Chapter Twelve
Twelve
She kissed his hand! And now she’s smiling at him. He doesn’t deserve her kindness, he’s been a thousand varieties of bastard to her tonight, but he’ll takeit.
He watches her move away, moseying to the window. Caroline would lose her mind if she knew Nick was telling tales about their sex life, especially to the woman who—okay, but Jenny hounded him into it. He feels a roil of unease, the sour aftertaste of having shared too much—oh, the horror!—and he’s tempted to flee to his mock-heroic mode, to kiss her hand in turn and say why thank you, kind lady, how gracious, how bounteous is your rue or some equivalent horseshit.
But he resists.
He didn’t hate laying it all out like that. He felt some queasiness, mild skin-crawling. Provoking her sympathy didn’t feel pleasant, in other words, he hasn’t seen the light and begun some transformation into a different person, a Good Guy, one of those sincere characters who go around being emotionally available and practicing gratitude and whatever the fuck else they do, he doesn’t know because he’s not one of them.
Still. He’s feeling okay right now.
Tell me something, she says.
And now she’s going to ruinit!
Why not make a change? she says. Find someone who can be all that for you—the worldview, and the compatibility, and the touch. Not me, obviously, but…marriages end all the time. If you’re dissatisfied, why stay?
I might not have a choice after tonight, he says. Jenny has no idea how comprehensively, how expertly Caroline is going to rake his ass over the coals if—when, come on, you know it’s when—the truth comes out. Yes, it’s going to be a big old Holloway barbecue, far toastier than anything he might encounter down on twenty-one.
Speaking of which. He glances at the television. The anchors are checking in with the hot reporter, but seem disappointed she has no juicy new details to convey. Should he call the number they gave him? No, it’s too soon. He doesn’t want to unsettle Jenny. Though he does wish that firefighter, or command coordinator or whatever the hell title the caller used, he does wish the guy had expressed a little more confidence about the situation. Been a bit heartier. He had the perfect New Yawk accent for bluff assurance. While he listened Nick could practically see his salt-and-pepper mustache bobbing up and down. But his words had been flat. Careful. Just the facts, sir.
Overall, the conversation hadn’t been quite as reassuring as he’d implied to Jenny. Not that he’d misrepresented anything—no more lies!—but there had been a hesitation. A hedginess.
Or he’s reading too much into it. Professional reserve, that’s what it was. A reluctance to be pinned down to specifics. He can relate.
It doesn’t matter. They’re going to be fine.
Unlike his marriage. Yes, he’s in for it. As he should be. He is the villain, after all. Though he did try to be discreet. He never wanted to humiliate her. Now it seems inevitable, and he’s sorry. Caroline will never show it, she’ll never crack—they’re alike in that way, too. But he has failed her. And behind the cold scorn and lashing indifference she will be hurt, terribly.
Especially by his choice of partner.
Did you know one of our neighbors published a book? she said one Saturday morning, two or three years ago.
He felt every muscle, every cell in his body, tense up. He took a long sip of coffee, playing for time.
You mean Roger’s tax manual? he said.
God no. A novel. Becca Dodge’s friend wrote it. Jenny something. The woman with the two demon children?
I have no idea who you’re talking about, he said, hating himself.
Caroline persisted. She was at the Keanes’ Labor Day thing. Dark hair, a laugh that’s a little too loud—
Not ringing a bell, he said. Do you want me to take Jill to tennis?
She’s already at tennis. I’m going to pick up a copy—Becca says it’s fabulous. Do you need anything from the bookstore?
She stood at the kitchen island, waiting for his answer, looking so innocent. Did she not remember berating him just a few months earlier for buying Jill the very book they were now discussing? Had she, instead, found his copy in the back of the filing cabinet in his office upstairs, done a little digging, made a few elementary deductions? Did she, in fact, know everything, but rather than confront him was engaging in some elaborate psyops for her own amusement, before very justifiably kicking his ass to the curb?
I’m good, he said. She nodded. The conversation movedon.
Until she came charging into his office the next weekend, startling the hell out of him as he stood at the window, lost in thought, looking down at the Parks’ back porch.
This is amazing! She was holding up Jenny’s book.
Oh, that book? he said. I bought it for Jill, remember? You said it was too mature, soI—
Well it is, for her. Maybe in a few years. She thrust it at him. Look at the photo—don’t you recognize her?
He flipped to the back, feeling his heart kick up. Though he was pretty sure he was in the clear. Caroline’s enthusiasm was too genuine for this to be some twisted game.
She does look familiar, he said, handing the book back.
She thumbed through it, stopping to read a paragraph, smiling. She’s so talented.
Good for her. Hey, did you pay the water bill?
We should have them over, Caroline said.
Jesus Christ!
Fortunately, that never came to pass. Jenny soon got busy with her massive success, becoming scarcer at social gatherings. When they did meet, Caroline was struck with uncharacteristic shyness, which manifested as hauteur. But she continued to think the world of Jenny.
It’s been translated into thirty languages, she said. She’s about to come out with a second one. She’s pretty, too. Don’t you think she’s pretty? Nick?
So yes, that disclosure is going to sting. And his marriage is going to end. He’ll have to start over. That sounds fun. Find someone new. Not me, obviously, Jenny just said. Thanks, he’s well aware. She made clear the limited boundaries of their arrangement long ago, the time he suggested they meet more often. The look on her face…he’d quickly backtracked. Which was fine. But the point is, no. Not her, obviously.
Plus, it would never work—the two of them, as a legitimate couple. Nobody trusts a relationship founded on cheating, especially the people in it. And they have nothing in common. Only the body thing. The sex. Which never lasts. He had it with Caroline, too, long ago. And not just the sex—she was everything. She made him believe for a while that he hadn’t screwed up his life, coming home from England. That he’d made the right decision, because he’d found her.
And now he’s going to lose her. He will be scourged, shunned by friends and family, a mongrel skulking away from the community of the righteous, the decent—aka the cowardly and the not-yet-caught. He’ll have to move back to the city, the suburbs being too depressing for a single man, a Sad Dad. Jill will hate him. Hate him, reject therapy, start vaping, acquire an eating disorder, be groomed by a youth sports coach and hop onto a carousel of addictions.
What? Calm down. Jill is great. She’s a good person. He’s not sure how that happened, but he’ll take it. And she loves her dad. She’ll despise him for a while, sure, but she’s a teenager. She despises him every other day as it is. He’ll win her back. Though some other man will be arriving promptly to help raise her, because Caroline will replace him right fucking quick.
He feels a pang, thinking of his girl. His Jilly. He only has three more years of her in his daily life, then she’s off to college. He can’t miss that time. Why is he assuming he will? Yes, Caroline might find out, but that doesn’t mean they’re through. People get over this sort of thing. He’ll repent, he’ll plead and persuade. He’s a persuasive bastard, it’s how he got her to go out with him in the first place. He will atone. Whatever it takes.
He’ll have to give up Jenny. But he’s given her up several times tonight already. He can do it for real. It’s fitting punishment.
What about her? Will she suffer if Tom leaves her? She doesn’t seem concerned by the prospect. Which makes sense. Tom’s such a zero.
Your turn, he says. Tell me something you love about Tommy boy.
She’s sitting cross-legged on the sofa. He’s an amazing cook, she says.
Good man. What’s something you hate?
He lost half of our money in crypto.
Beg pardon?
She nods.
He is motionless. Staring at her. You’re joking, he says.
I wish I were.
He gets up and walks to the window. Walks back.
Please tell me you’re joking.
I can’t, she says. I’m not.
Okay. He’s frowning, raking his fingers through his hair, trying to work this out. Okay. But when you say half of our money, you mean your joint savings, right, not your money, what you earned from your—
Everything, she says. Including the royalties from my first book.
What the fuck ? he cries. What the fuck was he thinking?
He thought he was setting us up for life, she says.
He’s pacing the room, beside himself. He stops, struck by a horrible thought.
This is why you took all the toiletries! You’re broke!
No! She laughs. Honestly, it’s not that bad.
She’s laughing! Sitting there so placidly.
Why am I the one freaking out here? he demands. How can you be so calm?
I wasn’t at the time, trust me. But it was a while ago, after the first big crypto crash. Or maybe the second. It’s hard to keep track. Anyway, I got overit.
You were supposed to be buying that house on Mountainview, he says, remembering. The historic place. Everybody was talking about it. Then you didn’t.
We’re staying on Tuxedo for now. I don’t mind—I love our house. And we have plenty of money, especially with the final book coming out, and the movie stuff. Plus we have a financial adviser now, so…we’re fine.
You never told me, he says. You never said a word.
Why wouldI?
That stops him. He stands before her, head cocked.
Why would you, he repeats. Interesting. So, fair to say I’m not the only one of us who leaves my shit at the door?
She rolls her eyes and goes over to the nightstand. She reaches for his phone, then changes her mind and veers to the window.
Did he do it on purpose? he asks.
Tom? No way!
Are you sure? Maybe he was threatened by your success.
He’s not like that. He’s delighted for me. For us. He encouraged me to write for years. When I finally buckled down and did it, he was thrilled.
Does he read your books?
He does. Teen romance doesn’t exactly thrill him to the marrow—you guys have that in common—but he’s very helpful.
Tom must have read the third book already. He pissed away the money she earned, yet he gets to know how the cliffhanger at the end of the second book resolves. And how the whole story ends. Bastard!
She drifts back to the nightstand. He watches her pick up his phone and swipe it awake. A lock of dark hair falls against her face.
Tom’s not a bastard. He’s an overgrown boy, with boyish enthusiasms like motorcycles, and fantasy football. Mystifying. But Jenny is fond of him. She shows none of that smug superiority some women have for their husbands, whom they seem to tolerate only so they have someone around to gently deride, and ask to open jars. Even when she was describing Tom’s masterful financial moves, it was obvious she cares about him.
Do they still have sex? Does she flinch when he touches her? She writes about romance so beautifully. She nails the experience of falling in love. He knows novelists have imaginations, they’re not all memoirists. But when she writes about love, is she writing about Tom?
Surely not. Because why would she be here?
What are you looking at? he asks, because she’s glued to his phone again.
News sites, she says. Social media. A retired fireman on Twitter is providing a blow-by-blow of what the fire department is doing. Other people are posting videos from downstairs.
He glances at the nightstand clock. It’s almost one. These people don’t have anything better todo?
Apparently not. You were right, by the way. Everyone’s trying to figure out whether there are celebrities in peril. Apparently Helen Mirren stayed here over the weekend.
Helen Mirren! Why couldn’t she come to our door in a bathrobe?
She smiles and keeps scrolling. He returns once again to the minibar. Not hungry or thirsty. Just bored. He hadn’t described it well. How he and Caroline had changed. The poverty of their sex life, the loss of touch—those are easy gripes. Sticking to the surface allowed him to avoid the bleaker truths.
They are still excellent partners. They feel strong affection for each other, regard and respect, love of a kind. But, love of a kind ? What bullshit is that? He doesn’t want love of a kind. He wants what they used to have. Love, flat-out, impetuous and overwhelming. Love that makes you feel like you’re going to die, that makes you feel like a god, not that you’d ever admit that out loud because it’s so embarrassing, so cringe as the kids say nowadays, but it doesn’t matter what the kids say, what anyone says.
Because you’re in fucking love !
Or, you were. It’s gone now, that love—when had that happened, how, surely he was to blame, was he to blame? Passion had been watered down to affection.
Affection. Jesus Christ .
Love is the most powerful thing in the world when you’re young. It’s tidal, it capsizes you. You’ve found the One, the necessary, inevitable other, good God it’s a miracle! You cling, you coalesce, you build a life. Then somewhere along the way, somehow, love dies. The deathless thing, the best fucking thing, just slips out the back one day.
What a scam.
Does Caroline feel scammed? Does she miss what they had? She must, if she loves Jenny’s books so much. He came upon her not so long ago, reading the second one. She looked up at him, eyes shining.
She gets it, Caroline said. She really captures it. How it feels, to…
She trailed off, looking down at the page.
He didn’t ask what she meant.
He knew.
A pleading voice is coming out of his phone.
What is that? he asks.
A TikTok posted by a woman looking for her daughter, Jenny says. She lost track of her as they came downstairs. She thought she’d find her when she got outside, but…
Enough, Jenny. Give me the phone.
She snorts. Fuck off, Dad.
Fuck off, he says. Go to hell, Nick. You’ve never sworn at me like this.
Sure I have, she says. Inside my head I have.
Is that right?
She taps her forehead. It’s a raging river of obscenity in here.
She looks up from the phone, and they smile at each other. But the pleading voice calls her back. She sighs and taps the screen.
Love slips out the back, huh? Love’s a scam? How convenient: endowing love with volition, blaming it for disappearing, when surely he was the problem. Him and his struggle, what he would come to call his malaise. He was thirty-six, thirty-seven when it started. Jill had just started first grade. They showed up for Parents’ Night, and when he entered her classroom a hundred sense memories of his own elementary school reared up and knocked him sideways. The squeak of shoes on the floor, the colorful corrugated borders on the bulletin boards. And the smell—the smell was exactly the same.
He took it all in and was overwhelmed—swamped—with regret.
Because it was over for him. The hopefulness of youth. Possibility. He’d lost his chance when he came home from England fifteen years earlier, scurried home, running headlong into this life. My prime of youth is but a frost of cares. Because of course he would find the perfect poem to reflect his mood, a knack that only reminded him of what he’d really wanted, what he’d lost and could never get back.
So he was one, swamped, and two, infuriated at himself. Because as tormenting as the malaise that had descended was his awareness that it was all so fucking ordinary. He was an unremarkable man, wallowing in the most banal self-pity. He had everything. This was when life was supposed to be roses. Instead, it was fucking…carnations, it was dull autumn mums, and he was a miserable cliché. Cultivating a midlife crisis, bang on schedule. Good job, golden boy.
And though he tried to hide it—the sense of loss, the self-loathing provoked by the sense of loss, a meta-malaise, how sophisticated—it must have showed. The disappointment and self-disgust must have emanated off him, like a stink. Surely that’s why Caroline lost interest. Pulled away. Started flinching.
Unless their growing distance was part of what prompted his struggle in the first place.
Which came first, the bullshit or the asshole?
Impossible to say.
He hadn’t even begun to describe to Jenny how awful it was. No physical closeness with Caroline, no warmth. He still had Jill, his girl who wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek and told him he needed to shave, which was heaven, but not the same. Not the same.
To want without being wanted. It’s the worst.
And so he muddled on for a while, several years in fact, an ungrateful cretin trapped in an enviable life. Another New Year’s Eve came around. Their next-door neighbors threw a party. Everybody got dressed up and left the kids at home. People let loose. Dancing, drinking like they were back in college, smoking pot—naughty parents!
Loud talk, loud laughter.
Good, good times.
He wanted to kill himself.
Not that it showed. Caroline wasn’t the only one who knew a thing or two about appearances. He was, as always, clever Nick Holloway, full of funny rants and stories and entertaining conversation.
Reliably amusing.
Quietly annihilated.
Because he looked around the party, at his friends and neighbors, and he knew nothing was ever going to change. These were his people, this was his life. Despair descended, choking and bleak. Then fury at himself for being so goddamn tiresome. He tumbled once more down the spiral, all by himself, because in this crowd of revelers he was alone, alone, he would always be alone.
He tried to rally the troops. Come on men! Look alive! He had a drink, then another, then three more in quick succession. Maybe they’d help lift the malaise from the cluttered seabed where it had lodged, raise it up so it could float away.
What has greater density—despair or Johnnie Walker? Let’s find out, boys!
And so he got drunk. Drunk enough, around two in the morning, to go looking for the mildly (okay, intensely) alluring stranger he’d been trying so hard not to notice for the previous year and a half.
He’d never gotten to know her, the woman who’d snagged in his mind, with her smile, her hapless charm. He’d kept his distance, not wanting to go there, didn’t he have troubles enough? Yes, but just now he needed a kind face. She had one. And she was funny, wasn’t she? He thought she might be. Hot, too, but that was irrelevant. Was she even at the party? He thought he’d spotted her husband earlier. He’d track her down, they’d have a friendly chat. That’s all he wanted.
He found her at last in the kitchen, getting a glass of water at the sink. It was the year women wore their necklaces close at their throats and hanging down their backs. She was in black, a long loop of pearls falling between her shoulder blades. Her hair wasup.
He stood right behind her and inhaled deeply. He couldn’t smell a thing—maybe because he was soaked in booze. As she reached for the tap her dress shifted, exposing a bra strap.
Good God! An erring lace! A sweet disorder in the dress. A something something wild civility. Who wrote that?
Who fucking cares?
She turned the tap off, and her necklace shifted. He wanted to pluck it up, wrap it around his hand, hold it like reins and bend her over.
He couldn’t. He wouldn’t!
But if he could. That would be life.
’Twould be life.
Christ he was hammered.
Which is why, rather than clear his throat, or tap her on the shoulder, or back quietly away from her and from a potentially reputation-destroying error—instead of choosing any of those sane and respectable courses of action, he picked up the end of her long strand of pearls and put it in his mouth.
She must have felt the necklace move. He saw a hand go up and touch her throat.
Then she turned, to find him standing right on top of her.
With her necklace in his mouth.
Her eyes went round and baffled. Of course they did!
He spit out the pearls.
He stood before her, hands at his sides, helpless.
Instantly, horribly sober. And fucked.
So fucked!
But she didn’t scream, or kick him in the nuts. She took his hand and led him out the back door, onto the deck. It was freezing. She pulled him into the shadow of the roof overhang. He stumbled, bumped into her, he didn’t know what todo.
She leaned against the side of the house and guided his hand to her hip. Oh, that’s, yes, that’s a woman’s hip, warm under the slippery black fabric. Her hand on top of his, holding it there. He put his other hand on her neck, his fingers skimming up the nape, into her hair. It was so dark he could barely see her. Their breath clouded between them whitely.
He leaned in. Pressed his lips to hers. They were dry. Then their mouths opened, and…
Well, it was bad, frankly.
It was fucking awful.
Teeth knocking, noses bumping. He made some critical mistakes with his tongue.
But they didn’t give up. They were old enough to know you have to be patient sometimes, you have to adjust. So they adjusted.
Then something clicked, and good God.
It was tremendous.
They made out for ten minutes. He put his hand up her dress. She pushed it back down, which, fair. She did let him have a go at a boob, though. Thank you, gentle lady, oh thank you, his first encounter with her perfect, her exquisite…he was a teenager again, feeling up a girl for the first time. She pressed herself against his erection. Who was this woman? Why was she giving him this gift? He felt her hand on the back of his neck. Her fingers in his hair.
I will do this forever, he thought. For the rest of my life, I will be here, on Tim Park’s back porch, kissing this delicious, this beautiful and generous stranger.
Then a door slammed, somewhere in the house.
They broke apart.
Wait, she said.
She slipped inside.
He waited.
She didn’t come back.
Well, he thought blearily, stumbling home across his lawn later that night, that’s that. She came to her senses, a delayed but perfectly reasonable reaction to having some pathetic slob’s desperation foisted on her. He hoped she didn’t feel assaulted, or regret it too much.
He hoped she wouldn’t talk.
He was exalted and more depressed than ever. He would never do anything like that again. It was too risky. It was wrong.
Three days later, she texted him. He still doesn’t know how she got his number.
And six years later, here they are. She’s improved his life so much. Changed me fundamentally? No, but she’s been such a balm for the lack of touch, of warmth. For the fewer tomorrows than yesterdays. She vanquished the malaise, helping him to be a better human. A better version of who he’s supposed to be when she’s not around.
Life works now. His marriage works. He’ll have to find a way to keep them both working. But she should leave Tom. She can do so much better.
He’ll find her a good divorce lawyer. The best.