Six
Susanna
Hillary's on the phone with me, her voice tight with anger. "This is bullshit, Sus. Complete bullshit."
"Maybe his phone died," I say, but I don't believe it.
"His phone didn't die. He's ignoring you. Again."
I'm pacing the living room, my stomach in knots. "What if something happened? What if he's hurt?"
"Then Frank would call you. You know he's fine. He's just being an asshole."
The word hits me like a slap. Asshole. Is that what my husband is? An asshole?
"I don't know what to do," I whisper.
"You confront him. Tomorrow. No more of this passive-aggressive texting. You sit him down and you tell him this isn't okay."
"And if he tells me I'm being paranoid again?"
"Then you tell him to fuck off."
I almost laugh, but it comes out as a sob instead. "I love him, Hil."
"I know you do, honey. But does he love you? Because from where I'm sitting, he's not acting like it."
The front door opens at 12:23 AM. I'm still on the couch, no longer pretending to read.
Teller stumbles in, not drunk but definitely buzzed, smelling like perfume and wine and everything that isn't home.
"You're still up," he says, like it's a surprise.
"Where were you?"
"I told you. Dinner with Frank."
"Until after midnight?"
He sighs, that long-suffering sigh that makes me feel like I'm being unreasonable. "We were having a good time. I lost track of time. It's not a big deal, Susanna."
"It is a big deal. You said one drink. You told me you'd be home by eleven. I've been worried sick."
"Worried about what? I'm a grown man. I don't need a curfew."
"I'm not giving you a curfew! I'm asking you to respect me enough to keep your word or at least answer your phone!"
"My phone was on silent. I didn't hear it."
"Bullshit." The word feels foreign in my mouth, harsh and ugly. "You've been on your phone all week. You hear it when Emmaline texts. You hear it when Clarissa texts. But when your wife calls, suddenly you don't hear it?"
His face hardens. "Are you seriously jealous of Frank's friends? They're just friends, Susanna. I'm helping them."
"Helping them with what? What could possibly require you to be out until after midnight on a Friday?"
"Clarissa's starting a business. Emmaline's dealing with a difficult work situation. They need advice, and I'm giving it to them. Why is that so hard for you to understand?"
"Because you're giving them more attention than you give me!" My voice breaks. "When was the last time we had dinner together? When was the last time you asked about my day? When was the last time you looked at me like you actually wanted to be here?"
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it? You're always on your phone. You're always out with Frank. You're always helping everyone except me."
"Maybe because you don't need help! Maybe because you're so fucking independent that you don't need me for anything!"
The words hang in the air between us, sharp and cutting.
"Is that what you think?" I whisper. "That I don't need you?"
He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly looking exhausted. "I don't know what I think anymore. I just know that I can't do anything right. I'm trying to be a good friend, and you're making me feel guilty for it."
"I'm not making you feel guilty. Your own conscience is doing that."
"I don't have anything to feel guilty about! I haven't done anything wrong!"
"Haven't you?" I stand up, my whole body shaking. "You're emotionally checked out of this marriage, Teller. You're giving your time, your attention, your energy to everyone but me. If that's not wrong, I don't know what is."
"You're being dramatic."
"And you're being blind."
We stare at each other across the living room, and I see it in his eyes—he genuinely doesn't understand. He genuinely believes he's done nothing wrong.
That's almost worse than if he were lying.
"I'm going to bed," I say quietly. "Sleep wherever you want. I don't care anymore."
I walk upstairs, and this time, I lock the bedroom door.