The Days Between

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Sunday, May 14

Andrew

Kathryn’s long hair spilled down her shoulders onto the bare skin of her back. Her full lips were a deep garnet red, the same color as the dress she wore, and she drew him closer. His hand met her smooth skin, shattering the wall between them; he surrendered all control.

Andrew pressed his lips to the skin of her shoulder, and she faced him. Her dress was gone, and his fingers wound into her hair. His mouth traveled her, kissing her neck, her breasts, down her belly. Her hands were on his head, guiding him, and then he was above her, her tongue on his. They were together, moving as one, and Andrew could feel himself—both of them—climbing higher and higher. She called out, and he spiraled above her, then unspooled in circling waves of ecstasy. He tried to clutch her close, but she began to fade. No. He reached out, but she was gone.

Andrew bolted upright, surrounded only by the darkness of his room, the duvet in a pile on the floor beside the bed. Where was Amy? At work. Of course she was at work. Disoriented, more alone than he’d ever been. “Fuck.” In the quiet, his heart thudded, his breath ragged. His eyes adjusted to the light as his dream swam in his mind.

“Fuck fuck fuck.” He darted into the bathroom, where he attempted to clean himself. Relief, pleasure, and shame flowed through him. It was mortifying. That hadn’t happened since he was in high school.

Andrew lumbered down the stairs, the harsh light of the kitchen assaulting his eyes. At the counter, he watched the coffee maker spit, the liquid collecting in the carafe, all while lost in his dream, trapped between the warmth of the fantasy and his harsh, unforgiving reality.

“Andrew?” Amy’s voice sliced his thoughts. She stood at the entrance to the kitchen, her face weary and worn, wearing her scrubs and socks. Her crooked name tag hung where it was clipped to her top. She smelled, as she always did, like medical hand soap, and the scent cut through the kitchen to stir an aching nostalgia, a longing for something he wasn’t aware he was missing. Guilt surged through his system. Going out with Kathryn, learning about his son, he could lie to himself, say he didn’t want to hurt his wife. But the dream—so visceral, so raw. He couldn’t rationalize the desire he felt for another woman. A throb of remorse. He ached to brush Amy’s cheek with his thumb, to smooth back the flyaway strands of hair. But if their skin touched, would she sense a change in him? Amy cocked her head to the side. “Are you all right?”

The coffeepot hissed, drawing his attention. “Hey—yeah, how was work?”

“It was fine.” Amy unclipped her name tag before she pulled off her top and headed into the laundry room. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I didn’t sleep well.” Andrew rubbed his eye with a knuckle.

“My mom called last night.” Amy’s voice came from down the hall as he spilled coffee into a mug, her words waking him.

“Is she okay?” Andrew imagined the worst, that he and Amy would have to jet off to California. He pictured the awkward cross-country flight, his routine thrown off-balance, his wife devastated.

“Yes,” Amy answered. “She’s as fine as she can be.” Flush with relief, he leaned against the counter to take a sip of his coffee, which scorched the tip of his tongue. He deserved it for his horrible thoughts. “My dad has a conference in Miami at the end of the month. They’re going to drive up here that Saturday night for dinner.”

“Saturday? Don’t you have to work?” The surface of his coffee rippled when he blew on it, then dared take another small sip, his thoughts tangled in his dream.

Amy didn’t answer. She came back down the hallway and into the kitchen, wearing her gray cotton boy shorts and sports bra. She looked different, with a subtle roundness to her belly and her face. Her breasts were fuller. Andrew wondered when the last time was that he’d looked, really looked, at his naked wife.

Amy shrugged. “I’ll switch shifts, work Sunday night instead. That’s Memorial Day weekend, so we’ll need all hands on deck.” She glanced at him like she had something else to say but then thought better of it.

Muted light crept through the windows, and between the heaviness of the weather and his vivid dream, Andrew was lost to reality. “What time is it?” he asked.

“Eight o’clock. If you’re going for a run, you’d better go soon. It’s going to rain.” Her shoulders slumped in exhaustion. “I’m going to take a shower and get some sleep.” She jogged up the staircase.

Andrew laced his shoes and crossed Ocean Avenue. His body was sluggish, and the dense, humid air had him doused with sweat within a mile. The waves were rough, slate gray, and raindrops pelted the sand. His dream passed through his mind on an endless loop while rain soaked his shirt. He pushed on, allowed his mind to drift, emotions and desires swirling fluidly. His heart pounded, as much from his thoughts as the miles of sand under his feet when he recalled Kathryn’s smile, the way it gently pulled at her mouth, her chin cast down, her eyes narrowed on him like they shared a deep secret. Which, of course, they did.

At first their conversations had revolved around Max. Then memories seeped in. Old jokes, long forgotten. Now, when Amy worked nights, he sat across from Kathryn at one of Lantana’s restaurants. His evenings weren’t a stretch of loneliness any longer; for a few evenings each week, Andrew lived another life, one where he had a son. One where Kathryn hadn’t broken him. Gone was the straight-backed Kathryn from their first meeting; beneath sconce lights, her smile beamed, like she wasn’t conscious of every movement she made.

At their last dinner, they’d settled on a patio, Kathryn’s elbow rested on the wrought iron, her chin propped on her knuckles. Her eyes reflected the twinkle of the low-hanging lights strung between the palms. He’d leaned toward her. “Do you remember that road trip we took?”

A faraway smile appeared on her lips, small at first; then it spread, tugged at the corners of her eyes. “That was not a road trip. That was an impulsive—and stupid—Saturday-afternoon drive.”

“Come on. It was fun for a while,” Andrew teased. “We sang along with the radio and took in all the beauty Central Florida has to offer. Like alligators and Yeehaw Junction.”

Kathryn giggled. “Yeah, until we realized we were hours from home, and then that storm rolled in—I think it was the worst I’ve ever seen outside of a hurricane.”

“You were terrified.”

“Of course—we couldn’t even see the road.”

“I thought my dad was going to kill me for putting that shitty motel on my credit card,” Andrew said. “But we were stranded in the middle of nowhere.” The memory returned in bursts: the outdated motel decor, peeling off their wet clothes to hang in the bathroom, the TV with three channels, the flat pillows and their laughter. He remembered the way he’d kissed her, their bodies together. Their laughter rose in unison, and he said, “We were so stupid, so young and impulsive.”

Kathryn’s face split into a smile. “We called it our accidental road trip.”

Andrew leaned across the table. “Don’t you wish we could do something like that again?”

Kathryn’s eyes locked with his. “You mean if we didn’t have kids and jobs and ...?”

A wife .

The fluid moment—equal parts memory and fantasy—all but dissipated. But he could see in her face her thoughts were the same as his. They were both reminded of their obligations, but he had been sure she also wondered, for a moment, how it would feel to drive off into the night together.

His watch beeped, bringing him back to the beach. He adjusted course, pushed on for the final stretch of his run. And though the world was awash with gray, he felt it: color crept back into his life. Excitement. Something he hadn’t felt in so long. The night he’d returned from dinner with Kathryn at Lombardi’s Steakhouse, Andrew had taken the two orange bottles beside the sink and tossed them into the trash. With each day that passed, while his antidepressants and antianxiety medication faded from his system, he found the exhilaration of living a secret life was a far greater high than any he’d experienced. And, as the source of his intoxication remained undetected, his confidence bloomed. Andrew rode the days like the waves of the ocean, a power larger than himself. Mundane tasks passed in a haze, and his colleagues zipped by him in a blur as he waited for his evenings out, to be swept up in the wave once more, to surrender to the strength of the tide.

He recalled the way he and Kathryn had broken into a dance for a few moments on a restaurant patio. She’d laughed when he’d spun her, making the skirt of her dress sway. The red glow of the evening sun had caught her hair as she brushed it from her face. He thought of the way her long legs looked as she watched the night pass from the passenger seat of his car.

Another night, lost in conversation, the restaurant was empty, their table bare, save for her half glass of cabernet and Andrew’s water, now mostly melting ice. With their bill paid, the servers rolled silverware in the corner and left them alone, and they were left to share their thoughts with each other.

The pressure and disappointment of his real life floated just above his shoulders, but he swatted it away. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. He didn’t touch Kathryn in a way he wouldn’t touch any other friend: A peck on the cheek. His palm on the small of her back as they maneuvered a crowd. Fingertips brushing her arm. And, with an outlet for his loneliness and their argument over his promotion in the past, he and Amy fell into a groove. He packed her lunch and cooked her dinner. He put their sheets in the wash.

Amy seemed content at her job. And Andrew? He certainly wasn’t having an affair.

But with Kathryn he was important. Worthy of her attention. There were no expectations, just tapas and easy conversation. And with each evening together, Kathryn fed Andrew more details about Max, and Andrew absorbed each bit of information, like someday they’d all combine and form a complete picture of his son.

Near the end of his run, his house came into view. Andrew stopped, drawing ragged breaths. He was an impostor; he didn’t live there and didn’t know the man who did. If he’d completed grad school, it would have been his salary that paid for this stunning home. Instead, he’d married a surgeon. Somehow it felt like he’d cheated his way into this life.

Andrew worked his shoes off and went upstairs to shower. Stepping under the hot spray, he closed his eyes and let it run down his face, his hand flat against the smooth tile, riding the familiar, gnawing waves of guilt. Every minute that passed posed more danger that Amy would discover what he was hiding. He couldn’t keep her in the dark much longer, but he knew the moment Kathryn and Max entered Amy’s reality, the colorful dreamworld he was living in would dissipate. His time with Kathryn would slip from his fingers, and he’d be left with nothing more than the cold rooms of his house and a son who may never want anything to do with him. It couldn’t go on like this forever, he knew. But, with each passing day, he was going to soak it in while he could.

The curtains in the bedroom were drawn, and Andrew moved silently around the space as he dressed. Amy’s body was silhouetted under the blanket, small and vulnerable, a section of her hair coiled on the pillow beside her. Just one month ago, Andrew would have slipped into bed beside her and buried his face in her neck, taken in the smell of her, grateful she was the balm that soothed the wounds the world had left him with. Now, as he watched Amy sleep just a few feet away, the gap between his two lives felt more difficult to bridge.

There was a cushiony distance between Andrew and everyone in his life. Everyone except Kathryn.

Amy

As Amy feigned sleep, her mind struck one thought like a dart. Bull’s-eye.

On Friday night, as she and Andrew had piled into his car before the Hart Breast Cancer Research Fundraising Dinner, Andrew had held the car door for her.

It was a simple gesture. Benign. But it was something he’d never done before. Amy had always seen it as a sign of respect; they were equals. When had he picked up this habit?

They’d sailed wordlessly along the ribbon of nearly deserted highway in the dark. The Boca Resort opened ahead of them, uplighting on the towering palm trees, and the valet took Andrew’s keys. Amy had picked a looser gown than the previous year, something to conceal the bloating caused by the illicit fertility drugs. She felt puffy, uncomfortable beneath the fabric. But Andrew looked dapper in his suit, his baby-blue eyes catching his baby-pink tie. Even the day she’d married him, she hadn’t found him as handsome as she did that night. The glint in his eye also tickled something in her.

At these events, Andrew knew how to play the game, with his practiced eye contact, his unintimidating smile, his questions balanced, personal yet professional. Only Amy could see what it took from him, the red blotches on his neck. The fact that he’d be exhausted, despondent for the following days. Why did she ask him to attend these events she knew he loathed? He’d more than proved his willingness to please her years ago. But that night he seemed more relaxed. His conversation flowed more easily, and Amy raised an eyebrow at him over her drink.

It was nearly midnight when they drove home, Andrew taking his time as he cruised Ocean Avenue, the moon dancing on the surface of the water like a white, jagged lightning bolt. When the garage door lowered behind them, Andrew turned off the engine. He sighed out the energy of the night, his hand gripping the shift.

Amy tilted her head toward her husband in the darkness. “We’re very different people, aren’t we?”

Andrew lifted his eyes and said softly, almost with a hint of melancholy, “Yes, we are.”

A beat.

“But I love you,” Amy said.

“I love you, too.” Andrew’s gaze was earnest. She was certain he meant it.

And even more certain this wasn’t a blip in their marriage—her husband had something to hide.