“You think it’s fake?” Cate asks. “Or is she really that happy?”
“I don’t know. I think she’s guarded, for sure . . . I think she has a big filter,” I say. “But I also think she and Dex just have one of those lofty marriages. Those perfect relationships.”
Cate gives me a look that conveys hope. Hope that such a thing is out there for her. It occurs to me that she once felt this way about my marriage.
“Look. Don’t get me wrong,” I say. “I want my brother to be happy. I want Rachel to be happy . . . But I can’t help being a little sickened by them. I mean, did you see how they were holding hands? On barstools? Who holds hands on barstools? It’s awkward ...” I imitate her by reaching my hand out and holding air with an adoring expression. Then I say, “I thought she was going to pass out when Dex confessed their affair.”
“You mean the one we all knew about anyway?” Cate says, laughing. “You think she gave him shit later?”
“I doubt it. I think they probably went home and made out. Gave each other massages. Whatever. It can be so draining being around couples like that,” I say, realizing that jealousy takes a lot out ofyou.
“Look, Tess,” Cate suddenly says, her expression becoming somber. “I know you’re scared. I know that’s why you aren’t calling April back. But Dex is right. . . You really need to confront this head-on. Worrying about it is so much worse than the truth . . . And look, maybe it’s nothing. Maybe Nick is getting a bum rap here.”
“Maybe,” I say, wondering how I can be so sure of an affair one minute—and just as sure that he would never cheat on me the next. “And if he is innocent, then I am the bad guy. Snooping through his things and smearing him like I did last night.”
“You didn’t smear him,” Cate says. “But yes. . . this really could be a case of paranoia . . . He’s probably at home, missing you.”
I glance at my watch, picturing Nick in the throes of breakfast with the kids, crossing my fingers that he is engaged in the moment. That even if he’s unhappy with some of the details of our life, the discontent will pass and things will work out in the long run. This is my desperate, hungover wish.
“Could you call April now? Please?” Cate says urgently.
I hold her gaze and nod slowly, thinking of all the times that Cate has encouraged me to do something I’m too scared or weak to do on my own, including that first phone call to Nick so long ago, thinking how different my life would be right now if I hadn’t followed her advice. Then I pull out my phone and dial one of the few numbers I know by heart. April answers on the first ring, saying my name with a telling note of anticipation.
“Hi, April,” I say, holding my breath, steeling my heart.
“Are you having a good time?” she asks, either stalling or prioritizing phone etiquette over everything else.
“Yeah. It’s always good to be back in the city,” I say, my voice becoming fake, wishing it were Cate on the verge of giving me bad news. I look across the table as she rests her fork on her plate, her expression of sick dread and suspense mirroring the way I feel.
“So,” April says. “You got my text last night?”
“Yes,” I say. “I did.”
She begins to stammer, offering a rehearsed preamble about her duty as my friend to tell me what she’s about to tell me.
“Okay,” I say, my stomach in knots. “Go ahead.”
April exhales into the phone and then, speaking as quickly as she can, says, “Romy saw Nick over at Longmere School. Yesterday afternoon.”
I feel the tension drain from my shoulders, feeling profound relief that this could, in fact, be about private school rumors, and nothing else. I have never confirmed our intention to apply to Longmere for Ruby, and I can tell it is a source of intrigue among my so-called friends, perhaps because they want their own choices validated by my eagerness to get Ruby in.
I clear my throat and say, “Well, I did tell him the ball was in his court on the school front . . . “ I nearly consider telling her that I knew he was going over to the school but don’t want to risk being caught in a lie, and fear that Nick might have said something to contradict this story. So instead I say, “Good for him for being proactive. He must have set up a tour. Or a talk with the head of admissions. Or maybe he actually submitted our application. Wishful thinking...”
“Yes—but. . .”
“But what?” I say, feeling a stab of intense loyalty to Nick, and simultaneous disdain for April.
“But... he didn’t seem to be on a tour.”
My silence is loud as she waits, then continues. “He was with Valerie Anderson.”
Despite being clear on her implication, my head is still foggy. “What do you mean, with her?”
“They were in the parking lot,” she says. “Together. With her son, Charlie. He was putting Charlie in the backseat of her car.”
“Okay,” I say, trying to get my head around the image, trying to find a logical explanation for it.