Some would call it women’s intuition, like Cate, who rampantly uses the term when what she really means to say is that she’s not completely blind and dumb and oblivious to a certain set of obvious (acts, which tonight include the pungent aroma of garlic on Nick’s skin and clothes. The fervent tone of his apology. And most of all, the guilty look in his eyes.
To be clear, it is not the guilt of a man who has cheated or has even contemplated cheating. That has never been my worry. Nor is it the guilt of a man who feels contrite for being a garden-variety had husband—for missing his kid’s soccer game or not noticing his wife’s new haircut or getting paged in the middle of an anniversary dinner. The guilt on Nick’s face right now is more subtle than that, yet still unmistakable. I try to place it, peering at him while trying to seem nonchalant, and decide that it is the guilt of someone who wishes he were somewhere else.
“It’s okay,” I say, looking into his eyes, hoping that I’m wrong, chat I misread the clues, drew the wrong conclusion. That Nick actually rushed through the door because he missed me or was desperate to fix whatever happened between us last night. Even if that fix means pretending that nothing happened, which is our usual way.
So I say, as offhandedly as I can, all accusations stripped from my voice and face, “What was the holdup?”
“Oh, you know, the usual stuff,” he says, avoiding my eyes as he walks into the family room with his coat still on.
“Like what?” I say, following him, thinking of so many scenes in movies where the husband stops off for a drink before coming home, taking his usual spot at the bar, spilling his troubles to the bartender or anyone who will listen. Or worse, stewing alone, keeping them all bottled in. I suddenly wonder whether Nick has troubles he’s not sharing with me—beyond the typical worries of a pediatric surgeon. I recall one night last week when I looked out our bedroom window to see him pulling up the driveway after work. He parked the car, but then sat there, staring straight ahead, I watched him for a moment, wondering if he was listening to a song or simply lost in thought. Whatever the case, he was clearly in no hurry to come inside. And when he finally did walk in, a full five minutes later, and I asked what he was doing out there, he appeared bewildered, as if he didn’t know the answer himself. He gives me the same quizzical look now.
So I ask the question more concisely, going out on a limb this time. “How was Antonio’s?” I say, inhaling garlic again.
His silence is telling, and I look away before he can answer, glancing up at a cobweb in our chandelier, feeling somehow embarrassed for him—for both of us. It is the way I felt when I once walked in on him in the middle of the night, reclined on the couch, his jeans unbuttoned, one hand down his boxers, quietly moaning. I tried to creep out of the family room unnoticed, but tripped on one of Ruby’s toys, both of us caught. He opened his eyes, looked at me, and froze, saying nothing. The next morning when he came down for breakfast, I expected him to make a joke about it, but he didn’t. The idea of my husband masturbating didn’t bother me, but his silence on the subject made me feel separate, the opposite of intimate—the same way I feel now.
“It was fine.”
“So you already had dinner?” I clarify.
He quickly replies, “Just a little bite to eat. Was craving Antonio’s.”
“Did you bring me anything?” I ask, hoping that he simply forgot to remove the white to-go bag from his backseat. I am ready to dismiss my whole theory if he can just produce that bag.
He snaps his fingers with regret. “I should’ve. I’m sorry. I figured you ate with the kids?”
“I did,” I say. “But I’d never turn down Antonio’s. I could eat that ravioli for dessert.”
“No doubt,” he says, smiling. And then, clearly in a hurry to change the subject, he asks how my day was.
“Fine,” I say as I try to remember how I filled the last twelve hours. My mind goes blank—which can be a good sign or a bad sign, depending on your perspective, your life at the moment. Tonight, it feels like a bad sign, along with everything else.
“And the kids? They’re down for the count?” he asks, a throwaway question.
“No. They’re out on the town.” I smile to soften my sarcasm.
Nick smiles, nearly laughs.
“How was your day?” I ask, thinking that my mother is right. He is the one with something interesting to talk about. He is the one who had better things to do than come home on time tonight.
“The graft went well,” he says, our conversation falling into autopilot.
Four words for a four-hour surgery.
“Yeah?” I ask, craving more details, not so much because I want the medical report, but because I want him to want to share with me.
“Yeah. Textbook graft,” he says, slicing his hand through the air.
I wait several seconds until it’s clear he has nothing more to offer. “So,” I say. “April said she saw you at the hospital.”
His expression becomes animated, nearly fierce, as he says, “Yeah. What the hell was up with that?”
“They didn’t know the surgery was today,” I say, wondering why I’m offering April and Romy an excuse—when I basically agree with Nick.