Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Fifteen
Jasper’s week in New York turns into two weeks. Then before he can get back to Dallas, he needs to go last-minute to Oslo. Returning to Dallas is up in the air.
“You should come with me,” he says over the phone from New York. “Meet me here. We can spend a night in the city, then fly out together.”
“It sounds incredible. But I can’t sneak away again.”
“Who said anything about sneaking? Can’t you just tell Oliver you’re going on vacation? You must have vacation days at work?”
It still sounds strange to me—Oliver’s name on his lips. “Next time. We’ll make it happen.”
I don’t get into the details of the school year starting and the list of things I have to do between now and the end of the week: register Emmy for fall soccer, answer an endless stream of email at work, volunteer at L’Wren’s cat adoption fair, and track down something, anything, that will help me stay asleep. I’ve tried an entire shelf of CVS supplements and nothing helps.
After I drop Emmy off for her first day, I sneak away to spend a rainy morning alone in the studio, no distractions, just the pounding rain against the windows. Within minutes of sitting down to paint, my phone chimes with a news alert, followed by a text from my mother-in-law wanting to know Emmy’s holiday schedule, then a calendar reminder from work. I shut off my phone completely and sink into the love seat. I flip through my sketchbook of half-finished drawings. For the first hour, I skip around, adding detail to one woman’s eyes or fixing the way another woman’s hair falls across her face, then spend the next several minutes on a new sketch of a woman, her back to me. I stop to stretch and check my phone. I turn it on to find a string of missed texts from L’Wren:
I did it.
I kissed Arthur.
Omg.
Call me.
You know by “kissed” I mean much more.
We had sex.
Before I can dial her number, I get a new text from Alicia:
Made it back from the silent retreat!! Thank god. Thinking this might have been something to say no and not yes to? Still processing. Have barely spoken in FIVE DAYS. Must UNLOAD. You around?
Followed immediately by more texts from L’Wren:
It was amazing, btw.
Where are you?!
Call me!
Which one should I call first? My phone is silent for seconds before Oliver texts:
What’s Emmy’s teacher’s last name? I’m trying to put money in her eWallet for the bookfair but she keeps saying Ms. Trish. Is Trish a last name?
Another text from Alicia:
WAIT. WHAT. L’Wren slept with Catman? Amazing. She’s blowing up my phone. Should we conference you in? Call us.
Then Liam:
Bad news. Something’s wrong with the audio on the last interview. We may need to re-record. You around?
Oliver again, this time with a photo attached:
Does this rash look like a “whatever” rash or like a “I should be concerned” rash? It’s all over Emmy’s big toe.
I imagine chucking my phone across the room and the satisfying crack of it hitting the floor. I respond to Oliver first, Alicia next, then Liam, and finally call L’Wren, listening intently while returning to my drawing of the woman’s back. I sketch her neck, then her face in profile so that she’s looking over her shoulder. With her head turned this way she reveals herself to me: I carefully sketch the outline of my own nose, the shape of my ear, the curl of my lips.
—
“There was nothing wrong with our marriage,” Oliver says. I tune back in, trying to ground myself on Miriam’s couch. “There was something wrong with us. ”
“Do you agree with that, Diana?”
“Everyone is working on something,” I offer.
“Not just something. Not just resolutions at New Year’s, like drinking more water and being kinder. We had real, unaddressed trauma.”
Miriam scribbles faster than usual. “Can you give an example, Oliver?”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat and sits straighter. “Like sex.”
My pulse quickens—I feel betrayed by my body. By my own duplicity. My dishonesty. How can I be asking other women about their desire when I can’t handle talking about sex in here? With Oliver.
“See? You don’t even want to talk about it.”
It must be all over my face. “Luckily we don’t have to. We’re getting a divorce.”
“You faked orgasms.”
“What?”
“You faked having orgasms when we had sex and I knew.”
“How did you know?”
“I just knew.”
“That’s not true.”
“It didn’t feel like you were having an orgasm. Your body. Nothing was changing. It felt like you were performing for me. Trying to get me to go faster.”
I look at a spot just over Miriam’s shoulder, my eyes scanning her bookshelves, disappointed to find more purple geodes and tiny clocks than books.
“Were you faking orgasms?”
Who am I to judge Miriam and her decor? I’m the biggest fraud in the room. I imagine how many others have come through here, sat on this couch, and honestly spilled their secrets and shared their grief. I fight the urge to lie again. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do.”
“I thought it would make you feel better.”
“It didn’t.”
It didn’t make me feel better either. My own pleasure was drifting further and further away from me every time I lied. My needs, unmet. My husband feeling empty beside me and not knowing why.
—
“Diana! How are you?” Katherine exclaims, holding her arms out for a hug. It’s only the third time we’ve met but it’s impossible not to hug her back. And not just out of reflex, not just because someone is unfurling to meet you—life actually feels brighter in her arms. With her wide smile and candy almond eyes, she exudes the kind of optimism that draws you close. It’s easy to see why Oliver has fallen hard and fast.
“Hi, Katherine. Nice to see you.”
“You look gorgeous as usual.” She leans against Oliver’s doorframe, easy and natural. “Where do you get your facials?”
“A Bioré pore strip?”
“Ha! You are so funny. Emmy cracks me up too. She’s got your sense of humor. I’m thinking of taking the girls to the zoo next weekend—did Oliver clear that with you?”
Add “thoughtfulness” to the growing list of reasons she’s wonderful. Vivian must be over the moon. “That sounds great. Thanks.”
“Let me go get Emmy. She and Taylor have been playing grocery store all morning—but all they sell are parrots and Band-Aids.” Katherine also comes with a built-in playdate for Emmy—her six-year-old daughter, Taylor, a miniversion of her mother, who is just as kind.
“No problem. Tell them I’ll take a parrot to go!” I try to match her effortless sunniness but it comes off like I’m trying too hard.
Katherine disappears as Oliver appears, holding Emmy’s gymnastics bag and stuffies.
“Water bottle and outfit inside,” Oliver says. “I was going to tell her she doesn’t have to wear her underwear with her leotard because it bunches up in this weird way and none of the other girls do, but when I said it out loud I was convinced it should come from you.”
“Got it.” When he hands me the bag, my hand brushes his and a warmth runs through me, a sensation I’m not expecting.
“You okay?”
“Oh, yeah,” I recover. “I’m not sleeping great.”
“You haven’t had Emmy. I would have thought you had gotten tons of sl—” He stops. “Oh. Right. I fell right into that one, didn’t I?”
“It’s not that.” What is it then? I don’t want to admit I don’t sleep in the house without him there. “Work is busy…”
When I can’t come up with a better excuse, he changes the subject for us. “How’s L’Wren?”
“Better.”
“I really thought they were going to make it.”
“You did?”
“Well, I didn’t think they were going to get divorced. What happened?”
“I think they fell out of love.”
Oliver bites at the inside of his cheek. “I should reach out to Kevin. It’s been too long. Obviously.”
“Yeah. I bet he would appreciate that.”
I have the urge to give Oliver a hug—a giant Katherine-like hug—and tell him how hard this all is. That even though I can hear Emmy happily playing with Katherine’s daughter in the background, it’s still hard. This isn’t how it was meant to go. On a sunny, cloudless day, we declared to a room full of people that our love would always be there. And then it wasn’t. We set it down for a minute—wasn’t it just a minute?—and when we turned back, it wasn’t where we’d left it. We could argue over who put it where and tell each other that’s not where it goes. But what difference would it make? Arguing over where you set a thing never makes it reappear.