Chapter 46
I haven’t slept in five nights. Gray-brown rings have formed under my eyes. My clothes are baggier, my lips are drier, my hair is a tangled mess.
I’m parked outside of his house, trying my best to convince myself that what I’m about to do is not deranged. That, actually, it’s a good thing. That it will comfort me. Make me feel good. And that he would want that for me. For me to feel good. So, by association, he would want me to do this.
I know I’m only rationalizing, and on a good day I know that there’s nothing more insane than a woman’s rationalizations to herself about a man, but today is not a good day.
I cut across his lawn and slip around the side of his house to try the back door, half expecting an alarm, my body rushing with the thought.
The cops would come and maybe there’d be a female and she’d ask, “Why were you breaking and entering?” as she snapped the cuffs on me and I’d say, “To be close to him. I just wanted to be close to him.” And she’d look at me with understanding.
Maybe that’s all this rabid part of me wants—to be understood.
To know that it’s not crazy or troubled or wrong.
That this is just what it feels like to want an unavailable man.
No alarm, but the door is locked. I go to the side of the house. The bathroom window is cracked open, just barely. I grab a large rock from the garden bed and stand on it so I can reach.
What am I doing? Is this who I’ve become?
What do I even do when I get inside? I hadn’t thought that far ahead.
I never think far enough ahead. That’s my issue.
I’m so ruled by the present. Buddhists talk about living in the present like it’s the antidote to all of life’s problems but it’s not.
Living in the present is the worst problem.
You don’t learn from your mistakes and you don’t consider the consequences.
You just act; you just do. Living in the present might work if you’re a muslin-wrapped monk with a vow of celibacy and nothing to do all day but roam the Zen gardens, but if you’re an actual living, breathing human being, living in the present is a disaster.
I crawl in through the window and dust myself off.
The mudroom is cluttered with raincoats and hats and Gwen’s scarves and purses and Gregory’s mini Converse sneakers.
I kick off my shoes and hang my puffer jacket up next to a bouclé coat of Gwen’s.
Just another regular houseguest. I run my hands along all the hanging pieces like a woman in a clothing store, entranced by the beauty of the things surrounding her and the possibility that those things could be hers, until I get to Mr. Korgy’s cardigan—deep purple, cashmere, with black tortoiseshell buttons.
I breathe into it, getting high off the fumes of him.
The suggestion of him. Nothing turns me on like a man who’s not really there.
I go up to Mr. Korgy’s bedroom and flip on the light.
The bed is made, tight and immaculate. I enter the en suite bathroom and open and close every drawer, inspecting what’s inside, like knowing what brand of antacid Mr. Korgy prefers will bring me closer to him.
Or what brand of hair gel. Or pomade. Or mousse. I didn’t know a guy needed all three.
I rummage under the sink—rolls of toilet paper and folded hand towels and nail clippers and mouthwash and, toward the back, Mr. Korgy’s cologne bottle. Jean Paul Gaultier. I hold it close to my heart, like a child clutching their big gift on Christmas morning.
I get on the bed and straddle the cologne bottle.
I imagine Mr. Korgy nailing me, pants around his ankles because he couldn’t even wait to take them off.
Gwen’s in the corner, watching us, hurt in her eyes as he rams into me over and over again, the smacking sound of skin-on-skin as his saggy balls slap my ass cheeks.
And I smirk at her, relishing the fact that, for this moment, I am the chosen one.
The one he is pleasing. The one he lusts for.
The one he makes love to. And she is just his wife.
When I’m done, I straighten out the comforter and put back the bottle, my wetness still gleaming on it.
I flick off the light, go to the kitchen and grab a bag of sriracha popcorn, then I go to the den and power on the family desktop computer.
I rifle through the folders until I spot one that piques my interest: home videos.
I click on it and a slew of files pops up.
Gregory’s 1st birthday! Xmas 2022! Disney Day!
So many exclamation points! If ever there was an overcompensating punctuation mark! I click on Wedding Day!
I eat handfuls of popcorn so big that I cough while the blue light from the screen glows on my face.
I watch with gross intrigue as Korgy gets ready with his groomsmen.
As Gwen’s makeup artist applies makeup and Gwen flashes a sly smile to the camera.
As Korgy and Gwen laugh into each other’s faces the way newlyweds do, trying to prove a point to everyone around.
WE’RE HAPPY. WE’RE SO HAPPY. Exclamation point.
Korgy’s best man gives a toast, and then Gwen’s maid of honor. Korgy and Gwen dance their first dance. Korgy kisses Gwen’s cheek in the same way he kisses mine, like she’s the only woman in the world. Like he adores her. Like she’s all that matters to him. I touch my cheek where hers was kissed.
The video ends. I roll up the popcorn bag and toss it in the trash. I head downstairs, put on my shoes and jacket, crawl back out the window, and drive home.