Chapter Three
K ara Gibson moved out of town hardly a week later.
Essie was turning her car onto her street, one of those vague work headaches jackhammering at her temples. When she got stressed, she wanted to sleep, but she knew for a fact that Ryan hadn’t cooked anything, and the thought of fast food right now turned her stomach and the act of going out was just as bad.
When exactly did her life become jumping from the kiddie pool of stress and misery at work to diving into the deep end of stress and misery at home?
As she turned the car, a bright orange U-Haul lumbered by, followed by a small black sedan. She recognized Kara, in full makeup, with a new haircut. Her backseat was stuffed with suitcases and boxes.
She was alone.
They glided past one another, locking eyes. Kara held her thumb and pinky to her ear, and for a split second, Essie thought she wanted Essie to call her.
Black card, Kara mouthed, and instantly it clicked.
And then, abruptly, Kara Gibson was gone.
Essie turned her own car into her own driveway, thinking about the black card.
She put the card inside of some old Christmas socks and forgot about it. Completely. Entirely. Absolutely.
Except not at all.
Every time Ryan breathed in a way she didn’t like, she thought of the card.
When he closed his laptop too fast like he was hiding something, she thought about the dial tone ringing in her ear as she called those men.
On a miserable, failed date night, he ignored her to stare at his phone in the restaurant. She pictured black gloved hands encircling her neck. Tugging at her hair. Pulling down on her lips.
Essie had a loose code of things she did not do. When the marriage had been good, they were easy rules to follow. She swore not to be one of those snooping women; she gloated to girls at work about it. She didn’t feel the need to sift through who her husband followed on social media. She didn’t need his passcode for his phone. She was definitely, certainly not one of those women who needed constant reassurance. Her and Carly would make fun of women like that, the two of them drinking on her porch, assured that they, of all people, had mastered youthful, cool, enlightened modern marriage.
All of that was easy when Ryan brought flowers home every Friday. Or made breakfast on the weekends, wearing her purple apron and flipping pancakes. When they stayed awake watching movie after movie, or when they took long car rides together, going nowhere specific.
Then he withdrew, and the needy, panicky rat inside of Essie began to chew on the bars of its cage.
Until a mere few hours after Kara Gibson disappeared from her life, Essie was opening her husband's laptop, fingers fluttering over the keys, searching for some clue.
You’re just looking for a reason to call the number on the card.
That insidious voice that sounded so much like Carly, telling her bitter, honest truths.
Ryan’s browser history was clean.
His Facebook was bare. He kept around 60 friends, and the people he did message on there were all friends from high school; they talked about the latest video games coming out.
His Instagram featured pictures of his truck, a few pictures of them together on vacation. His bio simply said “play hard.”
Did I marry the dullest man alive? Did they produce him in a factory?
A surreal sense of distance developed, where she got a glimpse at how others must see her husband and dismiss him as harmless. Insignificant.
The thoughts in her head were already bad, and they were quickly multiplying with sinister ease. A cheating spouse was one particular heartbreak.
A cheating spouse you weren’t even sure you liked was an even more unique flavor of pain she didn’t feel like examining.
Logging into his bank account would likely trigger a security alert. She could check his location—he assured her that he had gone to the gym—but that was crazy wife territory.
I’m not that far gone.
His laptop let out a cheery whistle, letting her know that a new email had just dropped in his inbox.
He’d left that logged in.
I’m the chill wife. I don’t nag. I don’t snoop. I’m cool.
She clicked the icon and the page opened before her.
Thanks for checking in at Covington Inn, the computer said.
Here is your confirmation number.
Enjoy your stay!
Enjoy fucking someone else in our clean bed! Enjoy her body on top of yours underneath cool, crisp sheets!
Essie closed her eyes and saw the conversation play out. Confronting him. His dismissive shrug when he tried to make it seem like she was making a big deal out of nothing.
Then the lie.
“I just go there to get some sleep. I have a hard time sleeping in our bed.”
“I need some space.”
“I’m not cheating.”
“I would never, ever, do that to you, Essie. Sweet, gorgeous Essie. Love of my life. We have a house together. We have almost a decade of love. How could you think that of me? ”
Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he’d shrug and say, “Yeah, you caught me. Let’s get lawyers.”
No fighting.
Banal acceptance.
The thought of it drove a savage wedge of anger between her eyes, tears welling up and spilling down her cheeks.
She wanted to burn down the fucking house.
Instead, she found the black card.
And dialed the number.
Ryan said nothing as she bustled around the following day. She felt his eyes on her as she spent much of the morning looking into the bathroom mirror; applying makeup, wiping it off, reapplying it. She applied eyeliner like she was performing brain surgery; scalpel precision, steady hands, steady.
She went through three outfits, rejected them, tried them each again, rejected two of them, dug in her closet for a dress that didn’t fit right anymore, almost gave up entirely, and went back in the closet.
On the phone, Essie had been greeted by a firm, almost bored sounding receptionist. A woman. Essie stammered out that she’d received the card from a friend and was just curious what it was all about.
The woman on the other end cut her off. “This line is for setting up a meeting with Woods. Would you like to set a meeting?”
“Woods? Is that one of their names?”
“Yes. Would you like to set a meeting?”
“Um…”
“He has tomorrow at 2 pm available. Public setting. He will discuss details.”
“Hold on, I don’t—”
“Yes, you do. You called this number for a reason. Your name?”
“Essie.”
“Okay, Essie. You will receive a text message with a location. For all intents and purposes, this is like a job interview. Woods will meet with you for about twenty minutes and will decide if he wants to move forward.” The woman paused, and Essie heard furious typing. “You can back out at any time before, after, or during the meeting. Safety and consent are priorities for us.”
Essie laughed. “You guys sound like my cable company.”
The receptionist clucked her tongue. “2 pm. Does that work for you?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
Essie received a text with a location, and was amused to find it was a small, locally owned coffee shop. She’d been expecting official looking envelopes and black cars, billionaires buying women for pleasure. Silk and suits, meticulously groomed men who were cut from an Armani ad. She pictured glittering wrist watches that cost more than her life and bedsheets from some far off oppressed land, like all that suffering made them softer.
How do you dress for something like this? Half job interview, half “are you going to fuck me” tryout? Do I wear business casual? A dress? If I dress slutty, will I be taken seriously? If I dress formally, will I not seem into it?
Even more enticing was that these fresh, new anxieties absorbed her, and she was able to avoid giving a single new thought to Ryan, who watched her dress and undress over and over again.
Finally, he asked, “Are you going somewhere?”
The excuse was ready-made and it really didn’t fucking matter if he believed her. “Out with some friends. Shouldn’t be gone long.”
A flicker of excitement crossed his face, but he stifled it. “Okay. Be safe.”
He’s going to message his other woman.
She gazed at him, wondering if this was the moment where she revealed that she knew. They would fight, and maybe they would reconcile and fix things. They’d be that mature, serene couple who’d “gone through things” and come out stronger.
No.
No.
Fuck. That.
She picked out a flowery sundress that clung to her nicely and slipped it on. She gave up on her hair, which seemed bent on being frizzy and chaotic. On her way out the door, she paused and kissed Ryan, shoving her tongue into his mouth with so much force and eagerness that his eyes widened and he laughed.
“Wow, you haven’t kissed me like that in a while.”
I’m going to do the same exact thing to another man’s cock.
The thought gave her power, enough so that she was able to give him a genuine smile before grabbing her purse and leaving the house.
She drove down the same road she’d seen Kara Gibson on. She wondered if Kara had the same knot of anxiety in her stomach. If she had the same flickering doubt, the urge to turn the car around and stay safe, routine, and miserable.
But had Kara Gibson been this fucking turned on?