Chapter 4
FOU R
Jess
“Mmkay. You, my dear, are going to be chill for 15 minutes, right? So mommy can shower?” I look down at my daughter, looking sweet as pie, but knowing she’s a little demon in cherub’s clothing.
I’ve got the Pack ‘n Play set up in the bathroom, filled with toys, teething rings, and an iPad playing Bluey on repeat. Like, come on girl, cut me some slack.
She’s been teething on and off for months. And that means no one is sleeping. Which also means I’ve been walking around our row house like a zombie most days. But that ends now.
I’m putting my foot down. I’m pulling out all the stops, including screen time. (Judge me, I dare you.) But this mom’s gotta do what this mom’s gotta do. And that starts with a shower and a blow out.
I slowly back away from the Pack ‘n Play like you would a ticking time bomb, then quickly slip into the shower when she turns to look at the iPad.
I’m under the hot spray less than two minutes before she starts screaming bloody murder. Two minutes. My heart rate spikes at the sound. I step out of the shower, soaking wet and stare at Eden who is standing at the edge of the Pack ‘n Play with crocodile tears rolling down her pink cheeks.
“Edie, we talked about this,” I say in mock scolding as I throw a towel down on the tile to walk over to her. “Mommy needs 15 minutes, okay?” I try to soothe her without picking her up. If I pick her up, I’ll have to hold her while I shower.
I notice that Bluey has stopped playing on the iPad. I get it. I’d be pissed, too.
“Is this what we’re upset about?” I ask her. She doesn’t say anything back (obviously, she’s only eight months old), but she plops down on her butt while I reach over to restart the episode.
A text message comes through, and I swipe up quickly to get back to Bluey. But another text message comes through before I can even start the video again. It’s Jamie. Ugh . I swipe the message away again and press play, but another message comes through. Again. I roll my eyes and drop my shoulders in annoyance. That’s what I get for trying to use Tommy’s iPad.
Grabbing my phone off the counter, I pull up the show, then put my phone straight into the hands of the babe. (Mother-of-the-year stuff right here.) Tommy would be pissed, but like…I need a shower. It’s been a solid week since I’ve had an “everything shower.” Things are getting desperate (and hairy) over here. And Tommy got a babysitter for tonight, which he hasn’t done since…ever. And we’re go ing out, which we haven’t done in…what feels like forever.
The wheels may have fallen off, but we’re getting our shit together to-day. And that’s final. I walk Tommy’s iPad to his bathroom counter to set it down, just as another text message from Jamie comes through.
Jamie
Have you told her yet?
Excuse me, what? My heart stutters in my chest.
Do you ever just know something is bad before you really even know? That’s this . Instant dread.
I don’t typically read Tommy’s messages. I’ve never felt I had a reason to snoop on my husband. We have a great relationship. We’re partners, we talk constantly, our sex life is pretty good, all things considered. I mean, we do have an eight month old…but I open his messages app where I have a birds-eye view of their unfolding conversation.
Tommy
No. But I’m planning to.
T. You said you were going to tell her last week.
I know. Just Eden’s not sleeping great, and it was a rough week. I didn’t want to pile on.
All the alarms are going off in my mind now. Bells are ringing. Flags are waving. Tell me what ? And “T”? I know they’re friends, but something about the nickname irks me. Tommy is his nickname. He doesn’t need another nickname.
I’m ready for you. I held up my part of the bargain, T. Now it’s your turn. We can finally do this. If you’re having second thoughts, you just need to let me know.
I’m breathing rapidly now, short bursts of air, in and out. My legs are trembling. My hands are shaking. There’s way too much hot saliva in my mouth.
I’m ready for us, too. Tonight. I promise. I love you.
Oh my god. I love you. Three little words, each one like a dagger, stealing my breath, halting my heart, and souring everything that Tommy and I are. Everything we were .
I’m calling it, July 12, 2023 at 10:49 A.M. That’s the moment I knew — my marriage was ending. Standing soaking wet, naked, in my bathroom while the sounds of Bluey and Bingo devolving into fits of laughter echoed around the small space, that’s when I knew.
Placing both hands against the bathroom sink, I hunch forward and let the counter hold me up. I give myself a couple minutes, but that’s all. Just a few minutes to feel the absolute misery and shittiness of it all. Because Jess Butera won’t let this be the thing that breaks her. Not a fucking chance.
I’m not trying to toot my own horn or anything, but, damnnnnn . I don’t think I’ve ever looked better.
As soon as I threw Tommy’s iPad out our second story window, I took my everything shower. And it’s like Eden knew I neede d it because she calmed down and watched her Bluey religiously for the next hour. I was able to shave (everything), lather up my body with the fancy body oil I got from France, and give myself a killer “fuck me” blowout. I did my makeup like I was on my way to an awards gala, then piled Eden and myself in the car for a little shopping trip…on Tommy’s credit card.
We hit up all my faves: Saks, Gucci, and Prada, then were back home in time for me to change for my “date” with my “husband.”
I tighten the strap on my new YSL Opyum sandals, then stand and admire myself in the mirror. If I had red hair I’d look like Jessica-fucking-Rabbit in my red, strapless Bronx and Banco lace dress that pops against my extra tan-for-the-summer, olive skin.
I am a fucking beautiful, amazing woman. Fuck Tommy DiAngelo. Fuck Jamie. I hope they both choke on a dick.
“Wow,” Tommy says from our bedroom doorway.
He smiles at me and I smile back, but I don’t mean it. All I’m thinking is: fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. Maybe the mature thing to do would have been to call him. Let him know that I knew . Call off the date. Let our marriage fade away peacefully.
But then I thought about it and decided: Nope. Won’t be doing that, will we?
I’ve given up a lot for this man. So much. And now he’s going to dump me? For Jamie??? No, I think I’ll go out with a bang, looking like a million dollars, and ending the night by throwing a drink in Tommy’s face. That’s more my speed.
“Ready?” I ask sweetly, and he nods. It’s disturbing how there’s nothing off about his behavior. No hint that he’s about to end our marriage and tell me he’s in love with his best friend. It makes me wonder how long it’s been going on because he’s acting completely normal. Absolutely normal. Fucking sociopath.
I walk out of our bedroom and as I pass him, he places a hand at the small of my back and gives me a kiss on the cheek. Judas.
Our neighbor Glenn is babysitting tonight and she’s already settled into the sofa in our living room with Eden in the crook of her arm while they read The Velveteen Rabbit . The scene makes me sad. Glenn looks a bit like Julia did.
Eden . Her little family is collapsing and she has no idea. I had no idea either, babe.
I give her a quick kiss on her forehead and thank Glenn before walking outside to wait in Tommy’s car for him.
He’s right at my back, though, slipping a hand around my waist and as we get to the car, he pulls my back against him. My stomach rolls and I have to fight off the urge to turn around and punch him. I do fight the urge because I’m curious: How’s he planning to go about this? Wait until after dinner? Or just the first drink? What’s the end game here? Serve me divorce papers with dessert?
“I’m so glad we’re doing this,” he whispers against my ear, and all I can think is: Yeah, I bet. Big day for you, bud. He can’t see my face, so I just nod against his shoulder while feeling like I could crack any minute. But I won’t. He doesn’t deserve to break me.
He opens my car door, rests his hand on my leg while we drive, then drops me off while he goes to find parking. While he does, I slip into the bar that’s at the alley entrance to our restaura nt and take a quick shot of Don Julio for some liquid courage.
I walk back out just in time to see him walking up 9th Street towards me. A genuine looking smile on his face. Ick.
I used to think he was so handsome. (Okay fine, I still think he’s handsome as fuck). He’s svelte. (Picture Harry Styles if Harry ran marathons and shrunk an inch or two). And he dresses to the nines in Armani most days. But on top of looking fuckable, he’s also intelligent and funny and…I hate that I’m losing him. I should say, I hate that I lost him. Because he’s already gone to me.
I put on a mask of confidence and vow I’ll make it through tonight without shedding one tear. (At least not in front of him.) Not one goddamn tear, Jessica.
He slips next to me, and leads me down the alley to our hidden restaurant with a hand at the small of my back the whole time. The touch burns my skin and I can feel the heat creeping up my neck to my cheeks. It’s not desire, though, it’s something more like rage.
But before we step into the restaurant, Tommy takes my hand, effectively pulling me to a stop. He stands practically eye to eye with me in my almost 5-inch heels.
“I don’t want to ruin that lipstick, but can I kiss you?” Considerate prick. He glances down at my lips and I can see the longing isn’t missing from his eyes. It’s just like it always is.
Well, I can play this game, too.
“I thought you’d never ask,” I say seductively, then lean forward to kiss him.
He’s warm and tastes slightly minty. He pushes his tongue in, and I let him. The kiss is like it always is. Like we can’t wait to get home and rip each other’s clothes off. My stomach sinks at the image and I end the kiss with a sharp nip at his bottom lip. (Might have drawn blood.)
He pulls away a few inches and puts his fingers to his lip, staring at me slightly in shock. I play it off innocently with a devilish wink and he smiles, but it’s slow. It’s the first sign of the night to come. The canaries in the mine start to pass out, starved of oxygen. Somewhere, a bell tolls. A flag waves. A siren wails. Maybe he’s wondering if I already know. Or maybe he’s wondering if that nip was on purpose…
I starve him the opportunity to ask me as I turn and give him my back to enter the restaurant.
“I just love this restaurant,” I chat with the host while they seat us. My voice is unusually sunny for this run-of-the-mill dinner. “Nope, no anniversary tonight. No special occasion. Just a night I’m sure I’ll never forget,” is my response when they ask if we’re here celebrating anything.
Crickets from Tommy. He’s not an idiot. He’s perceptive. Between the kiss (where he probably tasted tequila on me) and that comment, he’s probably understanding that I’m not as clueless as he anticipated.
Once we’re seated, I notice we’ve been sat at a table for four. When the host only clears away one additional place setting, I glance at Tommy and raise an eyebrow. It’s a question, and as much as I wanted to let this play out organically, my roiling stomach can’t sit through seven courses waiting.
“Tommy? Would you like to explain?” I ask, fake sweetness coating my voice. He reaches across the table for my hand, but I don’t give it. Instead, I lean back in my chair, adding additional space between us.
“Jess. I love you so much. You know that, right?” No . I don’t repl y. I just sit there waiting, absorbing this moment. There’s people all around us, enjoying their pre-dinner cocktails. There’s servers bustling in between tables. The kitchen is open-air to the dining room, and the clatter of pans and people yelling out “fire!” bounces against walls and rattles around inside my brain.
But everything gets fuzzy in the lead up to this . Whatever comes out of his mouth next is likely to change my world, effective immediately. I should have just let this play out. I’m not ready. I don’t want it. I’d take it back. But I can’t.
The train has left the station.
“I want us to explore opening up our marriage.”
The clatter ceases. The clinking glasses halt. The shuffle of feet stops. The kitchen turns down to a simmer. And all I see, all I hear, is my husband asking me for an open marriage.
I just keep staring at him. Remember, Jess, no tears. Not a fucking one.
He’s looking at me expectantly. His hair is slightly moppy today, a loose piece of wavy brown hair falling forward and he pushes it back while still waiting on me.
“Why?” I think, I hope , I’ll catch him in a lie because I’m a sick bitch that wants — no needs — this to hurt.
I can tell he’s grappling with something internally before he finally lets it out. “I’m in love with Jamie.” If I thought him asking for an open marriage was bad, this is the sucker punch. The kick in the stomach. Jamie , who’s been in his life since before I was. Jamie , who is our child’s godparent. Jamie , who he stays with when he works in Taiwan.
“How long?” I ask, needing to know how long I’ve been played a fool. Needing the pain .
He doesn’t look down, or ashamed, or any of the things he should, and a part of me thinks: Alright, good for fucking you.
“Since always,” he says apologetically, yet also sincerely.
Okay. (Read: Not okay. Nothing is okay.) I’m laying on the ground, breathless. Sucker punched. Bruised ribs from where his boot is repeatedly hitting me, and now he drives the dagger through my chest. Direct hit.
“Then what the fuck do you need me for?” I ask coldly. My voice is ice. My gaze is murderous. Back stiff, and ramrod straight.
He looks sad, like he’s wondering, ‘How could she even ask that?’ My gaze doesn’t waver, though. My spine is locked, I’m poised, and not one fucking tear will be shed. He does not get to break me. Period. The end.
“I still love you, Jess. I love our family. I want all of us…to be a family.” At that, I laugh disingenuously and shake my head.
“I cannot believe you would even ask that of me.” I stand up. I’m done here. He doesn’t even know me.
My only regret is I didn’t wait long enough to order a drink to throw in his face.
A hand at my back sends a chill down my spine. I turn to face the gentle touch and am met with gorgeous green eyes, golden hair, tawny skin, and a million-dollar smile. (Think Theo James. I know, is it any wonder my husband is in love with him?)
“Jamie.” I nod at him curtly, still standing out of my seat.
“Jess.” He looks at me, then at Tommy, then back to me. “So he told you.” I will not let them have this over me.
“He may have just told me, but I already knew.” I reach out to hold Jamie’s arm slightly. I don’t know why. I think a part of me hopes it will make Tommy jealous.
Tommy tilts his head like a lost puppy. All innocence. Ick . Ick. Ick.
“I’m not interested in being anyone’s spare,” I say, giving Tommy a sad smile. I look at Jamie to see concern reflected back at me.
“I don’t want it to be an ‘either or,’ Jess,” Tommy says to me and I roll my eyes mentally.
“I’m sure you wouldn’t, Tommy.” I push my chair back with my legs, pat Jamie on the chest as I go up on tiptoes and whisper in his ear, “He’s all yours, buddy. Thanks for ruining my daughter’s family.” And then I walk away. I ignore Tommy’s plea for me to stop, and when I look back, Jamie is preventing Tommy from getting up with a hand on his shoulder.
Fuck them.
I walk out of the alley and down 9th Street. I walk with abandon. I even slip out of my heels and stroll barefoot down the streets of DC. (Gross, right?) Well, I don’t care. Can’t care.
I walk to City Center and stop for gelato, then walk up and down the brightly lit shops. I pretend to window shop, but I don’t absorb an ounce of anything I see.
Eventually, I find a planter and sit on the edge to stare off into the distance, occasionally glancing down to see if my gelato has turned to creamy soup in its cup.
My life is shuddering to a halt while the world around me…just keeps marching. Pedestrians head to the metro. Tourists stop in front of Moncler. Interns pop into Dolcezza for their pre- going-out quad espresso. It’s amazing, all this forward motion. But not me.
I’ve never wished for a time machine before. Not when my dad died, not when Julia died. But now…I think I would go back. I’d go back to a night I wish I could forget, and see how that might have changed…everything.
But that doesn’t exist. It’s not real. So I pull out my phone and hover over Britain’s contact. I could use my best friend right now…but damn, she doesn’t need anymore stress in her life. She’s just a few months pregnant. Heartbroken. She’s trying to forge a new life for herself, and her kids. She doesn’t need to carry my weight either. She’s unknowingly carried my mistakes for years .
Instead, I flip to messages and do something I haven’t done in a long time. Years, actually.
Jess
Today was a bad day. My husband is in love with his best friend. He asked if I’d be their third wheel, but I won’t. I refuse to do it. Not sure what I’ll do now. Maybe it’s time to move back to the city. Maybe May will let E and I have my old room. But I think you’re right. Me coming to DC was a mistake.
Maybe I text Amy because I know in all likelihood I’ve just sent the message out into the ether and not to Alex, or anyone real for that matter. Which is oddly satisfying in its own right.
I’m sure Alex disconnected the line years ago. But on the off chance he didn't, there’s a sort of hopeless thrill I get from texting him all my craziest thoughts and dreams (read: fears). It’s freeing to tell someone who doesn’t give a crap about me. Someone who can’t judge me. And even if they did, I wouldn’t give a shit.
I wait a few minutes, a little bit hopeful, and when nothing comes through, I slip my phone back into my new Bottega Venetta clutch (thanks, Tommy) and start walking towards the metro. I don’t bother checking for a response from “Amy” after that.
When I get to the escalator at Gallery Place, I put my shoes back on. I put on my don’t-fuck-with-me-face, and head home.
Home . Fucking laughable.