3. Elena
— ? —
Elena
The Miller we use it mostly for evening entertaining.”
“Luna moths. With the trailing wing detail.” I show her a quick sketch. “Silver hardware against reclaimed cherry.”
“Yes.” She actually claps her hands, once. “God, yes. That’s exactly it. When can you start?”
“After the showcase. December 10th.”
“I know.” She smiles. “I’ll be there. Consider this your first commission as an official emerging artisan.”
I float out of Miller this is something else. This is a full dining set, eight chairs, a ten-foot table. This is real money, enough to prove to Vivian and her basement suggestions that my work isn’t a hobby.
This is the first purely good thing that’s happened to me in months.
I call Adrian from the car. It rings four times and goes to voicemail.
Hi, you’ve reached Adrian Vale. Leave a message.
“Hey. It’s me. I have amazing news, call me back when you get this.”
I call again. Voicemail.
The rain starts as I turn onto the highway. Light at first, just a mist, then harder. By the time I reach the long driveway to Vale Manor, it’s a steady downpour and my wipers are struggling to keep up.
I decide to come in through the side entrance, it’s closer to the garage, and I’m wearing shoes that weren’t meant for puddles. This takes me past the kitchen windows, and that’s when I see them.
Adrian is standing at the counter. His back is to the window, but I’d know the set of his shoulders anywhere, the way he holds himself when he’s uncertain.
Camille is pressed against him.
Her arms are around his neck. Her mouth is on his mouth. And in her hand, held up like a trophy, is a pregnancy test with two pink lines.
For one second, less than a second, a heartbeat, a blink, his hands come up. Not pushing her away. Not pulling her closer. Just… there. Frozen.
I drop my keys.
The sound of them hitting the wet pavement is swallowed by the rain, but something makes him turn, maybe the movement through the window, maybe just instinct, and for one horrible moment, our eyes meet through the glass.
I run.
***
I don’t remember the drive. I remember the stairs, taking them two at a time, slipping on the wet marble. I remember the duffel bag, the one I keep in the closet for overnight trips. I remember shoving clothes into it without looking, a sweater, jeans, underwear, whatever my hands touched.
“Elena!”
He’s in the doorway. His hair is wet, was he outside? and his shirt is untucked and there’s something on his collar that might be lipstick.
“Don’t.” I yank open my nightstand drawer, grab my passport. “Don’t say anything.”
“It’s not what you think.” He moves toward me and I hold up my hand.
“I saw you.”
“You saw her attack me. You saw her kiss me. You didn’t see me shove her off and throw her out of this house.” His voice is shaking. “Elena, I swear to God, I froze for one second, one second, and then I pushed her away so hard she hit the counter.”
“Her arms were around your neck.”
“Because she put them there! I didn’t kiss her back. I didn’t touch her. I was standing there trying to process what the hell was happening, and then you were at the window, and…”
“And the pregnancy test?” I zip the duffel. “The one she was waving around like a flag?”
“I don’t know what that is. I don’t know where she got it.
But I know it’s not mine because I have never touched your sister.
” He’s in front of me now, blocking the door.
“Elena, please. I have security footage. Three angles. You can watch the whole thing. You’ll see me push her off. You’ll see me throw her out.”
Security footage.
The words hit me like a slap.
“No.”
“No?”
“I’m not watching your security footage.” I push past him. “Move.”
“Why not? It’s proof! It’s actual video evidence that I didn’t…”
“My father had proof too.” I’m in the hallway now, duffel over my shoulder, and my voice sounds like it belongs to someone else.
Someone harder. “He had proof every single time. And my mother watched it, she watched it six times over four years, Adrian. She sat in their bedroom and watched his videos and his phone records and his credit card statements, and every time, every single time, she convinced herself it was all a misunderstanding.”
“This isn’t the same thing.”
“You’re right. It’s not.” I’m at the top of the stairs. “Because I’m not going to watch your footage. I’m not going to let you explain. I’m not going to spend the next four years analyzing three angles of evidence from cameras you own in a house you control.”
“So you’re just going to believe I cheated without giving me a chance to…”
“I didn’t need your proof, Adrian.” I turn to face him.
He’s standing at the top of the stairs, and he looks wrecked, but I can’t let myself care about that.
“I needed you present. I needed you to look up from your phone. I needed you to defend me against your mother, just once. I needed you to notice that your wife was drowning in this house while you were too busy with Tokyo to throw her a rope.”
“I know I wasn’t, I know I failed you. But not like this. Not with Camille.”
“Goodbye, Adrian.”
I’m out the door before he can respond.
***
The motel is an hour away, just past the Connecticut border into New York. It’s the kind of place that takes cash and doesn’t ask questions, and the sheets smell like industrial laundry detergent, and none of that matters because I can’t feel anything anyway.
My phone lights up with his name. Once. Twice. Three times.
I block his number.
The texts that were already in transit arrive anyway.
Please. Let me explain.
I have proof. Three angles. Watch the footage.
I froze for one second. One second, Elena. Then I threw her out.
Please don’t do this.
I love you.
Please.
I love you.
I block his number more thoroughly this time, going into settings to make sure nothing gets through. Then I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the water-stained ceiling and try to remember how to breathe.
An hour passes. Maybe two.
My phone buzzes. Unknown number.
I’m so sorry you had to find out this way. I wanted to tell you myself, but there never seemed to be a right time. The baby is Adrian’s. I know this is a lot to process. Just know I never meant for any of this to happen. C
I read it three times.
Then I do the math.
If she’s pregnant, if she’s actually pregnant, if the test was real, how far along would she have to be? She moved in three weeks ago. Before that, she was married to Rick, living in Stamford.
Before that…
I pull up a calendar on my phone. Count backward. Count forward.
Something doesn’t add up.
But I’m too tired to figure out what, and the ceiling is still water-stained, and somewhere in Connecticut my husband is probably watching security footage that proves he’s innocent while my sister carries his child.
Or maybe not.
Maybe none of it is true.
Maybe all of it is.
I turn off my phone and lie down on the industrial sheets and close my eyes, and I don’t sleep, I don’t sleep at all, but at least in the dark I don’t have to decide what to believe.