am I your ride?” She looks from me to Oliver.
“I can drop her,” Oliver offers, and I feel a rush of excitement.
We watch them go, gathering Kevin on the way out, the auditorium doors shutting with a loud thud behind them. The theater is truly empty now, performers scattered to their cars, the lucky ones heading out for long-promised ice cream. This time last year, Oliver and I would have driven home together and likely drifted to our separate corners of the house, saying good night to Emmy but not to each other.
“You aren’t hungry, are you?” Oliver asks. His voice echoes through the empty auditorium.
“Starving.”
Oliver drives us to a restaurant we haven’t been to since before Emmy was born. An upscale pub with overpriced food and imported beers and a pool table in the back. He took me here when we were first dating, I assumed because it was so dark inside no one would really notice if we were making out. But he was a perfect gentleman all night.
Sitting across from him now, both of us sipping an expensive whiskey, I remember the panic I felt so many years ago, when a waiter brought the menu and I skimmed it for anything I could afford. On each of our early dates, I would insist I only wanted water to drink with my steak and Oliver never questioned me. On his way to the restroom he would slip his credit card to the waiter, and when he returned to the table he would tell me the bill had been comped. “Turns out the owners are old family friends,” he’d say, or something similar. I would pretend not to notice he’d paid, and we kept up like this for a while, until my paycheck caught up with his and I could slip my card to the waiter.
Tonight, I order a citrus salad to start and calamari for us to share and a steak sandwich for myself. When the food comes, we dig in like we haven’t eaten for days. “It tastes just as good,” I say between bites.
“Of course it does.” Oliver takes a drink. “It’s the Fitz.”
“This was our favorite. In the beginning.”
“And now look at us.” Oliver’s tone is perfectly neutral—he could easily mean look at us now, still in each other’s lives after so many years.
Or, look at us now, sitting so close but having drifted so totally apart.
“Yeah, look at us.” I match his dispassionate tone and then raise him one, forcing a lightness into my voice. “Two proud parents of a smart, beautiful kid who can be anything she wants to be when she grows up. Except a vocalist. Or perhaps anything involving music. Or rhythm, most likely.”
When Oliver laughs, my shoulders relax. He doesn’t want to wallow either. Look at us now. “You look good,” I tell him. “The running. It’s working for you.”
“You look good too. Whatever you’re doing.”
“I mean it. Your spirit is back.” There’s a noticeable glow to Oliver’s skin, and even his smile seems wider somehow. I want so badly to ask what he’s been thinking, what his plan is. Where is he going to work? Have any of his interviews been promising? But I’m afraid any questions about the future will ruin the mood.
“I’m happier, that’s for sure.” His voice is quiet, and I lean close without meaning to. “Sometimes I think, honestly, I don’t know how you put up with me for so long. Walking around with a black cloud over my head. I owe you a thank-you. If we hadn’t separated, I’m not sure I would have made these changes.”
“Quitting your job?”
“All of it.”
“Oh. Well. Not every change has been good.”
Oliver takes another sip of his whiskey. “It’s strange, isn’t it? Doing all this without each other.”
“It is strange.” Tears prick the back of my eyes and I blink quickly, trying not to cry.
“Oh, Diana.” He reaches for my hand across the table. “Please don’t.”
I close my eyes. I refuse to ruin the evening. Under the table, with the hand Oliver isn’t holding, I pinch my thigh until the red-hot discomfort is enough to distract me. I don’t want to cry at the table. I don’t want this evening to slip into sadness. But I can see the hurt on Oliver’s face—and I can’t tell anymore, is it his hurt or mine that he’s wearing? Does it matter? And I lied, the food isn’t as good. The salad is soggy and the calamari is chewy, like it’s been in a deep freezer for too long. I shift in my seat and remember, too, how uncomfortable these chairs have always been, with their dulled leather cushions.
Oliver squeezes my hand. “We can’t cry at restaurants. It’s too sad. That can’t be us.”
“Okay,” I say, but this only makes my tears spill faster. “I can’t help it, if you’re nice to me, I’ll only cry harder.” He hands me his napkin to wipe my eyes and a sob catches in my throat. “See?” My I told you so makes us both give a kind of strangled laugh.
“Just breathe,” he says, and I do. Deep, slow inhales.
“Another drink? We could close the place down.” It’s barely nine, but the restaurant is emptying. There’s only a sallow-faced man in a plaid shirt, alone at the bar. The light above our table is flickering, the music is too croon-y, and it smells like stale beer and chewy calamari.
“No.” I shake my head. “I’d like to go home.”
“Okay, let’s.” The way he replies, so resolutely, surprises me—like he’s accepting an invitation. “Yeah.”
I stop in the restroom and blow my nose and wipe my runny mascara while Oliver pulls the car around. When I step outside, he opens the car door for me, like he used to do, on all those early dates. On the ride home, I watch the road ahead, trying to figure out how to feel. Does Oliver think he’s coming inside the house with me? Does he want to? Do I want him to? My eyes are hot from crying so I close them and roll down my window, listening to Spoon on the radio and feeling the wind on my face. When I open them again, Oliver is watching me. His gaze moves slowly back to the road. He’s easy. I can’t remember him ever being so easy.
At the house, he parks the car and comes around to open my door. On the front steps, we stop, his arm brushing my shoulder. If I take out my keys, will it break the spell? I don’t have to find out. Oliver reaches into his pocket and pulls out his own set of keys. Of course he has house keys—for a moment I feel so relieved, so warm inside, just at the thought of not being the only adult who lives here. It’s a grounding sensation like my feet are making more contact with the earth, like the house, too, is more solid, and I don’t have to worry anymore about it blowing away or falling in on itself. Oliver unlocks the door. I follow him inside. Neither of us says a word.
I shut the door behind us and immediately we’re kissing. His hands cup my face and his lips are warm and soft and taste like whiskey. My arms are around his waist, pulling his body closer to mine. He feels so solid under my touch. We stay like this, kissing in the entryway for what feels like hours. In between kisses, we confess “I missed you.”
Over the last couple of years, I have slowly built a wall between us without knowing why. Maybe I’m too afraid to ask what I’m protecting myself from. Was it Oliver’s depression I was so afraid of? Was it my own? Now at night when I can’t sleep, I wonder if I’ve been too afraid to stare deeply into our marriage only to find it’s unfixable. Our intimacy was once a deep pool and then it dried up. I didn’t want to acknowledge how dangerously shallow it had become. I didn’t care why or who was to blame, I only cared that we wouldn’t be able to fix it and I was too scared to admit it. But tonight the wall feels more like a wooden fence; and the fence feels weak and clumsy, built from twigs and stupidity, held together with bubble gum and pointless resentments.
Oliver’s tongue is in my mouth. He pulls me into him without hesitation, with urgency. He feels familiar but exciting, a toy I had lost then magically found.
My entire body swells with desire. This is not Oliver from just six months ago. We shed those versions of ourselves, and now we have this. This lingering spark.
He moves quickly to pull off my shirt and unclasp my bra, letting it fall to the floor. His hands cup my breasts. “Diana.” He grabs my hair and pulls my head back, kisses my neck and tells me he likes the way I taste.
I take off my jeans, then my underwear. He watches me, his eyes going wide. “Let’s go.” He scoops me up and carries me up the stairs, his arms strong around me. At the top, he puts me down. We can’t keep our hands off each other.
“Your body is different,” I say.
“Yeah?”
“You’re different.”
“It’s still me.” I catch something like sorrow in his voice.
“No, it’s good,” I say. I don’t want anything but this good feeling for both of us.
He smiles and his hands are all over me, searching me with confidence. I try to return his conviction, pushing him onto the floor beneath us, just outside our bedroom door. I climb on top of him and spread my legs so he can feel how aroused I am. He groans in pleasure as the tip of his cock connects with my wetness. “Diana,” he says again.
I take the shaft of his penis in my hand, slowly gliding it between my thighs, back and forth against the softest part of me, over and over again. His breath is shallow, and I draw out the moment for as long as I can.
“Kiss me,” he commands. We haven’t kissed like this in so long. Really kissed. I suck on his lower lip and then let my tongue circle his, over and over again. We kiss like this until his stubble starts to burn my chin, and when I break away he moans even louder. He pulls my hair back and my mouth opens wide, almost in surprise, and he presses his tongue inside me again. We are seconds away from sex, and all I want is for him to be inside me. All of him. In all of me. I slowly circle my pelvis, massaging the head of his erection, both of us on the edge.
“Let’s make it to the bed.” We move together across the bedroom floor, my body still on top of his.
We make it as far as the foot of the bed before he rolls on top of me. “More,” he says in my ear. “I want more.”
And for a moment, we stay like this. Kissing more deeply, my pelvis pressed into his, the tip of his erection teasing me.
And then, something shifts. It happens so quickly. A murmur from the air-conditioning vent, a creak from the attic somewhere—the familiar background noises of our house. A symphony we know by heart. I don’t know if it affects him first or me or both of us together. It’s as if someone has just turned on the lights too quickly and we’re both left squinting at our naked bodies. Our kisses grow cold and damp—because here we are in our bedroom, the setting of too many unresolved fights, heavy with the ghostly sensation of being so lonely despite lying next to someone else.
Oliver sits up first. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
“I let it go too far.” He pulls me up and we perch on the edge of the bed, our bare feet on the floor.
“I did too,” I say. “We both let it go too far.” Tears burn hot behind my eyes and again I blink quickly to hold them back. We’ve been gaslit by our own past and now our bodies are like snakes, still twitching with life after our heads were cut off.
“Hey…” He squeezes my knee.
“It feels so sad all the time, Oliver. Will it always feel so sad? Being apart? What if we’re doing the wrong thing?”
“Well, I’m no genius, but I’m guessing this…is not exactly right.” I glance at our naked bodies, his penis soft between his legs.
“What do we do next?”
“I don’t know. But I don’t think we have to dissect it tonight.”
“When?” I feel the embarrassment of us taking it too far and the rising panic of being stuck in a loop. “We never talk about what’s next. I need to talk to you about real things.”
Oliver looks toward the bedroom door, as if scanning the room for his clothes and an easy getaway.
“If we can’t talk honestly at this point…”
“It is sad.” He looks me in the eye. “I’m sad. It’s not the same. And this, tonight, is a Band-Aid over a bullet hole.”
He’s right, which makes it so hard to hear. I grab for a blanket to cover my naked chest. “So, now…”
He shrugs. “We admit that Band-Aids won’t work. Despite how good we could make each other feel for a little while.”
“Right.” In my mind, I hear him say, We stay here all night long and hold each other. When we get sad, we hold each other tighter, even though I’m not totally sure it’s what I want him to say.
“And I should probably go.”
“Probably.”
He takes my hand and the kindness of this gesture makes me well up. “Diana. I’m so sorry we can’t seem to figure this out.”
“I’m sorry too. I keep doing that. Apologizing after you do.”
He kisses my cheek and stands.
“Oliver?” I’m flooded with the memory of the last time he left. When we fought and he walked out the door and didn’t come back. “I don’t know if I can watch you leave twice. I don’t think I can do it.”
“Then I won’t leave,” he says. “I’ll stay with you as long as you want.”
“No.” I pull the blanket tighter. “It’s just postponing the inevitable. Us lying here in bed together. It’s almost unbearable.”
“Yeah.”
“Oliver. I’m going to do something very immature.”
“Okay…”
“But it’s all I know how to do right now.”
“Okay,” he repeats, his gaze so tender it hurts.
I pull the blanket over my head so I can’t see him. “You can go now,” I say from under the blanket. “Okay?”
I listen closely as the floorboards creak beneath his feet. I feel the warmth of his body as he leans in close and kisses the top of my head through the blanket. Then I hear the too-familiar sound of him walking out and shutting the bedroom door between us, for the second time.