4. The Drawer at Her House
Chapter Four
THE DRAWER AT HER HOUSE
Justin tells me he’s staying at Brett’s, but I don’t check.
I spend the weekend doing three things: working, sleeping badly, and discovering how many ordinary household objects can make me angry.
His coffee mug. His shoes beside the mudroom bench. His cereal. The jacket he left over the dining chair. Evidence of a shared life is everywhere, and suddenly all of it feels unreliable.
Amy comes over Sunday afternoon carrying soup, bread, and the attitude of a woman prepared to dispose of a body if necessary.
“I’m not murdering him,” she says when I mention this.
“Good.”
“I’m only saying there are isolated parts of this county.”
“I manage an insurance agency. I won’t help you commit fraud after the murder.”
“Fine. We won’t claim the life insurance.”
I laugh, and then, without warning, I cry. Amy sits beside me until it passes.
“I keep thinking about stupid things,” I say.
“Like?”
“The faucet.”
“That isn’t stupid.”
“It feels stupid.”
She hands me another tissue. “It isn’t about plumbing.”
“No.”
It’s about care. That’s the part that keeps digging deeper. The kisses are betrayal, but the faucet is evidence of priority. He had twenty minutes; he just didn’t have them for me.
Amy gets up to take our bowls into the kitchen. “Has he been texting?”
“Constantly.”
“Anything useful?”
“No. He’s very sorry that I’m hurt.”
“Ah.”
“Exactly.”
“Not sorry he did it,” she says.
“He’s working toward personal responsibility at the speed of continental drift.”
Amy snorts.
My phone buzzes. It’s Justin again. I flip it face down.
At the front door, Amy hugs me. “Call me.”
“I will.”
“And don’t wash his clothes,” she says. “I saw the hamper.”
I wince. “Trust me, I wasn’t going to, but I hate dirty laundry.”
“Think of it as an experiment in what happens when you stop doing everything.”
Half an hour after Amy leaves, the doorbell rings, and Julia’s standing on my porch holding a big canvas tote. She’s wearing jeans, brown boots, and a pink sweater. No nurse costume, no cleavage. She looks so ordinary that for some reason I hate her more.
“What are you doing here?”
Her fingers tighten around the handles. “I brought some of Justin’s things.”
I look at the bag, then at her. “Why do you have my husband’s things?”
She swallows. “He leaves clothes sometimes when he works on the house.”
I take the tote from her. His gray sweatshirt sits on top. Underneath there are jeans, two T-shirts, boxer briefs, running shoes, a charger, a bottle of ibuprofen, his electric razor, and a toothbrush.
My vision blurs at the toothbrush.
There are betrayals that are dramatic, like lipstick on collars, hotel receipts, or perfume clinging to a shirt. This is worse.
A toothbrush means repetition. Routine. Preparation.
I look up. “How long has this been at your house?”
“Brooke—”
“How long?”
“A while.”
“Where do you keep it?”
She hesitates. “In the guest room.”
“Where?”
Another pause. “A drawer.”
My husband has a drawer at his ex-girlfriend’s house.
Julia’s cheeks flush. “He gets dirty doing work. Sometimes he showers.”
“At your house.”
“Yes.”
“He changes clothes.”
“Yes.”
“Brushes his teeth.”
She doesn’t say anything.
“Why did you bring this here?”
“I thought he might need it if he’s staying away from home.”
I stare at her. Something about the wording catches. Not staying with Brett. Staying away from home.
“Where is Justin right now?” I ask.
Julia’s expression goes tight. “He’s at Brett’s.”
“Is he?”
“I think so.”
“Did he stay at your house last night?”
“No.”
“Has he ever?”
She looks past me, and my heartbeat thuds hard enough to hurt. When I push for an answer, she says, “You need to talk to Justin.”
“No. I’m talking to you.”
“I’m not trying to make this worse.”
“You slept with him.”
Her eyes close, and there it is. It’s not the answer I wanted, but it’s the answer I knew before I even asked the question.
“Yes,” she says. One word.
The world doesn’t react. A leaf skitters across my porch. Somebody’s lawn mower starts a few houses away. A neighbor’s dog barks. Julia Thornton tells me she’s slept with my husband, and the universe has the audacity to remain completely normal.
“How long?”
“A couple months.”
I grip the door frame and will myself not to be sick as nausea settles low in my stomach. “He told me you hadn’t.”
She winces. “That’s between you and him.”
“No. It stopped being between us when you climbed into it.”
“Brooke—”
“When did it start?”
“August.”
August. My mind begins moving backward. My mother’s birthday. The county fair. The heat wave. Justin’s overnight training event.
My stomach drops. “Waverly Lake.”
Julia doesn’t speak.
“Oh, my God.”
She presses her lips together.
“He wasn’t at training.”
“No,” she says.
“You took a trip.”
“We rented a cabin.”
A cabin two hours from home. Restaurants, a lake, a weekend. This is no frantic mistake in the back seat of a car. A trip. Planned, packed for, lied about in advance.
“I packed his bag.” The words taste like acid.
Julia flinches. “I don’t need to hear?—”
“Yes, you do.” My voice shakes now. “I packed his bag because he was rushing.”
She goes pale.
“I washed the shirt he wore.”
“Stop.”
“I spent my time on the phone fixing a truck insurance problem for him while he was at a cabin with you.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“You knew he had a wife.”
“He told me things weren’t good.”
Ah, the mistress’s universal permission slip.
“What did he say?”
“That you were basically roommates.”
I laugh, and it sounds terrible. “We had sex three nights before his trip.”
Julia’s face changes. “He said you barely spent time together.”
“Apparently that was because he spent the time with you.”
“I didn’t think?—”
“No,” I say. “You did think.”
She shakes her head. “He said your marriage was dead.”
“Did he say he’d filed for divorce?”
“No.”
“Moved out?”
“No.”
“Stopped wearing his ring?”
“No.”
“Then you knew exactly what you were doing.”
Her eyes fill with tears, but I don’t care.
“Did you go to breakfast together that weekend?”
She frowns. “What?”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“Walk around town? Have dinner together?”
“Yes.”
“Did anybody know you?”
“No.”
There’s the attraction. They got to play couple somewhere nobody recognized them. No wife, no chores, no responsibilities. Just the fun parts.
I set the tote at her feet. “Take it.”
She blinks. “What?”
“Take his things.”
“He needs them.”
“Then give them to him.” I look directly at her. “You wanted access to my husband. You can manage his underwear.”
Her face reddens, and I close the door.
My hands are shaking when I reach the kitchen. I call Justin, and he answers immediately.
“Brooke?”
“Waverly Lake,” I say.
There’s silence on his end.
“You slept with her.”
“I can explain.”
“How many times?”
“Brooke—”
“How many?”
“I don’t know.”
If I weren’t so sick to my stomach, I’d laugh. Apparently Justin’s numerical abilities fail whenever his mouth or penis is involved.
“You looked me in the face yesterday and lied.”
“I panicked.”
“You swore you hadn’t slept with her.”
“I thought if I could get you to calm down?—”
“Calm down?”
“That came out wrong.”
“I bet.”
“I was trying to buy time.”
“For what?”
“To fix this.”
There’s that word again. Fix. Like this is paperwork.
“Were you ever going to tell me?”
“Yes,” he says quickly.
“When?”
“I don’t know.” This answer doesn’t sound as certain.
“After another weekend with her?”
“No.”
“After Halloween?”
“I was ending it.”
I lean against the counter. “You threw a party with her yesterday.”
“That was already planned.”
“Do you hear yourself?”
“I never wanted to lose you.”
“You should’ve thought about that before you made plans to go to the cabin.”
“I love you.”
I stare out the kitchen window. The little ceramic pumpkin I put there every October sits on the sill. Same house. Same kitchen. Completely different life.
“You told her our marriage was dead.”
“I was venting.”
“You told her we were roommates.”
“I was frustrated.”
“About what?”
He doesn’t answer.
“No, tell me. What was so terrible?”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“I managed your appointments. I handled your volunteer paperwork. I bought your family’s gifts. I kept our house running. We had sex three nights before your romantic weekend. Which part was the dead marriage?”
“I was selfish.”
“That’s the first true thing you’ve said.”
“Brooke, please.”
“I’m calling an attorney tomorrow.”
“No.” The sharpness in his voice surprises me.
“Yes.”
“We’re married,” he says.
“You finally remembered.”
“We’ve been married thirteen years. One terrible mistake shouldn’t erase everything.”
“It wasn’t one mistake. You had a drawer.”
“Julia shouldn’t have brought that over.” His anger turns toward her so quickly it’s almost impressive. It’s also disgusting.
“That’s your problem?”
“No.”
“You’re angry she made your lie harder.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” I say. “I want a divorce.”
“We can get counseling.”
“No.”
“I’ll stop seeing her.”
“That should’ve happened before your clothes moved in.”
“Brooke.”
I hang up.
Then I call Amy. When she answers, I say, “He slept with her.”
She doesn’t ask how I know. She tells me she’s coming over, and I don’t argue.
Monday morning, a plumber replaces the outdoor faucet. It’s a twenty-six-dollar part, and it takes twenty minutes. When he leaves, there’s no bucket beneath it. No drip. No waiting.
I stand on the patio for a moment enjoying the silence, then I go inside and call Meredith Malone, divorce attorney.