“With the kids?”
“Yeah,” he says with a laugh. “It generally wouldn’t be a place I’d come without the kids.”
I smile at my silly question, feeling myself relax.
“How’s New York?” he says. “What are you up to?”
I take a deep breath and say, “I’m home, actually.”
“You’re home? Why?” he asks, sounding startled.
“Because I missed you,” I say, which isn’t entirely untrue.
He says nothing in response, which unnerves me enough that I begin to ramble. “I just need to see you,” I say. “I want to talk to you . . . about some things.”
“What things?” he asks, a dose of unease in his voice—which could be because he’s done something wrong. Or it could be that he’s done nothing wrong and therefore assumes that I am the one with an issue.
“Just things,” I say, feeling sheepish for my vagueness, suddenly questioning my judgment in coming home, initiating a conversation in this way. After all, I might have a legitimate reason to be worried, but was it really enough to cut my trip short by a night, without so much as giving Nick a heads-up before my arrival? It occurs to me that he could think this is a true emergency—a health crisis, an affair of my own, a foray into a deep depression—rather than what is likely going on here: April stirring the pot and me snooping through his text messages. Two paranoid housewives.
“Tessa,” he says, agitated. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
“Yes. Yes. I’m fine,” I say, feeling ashamed and more confused than ever. “I just want to talk. Tonight. Is Carolyn still coming? I was hoping we could go out. . . and talk.”
“Yeah. She’s still coming. At eight.”
“Oh. Great,” I say. “What. . . were your plans?”
“I didn’t have specific plans,” he replies quickly. “I was thinking of seeing a movie.”
“Oh,” I say again. “So . . . did you go out last night?”
“Uh . . . yeah,” he says. “I did. For a bit.”
I start to ask what he did, but stop myself. Instead I tell him I can’t wait to see him and silently vow that I will not beat around the bush when we finally sit down to talk. I must be direct, confront the hard topics: fidelity, sex, his career, my lack of one, the underlying dissatisfaction in our marriage. It won’t be easy, but if we can’t have a frank discussion, then we really are in trouble.
“Me too. . . . But I better go now. The kids are running in two separate directions. So we’ll just finish up here and be back by five or so? . . . Does that work for you?” he asks.
His words are innocuous but his tone is detached, with the slightest hint of condescension. It is the way he often talked to me when I was pregnant and, in his words, behaving irrationally—which I must confess was often the case, such as the time I actually cried over our Christmas tree, insisting that it was ugly, disturbingly asymmetrical, even suggesting that Nick unstring the lights and return it for a new one. In fact, I almost feel pregnant now—not physically, but emotionally, in a verging-on-tears, hormonal, utterly needy way.
“Sure. That works,” I tell him, clutching the arm of the couch, hoping that I sound less desperate than I feel. “I’ll be here.”
***
I spend the next hour rushing around, showering, dressing, and primping, as if I’m going on a first date, all the while vacillating between despair and calm, at one moment telling myself my intuition must be on track and then berating myself for being so insecure, having such little faith in Nick and the bedrock of our relationship.
But when my family returns home, there is no denying the chilliness in Nick’s hug, his kiss on my cheek. “Welcome home, Tess,” he says, an ironic suspicion in his voice.
“Thanks, honey,” I say, trying to remember how I interacted with him before all of this began, trying to pinpoint when all of this began. “It’s so good to see you guys.”
I kneel down to hug the kids, both of whom have clean faces and combed hair, Ruby even wearing a pink bow, a small triumph.
Frankie bursts into a mirthful laugh, clamoring for another hug. “Pick. You. Up. Mama!” he shouts.
I don’t bother to correct his pronoun, but instead scoop him up in my arms, kissing both cheeks and his sweaty little neck, warm from all the layers his daddy remembered to bundle him in.
He giggles as I put him down and unzip his coat. He is wearing a mismatched outfit—navy cords with a striped orange and red shirt, the lines and colors slightly clashing, the first sign that their father has been on duty. Once free of his coat, Frank begins to spin in circles, flapping his arms, dancing in his rhythmless, random way. I laugh, for one moment forgetting everything else, until I turn to Ruby, who is doing her best to look miffed, steadfastly maintaining her position that she should have been invited on the girls’ trip, although I know she secretly relishes time with her daddy.