Chapter 8
CHAPTER
I HEAR THE FRONT door open at nine forty-five.
No rumble of a garage door, so it’s Circe.
She’s close enough to curfew that I won’t mention it.
This is not a hill to die on, according to the parenting accounts on LivLoud that I follow.
Rolling over in bed, my eyes trace the crown molding around the ceiling of our bedroom.
Clockwise. Counterclockwise. Clockwise …
When we first bought the house, half the molding was missing.
It was challenging to find matches, but I discovered a small shop beneath an overpass in the Mission.
The owner, an old builder named Ike, had worked in San Francisco for half a century and saved glass windows, parquet flooring, and crown moldings from heritage homes when clients gutted them.
After he retired, he opened his shop to help people who wanted to preserve their houses.
We shape our buildings; thereafter, our buildings shape us, Ike told me as we dug through piles to find the perfect match to the molding I’d presented. Winston Churchill said that, Ike explained.
So how has our house shaped me?
I keep it immaculate. Throw cocktail and Christmas parties to support Bruce’s company, making them unique by following party planning influencers like Lory Parson’s, Brittany Young’s, and Camille Styles’s blogs.
I spend countless hours on the landscaping.
Research the right ornamentals, balance them with the hardscape, make sure gutters are cleaned along with exterior windows and that the paint is always touched up.
Our house has given me something, other than Bruce’s success, our marriage, and Circe, to do and be proud of.
No one would ever guess that the woman inside it is frequently riddled with self-doubt.
I glance at the gray sweater slumped on a brown velvet chair in the corner of our bedroom and try to imagine the woman who wore it.
She’s two sizes smaller than me. Blond? Brunette?
Redhead? Did she wear a skirt, and heels that accentuated long legs?
Did they sit across from each other at Oscar’s or side by side in a cozy banquette?
Where were my husband’s hands? Where were hers?
There is a simple explanation. I turn over, but still feel the sweater’s presence behind me. Stop it. We have a good marriage. A solid marriage. We’re devoted to being a family.
Are you happy? Kiki asked me that, out of the blue, last week. She’s been a little off lately and I make a mental note to check that everything is okay. Sometimes we forget our most beautiful friends might need some time and attention, too.
I finally hear the rumble of the garage door at 1:04, the latest Bruce has ever come home.
At a little after nine, I gave up waiting, ate dinner, even lit the candles beside a fresh flower arrangement picked from the greenhouse behind our garage.
That was a bit dramatic. Anyway, my program was wrong.
Bruce didn’t lie. He did have a late meeting.
Mama J’s voice pipes up. Do I smell melting wax?
Maybe I’ll shelve my thesis again, use the time to learn French or take another cooking class, Vietnamese this time. I can throw a themed dinner party. And I’ll plan a vacation, just Bruce and me, when Circe goes to summer cheer camp. We’ll go back to that little hotel in Greece.
My head feels wobbly. There’s a half bottle of wine in the fridge.
Bruce’s partner Hal Crosby once said it’s a sin to eat lamb without a hearty cabernet, and I agree.
Though now there’s a bitter taste in my mouth and the beginnings of a headache from the tannins.
A plate waits in the fridge for Bruce with perfectly seared lamb lollipops and homemade gnocchi drizzled with jus.
I tossed out the veggies—carrots, zucchini, and eggplant, julienned the way he likes.
They never hold up. And the half-eaten tiramisu is on the counter—it’s best when fresh.
Bruce drops his clothes on the floor and carefully slides into bed. He reeks of cigars, Hal’s favorite pastime, and scotch. I don’t move, feign sleep in the lingerie I put on to entice my husband. Within minutes, he’s snoring loudly. When he falls asleep first, it’s always hard to drift off.
I stare at the chair in the corner. I can’t ignore the gray cardigan. I should wait until morning, talk to my husband, but instead slide out of bed, tiptoe across refinished wood floors to his crumpled slacks, feel for his phone.
In the bathroom, I quietly close the door, sit on the toilet and put in his security code. It’s the same as mine—Circe’s birthday. But access is denied. I try again. Denied. When did he change his code?
With careful steps, I walk to Bruce’s side of the bed and hold the phone close, so he’s captured in the glow of the screen.
Facial recognition kicks in and it opens with a soft ping.
I hold my breath, but he doesn’t stir, then pad down a wide hall with the original wainscoting to the walk-in closet.
I slide to the floor, back against a set of drawers that hold Bruce’s ties, socks, and boxers, sorted by color, and scan his recent calls.
There’s the usual—Circe, his partner Hal Crosby, me—and some employees’ names I recognize.
Does one of them shop at Zara and own a gray sweater in size extra small?
Mama J whispers, Happily ever after doesn’t happen the way you think.
How would you know?
I pull in my legs to stand, go back to bed, and inch close enough to feel the reassuring heat of my husband’s body.
But instead, I stay seated, return to Bruce’s phone and the multiple outgoing calls to Potential Spam.
My finger hovers, then I tap the number while simultaneously telling myself no one will pick up, but also that I’m crossing a line that can never be uncrossed.
The phone rings once …
A woman answers. “I’m touching myself and thinking very dirty thoughts about you,” she says, her voice breathless. “Bruce? Baby? Can you come over? I need you—”
I hang up. The world spins and when it stops everything is the same.
Bruce’s clothes hang neatly, the bespoke suits and shirts fitted by the most expensive tailor in the city perfectly pressed.
My side is filled with linen, crisp Egyptian cotton, understated dresses for events, stylish shoes with kitten heels and classic leather slides.
Robotically, I slip off the lingerie that Val and Kiki thought would remind Bruce that I’m some sort of prize, unpin my elegant chignon and pull on an oversized T-shirt.
My bare feet pad on polished parquet floors; the swivel chair sits in the corner of our bedroom, same gray sweater resting on its velvet; drapes rustle as I pass and slide into bed.
Everything is the same … and nothing will ever be again.