Tessa
I’m not sure why I wait until Tuesday night to tell Nick about my trip to New York—or why I feel as anxious as I do, unable to look him in the eye, focusing instead on slicing open our American Express bill that just came in the mail. It’s a sad day when you’d rather look at a credit card statement than your husband’s face, I think, as I say as nonchalantly as possible, “I decided to go to New York this weekend.”
“This weekend?” he asks, perplexed.
“Yes,” I say, skimming the charges, surprised for the umpteenth time at how quickly things add up even when you’re trying not to spend.
“As in this Friday?”
“As in this Friday,” I say, giving him a sideways glance, feeling somehow emboldened by his look of bewilderment. Satisfied that, for once, I am the one catching him off guard; I am the one telling him what my schedule is going to be.
“Gee. Thanks for the notice,” he says with good-natured sarcasm.
I bristle, focusing on the sarcasm, rather than his smile, thinking of the number of times he has failed to give me notice, or suddenly changed our plans, or canceled them, or left in the middle of dinner or the weekend. But following Cate’s advice, I am careful not to start an argument, feigning a considerate, wifely tone. “I know it’s sudden . . . But I really need some time away. You’re not on call, are you?
He shakes his head no as our eyes meet, a mutual look of skepticism passing between us. I suddenly realize that this will be the first time he’s ever been alone with the kids overnight. Ever.
“So it’s okay?” I say.
“Sure,” he says reluctantly.
“Great,” I return brightly. “Thanks for understanding.”
He nods, then asks, “Are you staying with Cate?. . . Or Dex and Rachel?”
“Cate,” I say, pleased that he asked the question so that I can say, “I’m sure I’ll see my brother and Rachel. But I’m really in more of a go-out-and-get-drunk mode. Blow off some steam as only Cate knows how to do.”
Translation: Revert to my premarried self, the woman you couldn’t keep your hands off, the girl you rushed home from the hospital every night to see,
Nick nods and then picks up the AmEx statement, his eyes widening as they always do when he goes through our bills. “Damn,” he says, shaking his head. “Just don’t go shopping . . .”
“Too late,” I say, pointing at my Saks bag in the hallway, further goading him. “Needed some new shoes to go out in , . .”
He rolls his eyes and says, “Oh, I see. I guess none of the thirty pairs you already own will suffice for a girls’ night out?”
I roll my eyes back at him, feeling my smile stretch and tighten, thinking of Cate’s closet. And April’s. And even Rachel’s—restrained by Manhattan banker wives’ standards but still more indulgent than mine. The contrast between their rows and rows of jeweled and satin and edgy black leather, impossibly high-heeled designer footwear—and my understated, mostly sensible collection.
“You have no idea what a lot of shoes looks like,” I say, a hint of defiance in my voice. “Seriously. I have a paltry wardrobe.”
“Paltry? Really?” he says, raising one judgmental eyebrow.
“Well, not compared to a Somali villager. . . But in this context,” I say, pointing 180 degrees around me, indicating our big-spending neighbors. “I am not a shopper . . . You know, Nick, you really should be glad you married me. You couldn’t handle these other women.”
I hold my breath, waiting for him to soften, smile a real smile, touch me, anywhere, and say something to the effect of: Of course I’m glad I married you.
Instead he appears thoughtful, moving on from the bill to a Barneys catalogue from which, incidentally, I have never ordered, as he says, “Do you think it’s too late to get a sitter? For this weekend? I might want to go grab a few beers myself. . .”
“With whom?” I ask, instantly regretting it, trying to retract my suspicious question with a guileless smile.
It seems to work, although he still hesitates in a way that stabs my heart. I look at him, knowing I will replay this second of silence and the blank look on his face, just as I will replay the way he stumbles on his next words, “Oh, I don’t... I don’t know. . . Maybe alone ...”
His voice trails off as I nervously fill the awkward gap. “I’ll call Carolyn and see if she’s free,” I say, the word enabler springing to mind.
Then I turn and take my new shoes upstairs, thinking that if my husband is on the verge of cheating on me, at least he’s not very good at it.