“What about it?” he says.
I can feel my breathing grow shallow as I struggle to keep things nonaccusatory, strip any melodrama from my reply. “Look, Nick. I know life is hard. Life with little kids just beats you down and makes you weary. I know that the stage of life we’re in ... can put strains on relationships . . . even the best marriages . . . but . . . I just don’t feel as close as we once were. And it makes me sad . . .”
As there is nothing in my statement that he can refute, he nods a small, careful nod and says, “I’m sorry you’re sad . . .”
“How do you feel?” I ask.
He gives me a puzzled look.
“Are you happy?”
“What do you mean?”
I know he knows exactly what I mean, but I still spell it out for him. “Are you happy with your life? With our life?”
“I’m happy enough,” he says, his spoon frozen in midair, his smile rigid, reminding me of a game show contestant who knows the answer but is still second-guessing himself before the final buzzer.
“Happy enough?” I say, stung by his qualifier.
“Tessa,” he says, his spoon returning to his bowl, his mood noticeably darkening. “What’s this about?”
I swallow and say, “Something is wrong. You seem distant. . . like something’s bothering you. And I just don’t know if it’s work or life in general or the kids. Or me . . .”
He clears his throat and says, “I don’t really know how to answer that. . .”
I feel a rise of frustration and the first stirrings of anger as I say, “This isn’t a trap, Nick. I just want to talk. Will you talk to me? Please?”
I wait for his reply, staring at the space below his bottom lip and above his chin, wanting to kiss and slap him at once.
“I don’t know what you want here . . .” he starts. “I don’t know what you’re looking for.” He holds my gaze for several seconds, before looking down to prepare his Sashimi. He carefully pours soy sauce into his saucer and adds a dab of wasabi before mixing the two with his chopsticks.
“I want you to tell me how you feel,” I say, now pleading.
He looks me directly in the eye and says, “I don’t know how I feel.”
Something inside me snaps as I unleash the first dose of sarcasm, nearly always lethal in a conversation between husband and wife. “Well then,” I say. “Let’s try an easier angle. How about telling me where you were yesterday afternoon?”
He gives me a blank stare. “I was at the hospital. I came home around five, had dinner with the kids, then went out for a few hours.”
“You were at the hospital all day?” I press, saying a last-ditch prayer that Romy misidentified the man in the parking lot, that she is in dire need of glasses.
“Pretty much,” he says.
“So you didn’t go over to Longmere yesterday?” I blurt.
He shrugs, avoiding my gaze, and says, “Oh. Yeah. Why?”
“Why?” I say incredulously. “Why?”
“Yes. Why?” he snaps. “As in—why are you asking? As in—why did you fly home a day early to ask me that question?”
I shake my head, refusing to be fooled by his transparent tactic. “Why were you there? Did you go to take a tour of the school? Drop off an application? Did it have anything to do with Ruby?”
I already know the answer as he sighs and says, “It’s a long story.”
“We have time,” I say.
“I don’t really want to get into it right now,” he says.
“Well, you don’t have that choice,” I tell him. “Not when you’re married.”
“See. There you go again,” he says, as if he’s having an epiphany, a lightning bolt of insight into my mysterious, difficult persona.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
“It means . . . that there don’t seem to be many choices left in this marriage. Unless you’re the one making them.”
“What?” I shout, becoming the first to raise my voice, something I vowed not to do.
“You have everything all mapped out. Where we live. What club we need to join. Where the kids should go to school. Who our friends will be. What we do with every hour, minute, second of our free time.”
“What are you talking about?” I demand.
He ignores me, continuing his rant. “Whether it’s going on a forced march through Target or a neighborhood Halloween party or a school tour. Hell, you even govern what I’m supposed to wear in my own house over takeout sushi. For God’s sake, Tessa.”
I swallow, feeling defensive yet outraged. “So tell me,” I say, grinding my teeth between words. “How long have you been feeling this way?”
“For a while.”
“So this has nothing to do with Valerie Anderson?” I say, going out on a dangerous limb.