Chapter Fifty-Five Houseboat
When the Uber pulls up to David’s houseboat, I am trembling.
“Bloody hell,” I say as I climb out of the car.
He used to say he wanted to buy a houseboat one day, but people say things like that all the time. I tell people that I want to live in a tree house, for fuck’s sake, that doesn’t mean I’ll live in a tree house. There are dozens of them, their front yards a long, narrow dock, their backyards the blue/green expanse of Lake Union.
I look at the address on my phone, the one Ferdinand texted to me and I trace it to a grey houseboat with white shutters. It’s not very large or extravagant. Pink bougainvillea climb around the front door in a stunning arc. The door itself is bright yellow with a music note as a knocker. I step forward, off the dock and onto the walkway. Next to the welcome mat are two pairs of flip-flops sitting side by side: one a man’s, one a woman’s. It makes me sick to look at them, to know that neither of them is mine.
“Petra,” I say, under my breath.
Dodgy bitch and her stupid flip-flops. I never thought about her in my rush to get here, that she’d actually be living with him—though it makes sense, doesn’t it? I breathe deeply and step forward to knock on the door. I knock hard, three times, and then I step back, preparing myself for whatever is about to happen.
I see someone move across the rectangular windows that frame the door, a flash of white. I steel myself as I hear the bolt slide open. Silver hair, lavender lips.
“Petra,” I say.
She looks startled. Of course—I’m supposed to be in France. She grips the door with one hand and stares at me.
“Where’s my husband?”
“Fuck you, Yara.”
She’s about to close the door in my face, but I stick my foot in the gap so she can’t close it. She’s flustered as I try to peer past her into the house. Most of the lights are off, but I can hear the sound of a TV. If David were here surely he’d have come to the door.
“Where is he?”
“If you don’t go I’ll call the police,” she says.
I laugh. “What will you tell them? That David’s wife is harassing his whore?”
Red is not a good color on Petra—it clashes with her makeup. I watch as her face turns an ugly beet color and panic rises in her eyes.
“You’re crazy,” she says. “You won’t give him a divorce and now you’re stalking him.”
“He’s never asked me for a divorce, Petra.”
She blinks at me, unsure. I can see the uncertainty on her face.
“You left him,” she says.
“Yes, I did.”
“You never deserved him,” she adds.
I shove the door and it hits her in the chest. She’s pushed back a few inches and then she flings the door open, her mouth puckered and angry.
I laugh. I meant to antagonize her and it works because she takes a step toward me.
“I may not deserve him, but he chose me. I always knew what you were up to,” I say. “All of your questions and underhanded insults. You think you have him? You silly little girl. I feel sorry for you because you’ve never had him. You don’t even know what it’s like to have him.”
Her faces flushes and then she slaps me. My head snaps back, my cheek on fire. I don’t retaliate because I’ve made her hurt. It’s what I wanted and it will last longer than the sting of her hand.
“Goodbye, Petra. Pack your shit and get the fuck out of my husband’s house.”
And then I walk away. The wind has picked up and my dress blows around my ankles. I lift my arms above my head as I walk and let the Seattle wind lick my skin. It’s cold and I am alive. Finally, I am alive.
I know she’s afraid. I can feel her fear on my back. She only had him because I didn’t. I walk until she can’t see me and then I double over and cry so hard my stomach hurts.
I left him. The person who is so afraid of being left. I hurt him the way others had hurt me. What did that make me? I didn’t know what he’d say or do when he saw me, if I were David I’d never take me back. Never. I broke his trust.
I don’t call an Uber. I walk, and I know what I have to do. I don’t know where he is. But, he made it so I could find him. He gave me an IOU.