The Days Between

CHAPTER TWELVE

Saturday, April 8

Andrew

Andrew navigated the unfamiliar streets between the frantic laps of his windshield wipers. Guilt wrenched at him as he pulled into the driveway on Cherry Street and double-checked the address Kathryn had provided. “Do you mind picking me up?” she’d asked when they’d spoken. Her request had swept him with surprise. “People in my neighborhood ... they talk.” The words were strained. “So I’d rather leave my car here. Do you mind driving? Park on the street. Do not get out. And pick somewhere to eat in West Palm or Lantana or something—not in town.”

“Okay.” Andrew had let her instructions process, chased by the thrill of having Kathryn in the passenger seat beside him. But that night, the rain came in angry sheets, and he didn’t want Kathryn to get soaked, so he rolled into the driveway. But there was another pull, a magnetic tug of curiosity, when the house came into view. Andrew leaned forward, taking in the two-story structure that held the secrets he kept from his wife. The home his son had grown up in sat unnervingly close to his own. Max had come home from school every day, eaten dinner, completed his homework, living a parallel life so close to Andrew’s, just beyond his reach.

Again he saw Max’s smile, dewy with youth, in the photos with his friends on the fishing boat, and the familiar course of emotion rose once more: anger, resentment, betrayal, jealousy. Andrew wasn’t a monster; he wasn’t abusive; he belonged here , the three of them living their normal, suburban lives. For a moment it were as if he could erase everything that had happened and slip into this parallel universe, before their lives had fractured, sending them in opposing directions.

Since the night they’d gone to the Mexican restaurant, each time his phone had pinged, his breath caught in his throat, and he brushed aside his disappointment when the messages were from anyone but Kathryn.

Andrew settled back into his seat. With his eyes closed, he drew a breath and tried to gather himself. On an inhale, he concentrated on what he did have: a successful career; a home; a stunning, brilliant wife. It was a practice he’d learned in addiction counseling, an exercise of gratitude. A thought bubbled in him, warm, with a sense of excitement. Sure, he had everything he’d ever wanted, and now, through some twist of fate, Kathryn had come back into his life, very much the woman he’d once loved, and yet so different. He realized that he had—at least in this delicate moment in time—the best of both worlds. And he did appreciate that.

The front door swung open, and a figure darted down the driveway, yanked the passenger door, and climbed in. This wasn’t Kathryn. Andrew tapped the dome light, illuminating the space. A petite teenage girl sat before him, and she looked around the car, then up to Andrew’s face. She had warm, golden skin with strange, light eyes, and her lips were parted slightly in confusion. Rain thudded the roof. Andrew’s eyes darted up to the address. Was it the wrong house? “I’m here for Kathryn.”

The girl didn’t speak, just opened her door, rushed back into the rain, and disappeared into the house.

A disorienting beat passed.

Andrew reached for his phone just as the front door opened once again. Through the rain, he could tell this wasn’t the girl from before but someone taller, dressed in dark clothing.

Kathryn climbed into the seat, pulling the door shut, and set her umbrella between her feet. “I told you to park on the street.” Her long hair fell down her shoulders, and she brushed it away from her face, her perfume filling the small space, sultry and rich.

“Uh, yeah—the rain—”

But Kathryn swiveled to regard his car. “This is so strange. Max has the same car.”

“Really?”

“A different color, but otherwise exactly the same.”

The young girl’s expression was burned into Andrew’s mind, almost scared. “Maybe that’s why—a girl got into my car a minute ago; then she ran back into the house.”

“Emmy? That’s weird, I didn’t see her.” Kathryn bit her lip, as if considering more than she was saying.

“Who is Emmy?” Andrew asked.

“My friend’s daughter. She’s staying with me for a few weeks.” Kathryn didn’t offer more.

Andrew scrambled to break the tension. “Your house is nice,” he said, failing to secure a better word. His house, like the others in his row along Ocean Avenue, was custom built and uninviting. The elusive neighbors he and Amy had didn’t walk their dogs or chat at the end of their driveways, but Andrew could picture people living real, messy lives in this neighborhood.

“Thanks.” Kathryn frowned up at her home in the shroud of rain. “I guess when I bought it, I thought I’d get married someday, maybe have more children.” Her eyes were sad and faraway. Maybe she, too, was imagining another version of her life, one where the space between them didn’t exist. “But it’s a little late for that now.”

Andrew reversed into the street. As he shifted into drive, a car approached, and he stopped, blinded by the oncoming headlights. The car rolled to a stop, and torrents of rain fell in the space between them. The silver car turned into the driveway, and the red brake lights illuminated when it stopped. It wasn’t until Kathryn drew a gasp that Andrew realized Max must be behind the wheel. Andrew craned his neck to get a glance of his son, but between the rain and Max’s tinted windows, it was impossible.

Kathryn’s hands balled on her lap, and she shook her head. “It was a terrible idea to have you pick me up.”

“I don’t think he saw us,” Andrew said. Kathryn gave a small nod, but her hands didn’t unclench. He let the rain drum on the roof for a long moment before he proceeded down the street.

Emmy

Darting into the rain, Emmy yanked the door handle of Max’s car and climbed into the familiar black leather seat. Her breath caught at the sight of him, fresh faced and handsome, one hand on the steering wheel. Max leaned in to place a soft kiss on her lips. “You’re all wet.” He switched the heat on, and the seat warmed beneath her legs.

Over the last few weeks, slipping into Max’s car each afternoon was like passing into a different universe. Something had shifted in Max; he was lighter. His smile had changed, no longer secretive, and it reached his eyes.

Harper sent Emmy an increasingly desperate string of texts, but Emmy had left her mother on read. It felt good to punish Harper with silence the way Harper had always done to her. A new source of resentment bubbled up; Harper had kept Emmy from Max and Kathryn her entire life for no reason. Maybe they could have been friends, been normal .

Emmy’s world was now painted with color, a delicious secret blooming between her and Max, dulling the sting of Harper’s indifference. In the afternoons, Max drove to the beach lot and cut the engine. In a fluid movement, they unbuckled their seat belts and moved into one another, as if they couldn’t bear the space between them any longer. Kissing Max was electricity; it was fire, all-consuming, like warm honey running down her body. It was a million times hotter than any romance novel she’d ever read. The way he drew in made her feel like he craved her more than anything else in the world. Emmy slid into his lap, and Max slipped a hand under her shirt, sending a rush through her; it was empowering to be wanted this way. She shifted her hips against his. Max let out a sharp gasp before pulling back, pressing his forehead to hers, and in his expression, Emmy saw it took every bit of his restraint to break away from her.

One day, Max had brushed her bracelets aside, his forehead narrowing when his eyes fell onto the four straight lines marking the edge of her wrist. The oldest scar had faded to white, the other three were still an ugly, raised purple. “What’s this?”

“Nothing.” Emmy’s pulse thrummed. She slid her bracelets back into place. “Just something I used to do.”

Max laced his fingers with hers and lifted her hand, letting her bracelets roll down her arm before he pressed his lips to the tender, vulnerable skin of her wrist. Nobody had ever touched her this way. It was addictive. “Promise me you won’t do it again?”

“I promise.” She meant it, vowing as much to herself as she did to him. She’d spent so much of her life narrowing her focus onto an unspecified future, an escape. But she’d never imagined this, something in her life she didn’t need to run from. A brighter world.

In the driveway, as the rain washed over the car, Emmy tried to shake off the experience with the man with Max’s eyes. It was absurd; her mind had to be playing tricks on her. But the encounter replayed in quick, disorienting flashes. The man had Max’s face, remarkably similar, though with no trace of Max’s boyhood. In the moment she’d frozen and studied him, determined to commit each detail to memory, the way she would cling to a dream she desperately wanted to remember. She considered telling Max what had happened, but what if she was wrong about what she’d seen?

“Kathryn just left,” she said. “Do you want to go inside?”

Max mulled this as he leaned over to kiss her once more, his hand gliding up her thigh, sending a ripple through her body. She didn’t want anything to extinguish this flame that raged between them. “No,” Max said. “Kathryn’s been blowing up my phone. Let’s go somewhere else.”

A realization sparked inside her. “The tenant moved out of my dad’s house a few weeks ago. It’ll be empty until early summer,” she offered, shy, her body buzzing. “Nobody will bother us there.”

A smile tugged at the corners of Max’s mouth, and he shifted the car into reverse. He didn’t take his hand off her leg as he drove, and she set her hand on top of his. Neither felt the need for words; the only sound was the rain and the rhythmic thump of the wipers. Max turned onto Ocean Avenue and made his way under the passing streetlamps until he came to a hidden driveway, the headlights illuminating a dark wooden gate. He rolled down his window and reached out into the rain to punch in the security code Emmy gave him, and they passed through, the low-hanging palms brushing the roof of the car. A chill rippled through Emmy when she looked up at her father’s house.

“Okay.” Max turned to her. “Ready?”

They threw their doors open and ran through the rain and up the stone path on the side of the house, their sneakers splashing in the puddles. A bright flash lit the sky, and thunder boomed around them as Emmy punched her code into the panel beside the door before she pushed it open. They ducked out of the storm into the house.

Max found a light switch, and the house came aglow, while thunder echoed in the upper levels. Emmy had been inside the home only a handful of times since her childhood, whenever Harper had to oversee some sort of repair or delivery, and each time Emmy tried to let the space revive memories of her early life but was left empty handed. She now walked over to the swath of windows before the sunporch and watched lightning bolts dance white and yellow across the ocean, momentarily revealing the low, heavy clouds above.

Everything had begun here. Emmy heard it: ghostly laughter on sunny days. Then, sharp words. Screaming. Broken glass. It could have been imagined, but she was sure it wasn’t; she felt it, the fear visceral. She watched Kathryn disappear out the back door, watched Harper collapse on the floor.

Emmy slipped her phone from her pocket, scrolled to “Kathryn.” Spending the night with my friend Maggie. I’ll be back tomorrow. She ended the message with a heart. She should feel terrible about lying to Kathryn. But she saw it again, the man’s face. Maybe Emmy wasn’t the only one with something to hide.

Max switched on the fireplace before he came up behind her, slipping his arms around her waist. She turned to face him. The fire grew, the room flickering with strange shadows.

Max rubbed her arms and whispered, “Before this ... continues, we need to talk.” His face was serious. “If Kathryn finds out we’re ... she’ll send you home. And if you do anything to upset your mom, she might pull your school funding.”

Emmy didn’t know how to respond. Everything was spinning so fast. She’d been in Kathryn and Max’s house only a few weeks, but they’d been the best weeks of her life. And the draw toward Max was magnetic. Something tugged deep within her at the feel of his body underneath the fabric of his T-shirt.

“I have nothing to lose.” Max pulled back a few inches, his body rigid. “But you have everything. So, if you want to, let’s stop this now. Before it grows into something larger. Before anyone gets hurt.”

Her stomach dropped when she thought of her mother stopping her from going to Seattle. Her future would be dead before it began. “What’s that going to be like for the next two months? I can’t go back to my grandmother’s house, Max. Ever.”

Max offered a shrug. “I’m not home much. I can control myself. I’ll give you space. We can be cordial.”

“ Cordial? Not even friends?”

“Emmy.” Her name fell away from him on a breath. “There’s no way I can be friends with you.”

Her world spun. She was standing on the precipice of something much greater than herself, and if she followed the path, her life would never be the same. She had to focus. Her mouth was dry, her throat tight, and she shook her head. “That’s not what I want.” Looking at Max, there was nothing she wanted more than him. She was in deep, and she suspected he was, too.

“I won’t let you ruin your future for me,” Max said.

“Let me decide what’s right for me.” She held out her palm, and Max’s half smile lifted in surprise, but his hand was sweaty when he reached for hers. Why was he so nervous?

Emmy pulled him into her, and she knew it the way she knew her own name: her love for Max had been there all along, flaring to life the moment she’d allowed it to breathe. It may have been there in those days she hardly remembered, splashing in the sun. Or when she’d watched him at her mother’s wedding. But it was there, weaved into the fabric of her being. She didn’t need to speak the words and didn’t need to hear him speak them.

Her body was alive, buzzing with possibility, with yearning. Was this the part of her romance novels where the heroine went against all common sense, all good advice, because of a love that burned so hot it blinded her? How much was she willing to sacrifice for him? Scrapping all hope for a relationship with Harper? Betraying Kathryn’s trust?

And was this what happened to Harper, maybe in this very house?

“Yes, Max. This is crazy. It’s dangerous. And I’m freaking out right now, but all I know is I want you . If it grows into something larger ...” Emmy let the words fall off her lips, possibilities blooming. What if she and Max found a love like her parents once had? Was it worth the risk?

In the reflection of his eyes, she watched lightning flash just beyond the windows, and behind his eyes—excitement. He leaned in, bringing her face to his. “Then we’ll be careful.” His tone was low, sultry, with a note of delicious secrecy. Emmy nodded, and Max took her face in his hands. His mouth met hers, hungry, wet, desperate. And she gave in, surrendering all control. Her hands snaked across his back as his lips traced down her neck and across her collarbone. “I didn’t expect this to happen between us,” he said softly, and stepped back to look at her. “But I knew it the minute I saw you standing there in the hallway. I knew I’d fall in love with you. And it scared me. It still scares me, but you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Emmy took a moment to grasp the gravity of his words. She’d felt it, too, but couldn’t allow herself to presume Max’s feelings for her were so strong. But she knew he meant every word. To have Max return her love was more than she could have wished for. She leaned into him, his hand slipping between them to undo the buttons on her shirt. Her heart thudded when he took a step back, still kissing her as he moved upward, and peeled the wet fabric away from her skin. Max lifted his own shirt over his head, then reached for her face, tilting her chin to kiss her. “I want you.”

Her body awoke, and she was aware of every inch of her skin where it pressed against his. This was her life; she was going to do what she wanted.

“Is that okay?” He kissed her neck, and his hands glided to the small of her back. When she didn’t answer, he paused and met her eyes. “Emmy? Say something.”

She nodded. “Yes.”

Max’s grin spread, and he pulled her in again, pressing his lips onto hers. “Come over here.” He took a blanket and some of the pillows off the couch and set them on the rug, and the warmth of the fire blazed onto her skin as Max guided her closer. Emmy lowered herself onto the blanket before he joined her, tracing kisses down her neck. Max reached for the waistband on her skirt and unbuttoned it, letting it slide to the floor. Her fingers traced along his skin until they found the buttons on his jeans. Max slid out of his pants and cast them aside with her clothing. Then he carried on, kneeling over her, engrossed in her neck, kissing her down her arms to the tips of her fingers. Emmy glanced over at their clothing piled on the floor next to them, the weight of the situation dawning on her, and her body tensed. Feeling her reaction, Max pulled away once more, this time more gently. “Are you okay? You’re shaking.”

A rush of panic slipped inside her, and her eyes panned down her body, exposed in the light of the fire. “Max. I’ve never—”

“It’s okay,” he said, his swift body moving over her again. “Just tell me if I do anything you don’t like.”

Amy

After being rebuffed by Dr. Cassidy, she had sketched out a three-step plan to fix her life and her marriage.

Andrew had cold feet about parenthood. So many men, and women, did. She couldn’t waste time massaging his feelings. She saw it in him, in his patient, nurturing demeanor. He would love their child with all his heart, she was certain. If only she could solve the problem without burdening Andrew. She’d find a way to bridge the obstacles, would lean on her nature, run every test, adjust any variable to achieve the desired outcome. It was what she did best.

Step one was completed over a cold cup of coffee in the lost hours of her night shift: she’d dug deep in the web pages on her phone for a “drugstore” in North Miami she’d heard about on an infertility message board: a small rented space tucked into a nondescript three-story office building that advertised all manner of “supplements.”

The next morning, she executed step two. She’d set her alarm for 10:00 a.m., but as the rising sun pressed against the curtains, she couldn’t rest, her heart fluttering against the mattress as Andrew returned from his run and showered. He tiptoed across the carpet, and she willed her face to relax. She knew his routine from the muffled sound of fabric: he slipped into his boxer briefs, then tugged a white V-neck over his head. The drop of his weight onto the bed surprised her, and suddenly he was close, his face against the crook of her arm. She thought of leaning into him, of pretending to wake and reaching out, but he’d been so careful not to disturb her that she realized this moment was for himself. He rested his face against her arm, nuzzled her skin with a featherlight touch. Andrew placed a kiss on her head, then pushed off the bed, leaving her with an ache for him to return.

Once Andrew left for work, Amy had gotten up, showered, filled a travel tumbler with coffee, then merged onto I-95. The day was blazing hot, white popcorn thunderheads floating offshore. Amy found she relished her illicit task the way she had felt as a child, having successfully swiped a cookie from the kitchen under her mother’s nose. But the sensation faded, dulled by the reality of the countless tiny tragedies she faced each day, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. She shouldn’t have to operate in this clandestine manner; she should have her doctor’s support. But Amy had encountered people who doubted her over the course of her career, her life. Professors, fellow doctors, patients. If Dr. Cassidy was the best, and the clock was ticking, she was left no other choice.

The hour drive provided time for her mind to wander, to examine her marriage. Andrew had been upset about turning down the promotion. Could they have adjusted their schedules to accommodate one another’s additional hours? Her guilt throbbed. If she’d been more flexible, maybe the seat beside her wouldn’t be vacant; she and Andrew would be united in their mission to eschew the snobby Palm Beach fertility “specialist” and find success by way of a seedy backdoor shop in Miami beside a KFC. But a cushiony barrier had formed between them, like two opposing magnets, held together by force. So Amy needed to smooth this rough patch. It could be done.

She’d been raised with a near aversion to drama. In the mornings, her parents watched the weather and traffic. Then, lunch bags in hand, they shuffled out the door to face the day. In the evenings, Amy’s father helped her complete her homework while her mother, Elena, prepared dinner. On Saturday evenings, they all paused, watched a movie of Amy’s choosing with a bowl of popcorn between them. Their lives were calm, predictable, focused.

Until one afternoon when Amy was thirteen, and her algebra tutor came down with strep. Amy came through the back door early and saw her mother at the kitchen table, her cheeks glistening with tears, eyes red rimmed. She straightened at the sight of Amy, but Amy caught it: the anguish in her mother’s face, the cordless phone discarded on the table. This wasn’t something simple. It was as if a piece of her mother was missing, and in its place, a hardening. Elena rose, moved to the stove, switched it on, sniffed. And, like that, the mother Amy knew had returned. In that moment Amy realized people could hide parts of themselves from those around them.

The dinner table was quiet. From her parents’ bedroom door, Amy heard harsh whispers late into the night.

Her father moved differently. He was stiff and doubled his attention to Amy’s studies. Something softened his eyes. Remorse, maybe.

He hired a new receptionist at his practice.

Then, five months after she’d caught her mother crying, Amy came downstairs on a Saturday evening to the smell of microwave popcorn. Her parents were settled on the couch, a blanket tenting their legs. Amy rushed to them, wedged herself between them, and felt their bodies on either side of her, both of them relaxed for the first time in months.

She’d dedicated her entire life to fixing problems. She could mend her marriage while the wound was still small.

And it seemed to be working. There was a lightness to Andrew since their appointment with Dr. Cassidy, one Amy hadn’t seen in him for as long as she could recall.

The first time Amy had slept with Andrew, they’d been dating for two months, and he’d invited her over for dinner. It was clear the evening would end in his bed, and Andrew’s smile was replaced by a sheepish grin as he poured her a glass of her favorite pinot grigio and set two steaming dishes of chicken marsala between them.

“No wine for you?” Amy asked.

Andrew examined his plate. “No.” She could have sworn she saw a tiny tremor in his bottom lip. “I run six miles each morning. It’s best with a clear head.”

A dash of concern. He’d seemed perfect over the last eight weeks. Kind, gentle, genuine. She twisted the stem of her glass. “Is there something I should be worried about?”

“Absolutely not.” The conviction in his voice was fleeced with something hard, a decision made long before they’d met. He looked up. “I promise you that.”

Amy operated on facts, on evidence. She clocked the fear in Andrew’s face. But aside from that conversation, the sum of all his parts left her with a different conclusion; they moved around one another effortlessly after dinner, Andrew’s hands submerged in soapy dishwater while Amy toweled drippy plates. To Amy, it made him even more desirable, this control of his own life. A spark of desire crackled in the room.

Amy realized Andrew was waiting for her to give him a signal, and she relished the power she had over this gentle man twice her size. She set her towel on the countertop and gripped his T-shirt, pulling him in to kiss her. It was all Andrew needed to break his restraint; she could feel it in the way his strong body gave in to her, and he lifted her onto the kitchen counter, where they peeled their clothes away and left them strewn on the kitchen floor before he carried her into his bedroom, slamming the door behind them.

Afterward, he’d opened the balcony door, and the lights of the high-rise buildings around them glowed like so many stars from where they lay in his bed. Andrew had his face pressed into her arm, curled on his side. “You can be any kind of surgeon; why choose trauma?” he asked, his fingers stroking her hair.

Amy considered for a moment. “I always loved the idea that I could fix someone when something awful has happened to them.”

Andrew made a soft noise but didn’t add anything, and Amy listened as his breathing slowed. The curtains danced in the breeze, and it occurred to her she was fixing something damaged in him. The evidence was there in his apartment: the lone bedside table, the single towel hung in the bathroom. Though she was sure he’d brought women there, there were no stray toothbrushes or shampoo bottles, as if nobody had returned often enough to leave belongings behind. Andrew’s phone calls with his family were polite and formal; they stuck to safe, almost preapproved topics. Amy was introduced to his roommate, Nick, who eyed her with caution, and she realized he was the only person Andrew had allowed into his orbit until she’d arrived. Andrew lived a careful, solitary life. If he was protecting himself from something, it was concealed by success and privilege, by hard work and focus. He didn’t let any hand life had dealt him become an excuse, which made Andrew a rare find.

Four years later, on that sunny morning, Amy’s car glided onto the off-ramp in North Miami. The robotic navigation led her to a desolate parking lot dotted with potholes. Inside the building, the elevator door was smudged with fingerprints, and the air smelled sickly sweet of bargain all-purpose cleaner. The attendant didn’t pry, just gave Amy a curt nod as acceptance of the code word she’d been provided by the ladies on the message board, then handed her a paper bag. It wasn’t until her drive back up the highway that the weight of potential consequences rode in on a wave of panic. If she was caught purchasing drugs smuggled from South America, she could lose her medical license. What would her parents think if she could no longer practice medicine? What if her illegal actions were exposed in her mother’s last few months of life? Without her income, she and Andrew couldn’t afford the mortgage on their house. Would she lose him, too? No, she wouldn’t let anyone find out.

Now, on a wet Saturday night, it was time for step three. When the rotating surgeon, Dr. Sanchez, arrived at the hospital, Amy ducked into her SUV, swiped her employee badge on the kiosk, then nosed out into the shroud of rain. She drove two towns north of Delray Beach to Lantana. The rain slowed to a trickle when she pulled into a deserted strip mall bathed in neon lights.

If her med school classmates could see her now. Practical Amy, Amy who didn’t trust anything that couldn’t be proved in a lab, with one hundred dollars in cash she’d withdrawn from an ATM and a list on her Notes app to tick off: Du zhong. Xu duan. Shu dui huang. Dong chong xia cao . Amy’s mother had whispered the name of each herb into the phone like a secret, and Amy had repeated their pronunciations and how to use each one. Her mother didn’t ask whether Andrew was privy to the conversation. Maybe mother’s intuition told her he wasn’t.

A few hours earlier, she’d stolen a moment to duck into the hospital bathroom, where she pinched her skin between her fingers and plunged the needle into her abdomen, her phone buzzing on the porcelain sink. Someone always needed her, urgently, so she’d locked her injection kit in her office drawer and had run down the hall, toward whatever chaos awaited her. A drunk driver had T-boned a sedan carrying a mother and her four children. Amy was fed the facts: twelve-year-old boy. Unrestrained. Unresponsive.

Amy commanded people, and they flowed, a single entity. Among the voices and the needles, the monitors, the chatter, Amy felt it: the room slowing around her. Her movements were sharp, decisive, while her thoughts were steady. Amy hadn’t lost a single patient since she’d started at Boca General. She was at her peak. She was in control of the room. Of her life.

In the strip mall parking lot, the rain pattered her windshield, and she glanced at the clock. The store closed in ten minutes, and she had to get back to the hospital. She shut her car door and darted toward the shop. She felt like a general, lining up her men before she began her attack.

She glanced around, looking for anyone who might recognize her in her green scrubs. Then, through the shroud of rain, across the street, a valet jogged from a gray Audi toward Lombardi’s Steakhouse. Amy’s head cocked to the side. It looked exactly like Andrew’s car. But it couldn’t be, could it?