7
Ellen, the therapist, had been extremely clear with Sydney: “You don’t want to know the details of Curtis’s liaison.
That kind of information paints a mental picture that can be re-traumatizing.
” So, Syd had never asked about Curtis’s lover’s background, personality, or sexual proclivities.
She didn’t want to know what attracted him to Collette, the irresistible quality that had led him to sleep with a virtual stranger and risk a twelve-year marriage.
That knowledge would only hurt her more.
She knows this. But Sydney wouldn’t be a normal human being if she didn’t check out Collette on social media.
Curtis had been forthcoming with only the most superficial details.
Collette Jasper was around forty, divorced, the COO of a biotech startup looking for office and lab space in any of the five boroughs.
She was white, attractive, with dark hair and tawny skin.
It wasn’t much, but it was enough for Sydney to find her on Facebook.
Syd’s still in bed, sipping the coffee Curtis made before he left for Girona, her laptop warming her legs through the sheets.
Whenever Curtis leaves Sydney alone in the house, she indulges her curiosity.
She knows it isn’t healthy, that it may impede her healing, but she can’t help herself.
Setting down her mug, she types the name of her husband’s mistress into the Facebook search bar.
As she waits for Collette Jasper’s profile to load, Sydney wonders why she continues to visit this page.
She already knows Collette’s privacy settings are tight, that there’s virtually no personal information available, only a handful of photographs.
(Like a masochist, Syd has screenshotted them, saved them to her camera roll for accessible torture sessions.) And yet, Syd returns to the site like it’s a lifeline, her only link to the woman who nearly destroyed her. It’s twisted and disturbing.
Collette’s profile pic is seared in Sydney’s mind.
It shows a sexy woman with a dark, shoulder-length blowout, dangly earrings, and a curvaceous figure.
In another photo, Collette laughs while holding a whimsical cocktail: tiny umbrella, fresh fruit, curly straw.
In the next, she stands in front of a tropical resort, her floral sarong matching the peach tones of the stucco building as if it were staged.
Curtis’s lover appears fun, light, the kind of woman who vacations on Miami Beach and orders a double pina colada.
Was it Collette’s vivaciousness that attracted Curtis? Or was it simply those big boobs?
As always, the mental image of her husband’s mistress prompts an unpleasant comparison.
In contrast to Collette, Sydney feels pale and scrawny, bland and reserved.
She’s lost too much weight since the infidelity.
The emotional pain and the medications have made her dull and listless.
Sydney used to be vibrant, sexy, and confident, didn’t she?
And yet Curtis still found this other woman with her sparkling smile, her curves, her bright colors, impossible to resist. Maybe Syd shouldn’t have worn so many neutral pantsuits.
The page is loading slowly, the Wi-Fi in the hillside house less than speedy.
Perhaps Bianca is using it out in her camper van?
She hadn’t asked Syd for the password, but maybe Curtis had shared it.
It’s fine. Syd can wait to scratch this ugly itch, to see the images and information already etched on her brain.
She sips her coffee as the tiny wheel on-screen spins.
A list of Collette Jaspers appears, but none of them are her husband’s lover.
Sydney sits forward, peers at the screen.
Has the Collette Jasper deleted her Facebook account?
More likely, she’s blocked Sydney. But why now?
The affair ended over a year ago. Syd and Curtis have moved across the ocean.
Why would Collette suddenly be worried about her privacy? It makes no sense.
Curtis would not have been in touch with Collette: It was discussed at length in therapy as the ultimate dealbreaker.
Curtis had assured his wife that he’d felt no emotional connection to Collette, that he had no reason or desire for contact with his former lover.
He’d quit his job and moved continents to prove the point!
Plus, Sydney and Curtis are together practically 24/7.
He’d given her the passwords for all his devices.
She hasn’t checked recently, but she could. Why would he risk it?
She tosses the laptop aside and drags herself out of bed.
Despite the strong cup of coffee, her head feels fuzzy and muddled, likely from yesterday’s drinks.
She knows now isn’t the time to spiral into doubts and trust issues.
Slipping into a one-piece swimsuit, she searches for her cover-up, then remembers she left it on a pool chair to dry.
Instead, she wraps Curtis’s terry cloth robe around her and searches for her cigarettes.
As she sits smoking by the pool, Syd looks at the Westfalia broken down in the driveway.
She wonders if Bianca is still asleep, or if she’s meditating or journaling or doing some other healthy, spiritual activity that van-dwellers practice.
Stubbing out the cigarette, she walks to the vehicle and knocks on the side door.
Vinyl curtains cover the windows, but she hears rustling in response.
Within moments, the door opens, and Bianca emerges, bright-eyed and perky.
“Good morning.” She climbs out of the van, wearing a black bikini top, sweatpants hanging low on her hips.
Bianca slides the van door closed behind her, but not before Syd’s eyes flit to the interior.
She doesn’t mean to be nosy, but she’s curious how this couple has been living so harmoniously in such close quarters.
But all she can make out is a small countertop, the cupboards beneath it, and a rumpled, built-in bed.
“I was waiting for you to finish your cigarette,” the Australian girl explains. She taps her chest. “Asthma.”
“I just have one a day,” Syd replies sheepishly. “I’m tapering off.”
“Good.” Bianca smiles at her. “I’m a nurse. I’ve seen too many people suffer and die from lung cancer and emphysema.”
Syd changes the subject. “Have you heard from the guys?”
“No, nothing.” Bianca’s pretty face contorts. “I’m so sorry about all this.”
“Let’s make the best of it,” Syd suggests. “There’s coffee inside, and we can have a swim.”
As Bianca stands at the pool’s edge preparing for a shallow dive, Sydney treads water and tries not to feel bad about herself.
Bianca is so young, so toned, so tanned.
Sydney has always been tall, slim, and flat-chested: a model-esque figure.
She looks good in clothes; Bianca looks good in this tiny swimsuit.
It’s juvenile, anti-feminist, and hard on the ego to be thinking this way, especially after she spent the morning comparing herself to Collette.
Sydney dives under the water, kicks her way to the opposite end of the pool.
“Nothing better than a brisk morning swim,” Bianca says when Syd surfaces.
She’s treading water in the middle of the pool now, her hair slicked back from her face.
The girl is almost breathtakingly beautiful, but the bright sunlight illuminates faint acne scars on her cheeks, the slightest wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. She’s human after all.
“Better than coffee.” Syd swims to the edge, rests her arms on the concrete behind her.
Bianca swirls in place. “What kind of law did you practice back in New York?”
Sydney had mentioned her former job in passing yesterday, but she’d been intentionally vague. She knows the reaction her title can elicit. “I was a public defender.”
“Seriously?” Bianca coughs. “You defended murderers and rapists?”
“I did,” Sydney says, voice measured in the face of the woman’s judgment. “The Sixth Amendment guarantees people accused of a crime the right to a lawyer, even if they can’t afford one. That’s how our legal system works. That’s how we ensure everyone is treated fairly.”
“But why choose that kind of law?” Bianca joins her at the side of the pool, her face scrunched with confusion. Or is it disdain? “Why not help good people instead of bad people?”
“Some of the people who use a public defender are good.” Sydney climbs out of the pool, grabs a towel off a lawn chair, and dries herself as she talks.
“Do you know how many low-income, marginalized people go to jail for crimes they didn’t commit?
Because they got railroaded by police or falsely accused by victims or witnesses?
Or they just didn’t have a decent lawyer? ”
“No…” Bianca says, ascending the pool steps to join Syd. “I never really thought of it that way.”
“There are nearly four thousand people on the National Registry of Exonerations. Most of them lived in poverty or with addiction or suffered racism. Many of them didn’t have decent legal representation. I provided that.”
“So, some of the people you represented were innocent,” Bianca says thoughtfully as they lay their towels on lawn chairs and stretch out to dry off.
“Some,” Syd says, though that isn’t really the point.
“I think a lot of lawyers just care about money,” Bianca says, “but you were making a difference.”
“I tried to.” Syd smiles.
Bianca turns to her, her eyes hidden by large dark sunglasses. “Aren’t there acts that are unforgivable, though? Things so awful that they’re indefensible?”
Bianca is talking about murder, abduction, rape, and torture. Why does Syd’s mind go to Curtis’s one-night stand?
“Everyone deserves due process,” she says. “Everyone deserves to be heard.”
“Even monsters?”
Just then, the rumble of a car, the crunch of tires on the rutted drive, saves Syd from diving into the moral and ethical complexities.
“Sounds like the guys are back.” She gets up and heads inside.