Chapter 22 #2
refused to do it, which—huh? You’re selling drugs and this is where you draw the line?
Then who shows up on our doorstep a few months later and whispers to me, “Hide me for a week or two and I won’t mention what
you asked me to do?” Yeah. I don’t think so. But Will, being the sucker that he is, insisted we help Ted out.
I made up the sofa bed myself. I let Ted think he was safe for a few days. Then I called the cops. Maybe he figured out it
was me. It wouldn’t take a genius, though I’ll deny it all day long.
I’m not a liar by nature, but I will do whatever is necessary to protect my family. I don’t feel good about it. I actually hate that these people have forced me to go behind their backs about things like reporting Ted to the
cops. It was a win for society; I shouldn’t have to hide the fact that I turned in a wanted man. I haven’t told Will, because
he’d make some impassioned argument about loyalty, which just proves the point: these people have twisted his morals into
weird little knots.
I’ve wanted Will to sever ties with his friend group for years now.
That’s partly why I took his phone, because when your spouse is leaking money, not to mention regressing in his moral life—likely encouraged by the company he keeps—you need to take back the reins.
The clinch point was the text Will sent Bennett about a year ago.
Doing lots of processing with my therapist. Oscar’s been coming up a lot .
. . you remember him, right? Call me when you have
a minute.
I truly had Will’s good in mind when I took that phone. Digging up Oscar’s sad story is pointless, and I had to shut that
down before it sent Will to an even worse place. But now I’m seeing that Will is never going to sever these ties. He’d prefer
to sever ties with me. Which is . . . I can’t even process it right now. I know, strategically, that a preemptive strike has to be my next move. I need to be the first to file for
separation. The court of public opinion will be on my side; I’ve made sure of it. But I have to get my legal ducks in a row
too. And honestly, it wouldn’t hurt to see if a couple people here might sympathize with me . . .
“So I’ve been meaning to ask you,” says Olivia. She’s still watching the others. Her voice is low. Secret-level low. Uh-oh, do I smell dirt?
“Yeah?”
She faces me. In the dark yard with the only light coming from the camping lanterns by the bench, her face is shadowy and
mysterious and I feel a pang of jealousy. I don’t like to compare myself to other women. I know comparison is the thief of
joy. But she’s too pretty for her own good, and . . . I’m only human.
“At the party five years ago,” she begins. “I . . . I’ve been doing some processing. I mean, trying to remember some of the
details.” She clears her throat, then tucks a dark strand of hair behind her ear. Okay . . . I think I know where this is
going. And, ew. Does she want to relive her greatest shame?
“I . . . well, I was really drunk, blackout drunk, actually, which I’m not proud of.
And Bennett was off having some deep conversation with Will?
Phelps let me have his master bedroom, to lie down .
. . and then we were talking, and I think there was more alcohol involved, and then .
. .” Her face is ghostly. She looks haunted.
“I came out of the room around, what, two in the morning? And you were there.”
I nod.
“And you told me you couldn’t believe I’d slept with Phelps.”
I bite my lip. “Yeah, I came on kind of strong. I was in shock. And . . . honestly, really disappointed that you’d do something
like that.”
“Why did you think I slept with Phelps?”
What?
“Because you went in there,” I say, “and then he went in there, and then he closed the door, and when I came out of the bathroom
I heard, you know . . . breathing.”
Olivia’s forehead wrinkles and she presses on a spot above her left eyebrow. “That’s it? You heard breathing?”
“And a long—” Ugh, I don’t want to relive this! It’s gross. And sad. “A groan, okay? I heard Phelps groan in . . . that way. And I was thinking about going in or whatever and making sure you were okay, but then he came out, and he was readjusting
his belt, and I saw you in the bed behind him with your legs . . . splayed open.” I mime the position of her legs, which is
burned into my brain. There. Is that what she wants?
Olivia nods slowly, but she doesn’t look reassured. She looks even more disturbed.
“Can I be honest?” Her voice is low and throaty.
“Of course,” I say shortly. “Honesty is the only way.”
“I . . .” Her eyes go distant and her head turns back to the guys. To Phelps and Bennett, who are laughing their butts off
about something on Phelps’s phone. Are they even focused on troubleshooting the problem with the game anymore? “I don’t actually remember having sex. I . . . I guess when I came out of the room and you told me you couldn’t believe what I’d done and kind of . . . stormed off or whatever . . .”
“I’m sorry, are you upset with me?” Isn’t this just like this group. Doing their horrible deeds and then making someone else the bad guy. Of course I was upset
when Olivia cheated on Bennett and I was the witness. Was I supposed to have no emotional reaction?
“No, no, I . . . Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. It’s just—” She glances at me, then away, like she can’t bear to look
at me for too long or she’ll burn herself. Like someone running their finger through a candle. “Did you . . . happen to tell
Bennett?”
“Excuse me?” I say. My heartbeat is rocketing. I hate this dynamic. These accusations from the very people who are the ones messing
everything up. First Ted. Now Olivia. “Why would I want to be in the middle of any of these messes?”
“Someone did,” she says in a hurt, retreating way, and her eyes go vague again.
“Well . . .” I huff out an irritated breath. “It’s not like we were alone in the house.” I pause to scratch my chin. “Actually,
now that I think about it . . . Doug went into the hall bathroom after me. Those doors are paper thin, so . . . he probably
heard me say it.” I reach out as if to touch her arm but don’t make contact. “Oh, gosh. Mr. Loose Lips himself. I’m really
sorry if I . . .”
“It’s fine,” says Olivia, crossing her arms tightly over her body, her eyes flashing up to Doug.
We stand there as Phelps lines up the shot glasses in a small patch of snow and pours tequila in. Ah. The plate problem is
solved. They’re now wedged between the plastic planks on top of the table, just like I knew they should be all along.
I look sidelong at Olivia. Not a shining moral beacon, that’s for sure . . . but I think she feels some kind of bond with me. Or at least she knows I have one on her. She could be a potential ally.
“Hey, so . . . on the subject of marriage, Will and I aren’t doing so well, actually,” I say. Might as well take the plunge
before the shooting starts and our moment is gone.
“What?” Olivia’s long pale hand flies to her chest. She looks utterly shocked.
I shake my head. “Yeah, we—”
Shattering glass makes me jump a little. Ah. Doug just shot off the gun. It’s a miracle he didn’t hit the other guys from
behind. Olivia releases a nervous laugh.
“Not yet, Doug, damn it!” shouts Phelps. Ted has his arm around Bunny and they’re both laughing. “Someone take that gun away
from Doug!”
“Dude, put it down,” Bennett is saying. “Here, hand it over.”
Doug struggles with Bennett. “No, I’ve got it, I was just checking to see if it was loaded, I didn’t mean to fire—”
“Let go of the weapon, man!” shouts Phelps.
“Anyway,” I say in a hushed voice, actually grateful for the distraction so I can sneak in this moment with Olivia, “Will
is . . . He has some big problems. He refuses to see a counselor.”
It feels strange to say this. I’ve told the elders. I’ve told my parents. I’ve even secretly emailed Will’s parents. But I
haven’t exactly shared this widely.
“I’m sorry . . .” Olivia laughs awkwardly. “Your Facebook posts are always just so . . . I mean, I guess I shouldn’t have
assumed. It just all looks so perfect.”
“I mean, it is perfect. Except for the elephant in the room. You know?” I purse my lips.
“Is he . . . depressed?” hazards Olivia.
I look her in the eye. If she laughs . . . “He likes to . . . role-play.” It’s the least shocking way I can describe it.
Olivia shakes her head, like she’s trying to dislodge water from her ear. “Sorry—like cosplay? Or D&D?”
“No! Role-play sexually. He can’t have normal sex.” Now I’m angry-whispering. Even describing this problem makes me furious. If only it was a more
noble-sounding struggle, less clownish. “He can’t, you know . . . get it up. It was this huge problem early in our marriage. I swear I thought he was gay. Then, one night, he puts on a dress and heels
and he wants me to pretend to be the man. How messed-up is that?”
Olivia doesn’t jump in to agree, which is . . . ugh.
“I mean, how would you feel if Bennett—” I jerk my head toward her stupidly good-looking husband. Honestly, I was drawn to Bennett at that first
party. Of course, it never would have worked with my beliefs and his agnosticism, but . . .
“It’s hard to, um, imagine. I—I don’t know what to say,” whispers Olivia.
There’s a long silence. To her credit, she doesn’t try to say the platitudes I’ve heard from our church elders. As long as he’s faithful to you . . . No! This is not what I signed up for! I didn’t sign up to pretend I’m the aggressor in the bedroom, which, by the way, is
how our third child was conceived because that’s how badly I wanted another baby. I pushed him backward on the bed and—well,
I don’t want to think about that now.
“Does . . . does Will feel like it’s a problem? Or—” says Olivia.
I fume out my nose. “Yes. Absolutely. He agreed with me, and he felt guilty about it, and he was committed to working on it.
At first. Then he started seeing this non-Christian therapist who’s encouraging him to, and I quote, ‘explore his sexuality,’ and—”
I pinch my nose and sniff, then turn to Olivia. “Would you blame me if I couldn’t stay in my marriage? Be honest. I just—If
things don’t work out, I don’t want everyone thinking it was because of me. Like, I have my flaws, but—” Now would actually
be a great time to cry, tears always earn you points, but of course, the tears don’t come.
“Of course I wouldn’t blame you,” says Olivia gently, but her expression is guarded and I don’t exactly sense enthusiastic support. “Marriage is complicated. We don’t all have the same deal-breakers, and . . . sex is complicated.”
Meaning she doesn’t think it should be a deal-breaker. Which, how dare she, because she actually cheated on her husband, hello.
I inhale deeply to try and put out some of the fire in my gut. She just hasn’t put herself in my shoes. Bennett is probably
a wolf in bed. He has that look like he could get deliciously feral. What if suddenly, instead of romancing her, he was wearing
a literal dress and waiting for her to make a move? Looking at her with wide, blinking doe eyes like some helpless woodland creature waiting to be ravaged by
a predator? It wouldn’t be so easy then, Olivia.
“It sounds really hard,” she finally says, like she’s trying to find the perfect, placating way to end this conversation.
“Yeah,” I say. “Thanks.”
More like thanks for nothing.
Phelps was right about one thing. There is no support to be found in this group. I hate when I misjudge people. Assume the
best, cast my confidence on them, pour out my most vulnerable self . . . and they let me down.
It is every man for himself.
And not just me versus the world . . . me versus Will.
I have to give my husband the ultimatum I should have given him long ago: me and the girls, or his friends. Because he can’t have both.
I grit my teeth. I’m not waiting around anymore for him to figure things out.
He chooses tonight.