Rawlins
But she rarely shared much of her own life, and the few times his feelings bubbled up, she was indulgent but dismissive.
When he told her at one point, “I really like you”—avoiding but clearly intending the word love—she merely gave a wistful smile and replied, “I like you, too, Tad, but let’s not get carried away.
” He tried to content himself with the belief that her amorous feelings echoed his, but they were merely being sophisticated and adult by holding back from speaking the truth.
It always seemed like Lennox had thought of everything, as if the entire affair was perfectly in her control.
When he offered to put on a condom, she told him breezily not to worry about it, to simply pull out when he was ready to finish, which he attempted to do—though over time, he may not have always been as prompt as he should have.
He reasoned that she was married and ambitious and intelligent; surely that meant she was on birth control, or otherwise unable to conceive.
He tried. He threw himself into his work with a zeal that paid off.
Years later, he looked back and wondered if the breakup was responsible for The Arcane and the Ordinary; wondered if he ever could have completed such a book, devoted himself so completely to his work at such a young age, if he were not actively running from the prospect of any human relationship…
and if he were not hoping, in some secret corner of his mind, that Lennox would see the book, witness his success, and realize she had made a terrible mistake.
But was he responsible for the crime? Was he every bit as negligent as Max? Should he have wound up in jail alongside his son? Should he have confessed, at some point during the investigation and trial, that he was the boy’s father?
Those were the questions that still kept him up at night.
The memories played out in Rawlins’s mind like a degraded old film—the colors saturated, the details grainy.
He sat on the back deck, shivering in the early-evening chill as he stubbed out a cigarette.
It had been years since he had indulged his smoking habit beyond an occasional late-night cigarette, but he was making his way through a pack with abandon.
Barely past six o’clock, the sun had already set, plunging the valley into cold darkness.
Headlights were visible on the roads down below as the streets filled with students heading home from class. This time of year, the onset of evening always felt abrupt and violent, as though the daylight were being choked out prematurely.
A glass of scotch sat on the table, one large ice cube softening at the edges.
Rawlins had poured the drink with celebratory intentions.
His impossible plan had worked. News of Max’s parole had reached him earlier that day, shortly after arriving at his office.
Yet he could not bring himself to take a drink, instead ramping up his anxiety with nicotine as if to punish himself.
For years, guilt over Max’s imprisonment had been like shackles that he dragged along—slowing his progress, stifling his joy, spoiling every holiday and success. An incessant voice that whispered into every pleasurable silence, You don’t deserve this.
He had hoped Max’s parole would bring him some measure of triumph.
But it was only met with a knot of dread in his stomach.
A panicky stomach-dropping sense of vertigo.
He hoped it was merely shock, perhaps amplified by fear that his crimes would be discovered and both he and Max would be unceremoniously carted off to prison.
He expected the panic to pass quickly, replaced with a longed-for sense of relief.
But as the day progressed, his breathing remained shallow, his chest remained tight, and he couldn’t shake the sense of impending disaster.
Rawlins had grown accustomed to the low-grade, seething loneliness of having no one with whom he could talk about this. Max’s parole was supposed to be the milestone that freed him from that need. Instead, it had only grown.
Lennox, of course, was the one person who knew the whole history.
But he was terrified that she would figure out he had used obscuration, or at least suspect.
Based on her unflappable behavior at the lecture, he was also confident she had no interest in discussing the matter, certainly not with him.
There was only one person he could actually talk to. He picked up his phone and texted simply, Need to see you. Come over tonight?
When Ellsbeth stepped into his foyer an hour and a half later, she was more cagey than usual; even as she slipped off her coat and hung it up, revealing a plunging top underneath, her body language was closed-off, and a tone of challenge entered her voice as she asked, “So, what did you have in mind? You want to punish me?”
Rawlins shifted uneasily. “Look, I didn’t invite you over for…that,” he said. “I was thinking…Can we just have dinner? I’m making chicken cacciatore.”
Her brow furrowed as she looked toward the kitchen, smelling the tomato sauce simmering on the stove for the first time. “I’m okay for now, thanks.”
“Okay, well, how about a glass of wine?” he asked. “After everything today, it would be nice. To talk to someone.”
“Talk to someone…” she repeated slowly, then snorted out a bitter laugh. “I’m sorry, but you’re the one who put an end to things like dinner. We agreed to keep it just physical.”
“Look, I was caught off guard earlier,” Rawlins said. “And there are certain things, for your own good, that I can’t tell you, but—”
“You can’t do that,” she cut in, with an edge of anger he had not heard before in her voice. “It’s not fair. To ask to talk, and then set the terms.”
“Have you been completely honest with me?” he asked. “About everything?”
She looked away, avoiding his gaze. But her jaw hardened and she turned back to him. “Is Max your son? With Lennox?”
Rawlins took a deep breath, then nodded slowly. “Come have a seat, and I’ll tell you everything.” Ellsbeth wavered and he tried again, a tremulous crack entering his voice. “Ellsbeth, I’ve never told any of this to anybody. And I don’t just need to talk to someone. I want to talk to you.”