“They look like flowers.”
David proposed that evening. I needed to remove a glove to put on the ring, and my hand didn’t fit back inside with it on. But I didn’t care. After saying yes, all I wanted to do was lean into my future husband and watch my diamond sparkle in the purple flames beneath the stars.
*
Chris snaps her fingers in front of my face, calling me out of my daydream. She knows that I didn’t hear her continued condemnation of her mother’s antiquated dating advice because I also haven’t noticed the fishmonger in front of us. They’re both pointing to a deep-pink salmon with narrow bands of white fat between the meat. Wild caught. Expensive. Delicious, especially when grilled with a hint of lemon.
“That looks great,” I say.
She taps the glass. “My treat. The last client loved the living room so much, she hired me to finish the entire house. God, what they pay! I wonder why I ever was a journalist.”
“You thought you had a higher calling.”
“Hell with that.”
“The house is the one on Washington Drive, right?”
“Giant pool. Overlooking the beach. Hedge fund guy.”
Chris explains to the fishmonger that she wants a pound of the wild Alaskan and “not the tail piece.” He cuts and weighs it on a flat scale facing us, then waits for Chris to give him the go-ahead when it comes up a few ounces heavy. As he folds white paper over it, I ask if Mr. Hedge Fund and his wife have any single friends.
“He’s much older. I doubt it.” She winks. “But hey, what about David?”
The hairs stand up on my arms as though my body has just noticed that the seafood aisle is several degrees colder than the front of the store. “What do you mean?”
“Any law school buddies as hot as Nick?”
I remember the photos on the missing poster. What does David hope to accomplish by tacking those along the river? He can’t honestly think that someone is going to pass by a flier and think, Hey, I know that guy. He’s been begging on a street corner, telling everyone he can’t remember his name. Is he hoping that someone will come forward with information about where Nick might have been that night? Where his body might be? Is he simply trying to seem helpful to police so they’ll work the case harder?
“Ranking Dave’s friends one through ten?” Chris teases. “I’ll take seven or above.”
“No. I . . .” My skin itches as though I’ve seen a bug crawling on someone nearby. “Nick was the only really handsome one.”
Chris slams her palm against her forehead. “Shit. I’m such an idiot. I’m sorry. I forgot. I mean, I didn’t forget, I know he’s missing. I didn’t think before I spoke.”
The grocer interrupts with the wrapped fish and an instruction to have a wonderful evening. I thank him as Chris places the salmon atop her wine collection. “Maybe that’s why I can’t get a man,” she says as soon as the grocer is out of earshot. “Foot-in-mouth disease.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. I forget he’s gone sometimes too.” It’s a lie. David won’t let me forget Nick for a second.
“Such a shame.” Chris looks into her basket of bottles, probably wishing she could uncork one of them in the store. “I’d hoped maybe one day . . .” She laughs. “But I wasn’t Nick’s type.”
I think back to his last girlfriend. She’d had a blonde pixie cut that had accentuated her big blue eyes but made her square jaw appear even more masculine. I remember telling David that she couldn’t quite pull off the Linda Evangelista look. He said I was being catty.
“Ugh. I hate being single. Every man pushing forty is still fishing in the fry pond. I should have lined up my next relationship in my twenties, when I was still married. If only I’d known.” She looks up at the store’s paneled ceiling. “Whoever said ‘cheaters never prosper’ didn’t date.”
For a moment, I think she might cry. There’s little I can offer for solace. Truth is, the real world isn’t fair. George, the philandering husband, got the girl, while my friend had to explain to her daughter why Daddy and Mommy “grew apart.” The faithful often find themselves blindsided. They don’t suspect anything because they can’t imagine doing something so awful themselves.
I drape my free arm over her shoulders. “Oh, Chris. If only life was one of my novels. George wouldn’t have survived the second act.”
Chapter 5
Dr. Williams opens the door as I’m wheeling the stroller down his narrow hallway. Seeing the bassinet shade pulled all the way down, he holds up a finger and ducks back into the room. He must hit a dimmer switch. When he welcomes me inside, the office is the shade of an unlit room on a cloudy day.
He settles on his chair and gestures to the couch. “How are you?”
It sounds as though he cares. I blame the mild accent. The way his intonation rises and falls with every other syllable causes him to stress the word “you,” as though the fact of my existence is particularly important. Dr. Williams’s body language also helps: head cocked, tilted so his ear is inclined toward me.
My butt lands on the leather couch. I pull the carriage protectively in front of my legs. “As well as can be expected, I guess.”
“Three days ago, you hadn’t confronted your husband. Has that changed?”
The answer is humiliating. I examine the pattern on the rug beneath his feet. It’s a busy oriental style with rings of red-and-beige flowers, something that belongs beneath grandma’s dining table. It doesn’t fit with the minimalist decor.
His suede oxfords shift. The hem of his khaki pants hits his ankles, showing a sliver of brown leg. He’s paired a striped white shirt with the slacks today. Fine blue lines trace the curve of his pectorals. His chest rises and falls slowly, as though the good doctor is deliberately smoothing out his breathing.
“I tried,” I say. “I kind of set it up so that I might catch him in the act. But it didn’t work out.”
“He might lie even if you catch him red-handed. People often continue to be untruthful in the face of overwhelming evidence. They’ll lie to themselves, convince themselves that they didn’t do anything really wrong . . .”
He trails off, and for a brief moment, his pupils follow suit. Breaking eye contact isn’t something shrinks really do. I consider that he’s tired of listening to women wailing over their husbands’ affairs. I’m tired of doing it.
“I’m sorry. I don’t want to talk about Jake. I don’t even want to look at him. Every time he’s come home this week, I’ve pretended to be tired and gone into my room with Vicky.” I run my hands through my hair. The strands feel slimy. When was the last time I washed and blow-dried? When was my last shower? What must this man think of me? “I can’t. I . . . I’ll talk about anything else.”
“All right, then.” He smiles. “Let’s talk about you. Why do you think confronting him is so difficult?”
The question stings. It suggests that I am doing something abnormal. Does he think accusing a spouse of sleeping around is easy? That it won’t be crushing to hear the man I love admit that he is bored with me, that he wanted something more than I could provide? I try to quench my building anger by looking at my baby. Vicky’s pupils move behind her thin eyelids. There’s a red splotch on one, a broken blood vessel from birth. I’m good at recognizing when a thin vein has burst under the skin. Growing up, my skin was dotted with finger-sized red blotches.
I feel Dr. Williams staring, urging me to speak. The leather couch is tufted. I poke at the button hole nearest my thigh, looking for lint. An agonizing minute passes. Isn’t he supposed to be giving me practical advice to make me feel better?
“Do you think confrontation is difficult for you in general?”
I meet his gaze, letting my smirk convey the simmering fury. Confrontation is not difficult for me. I’d just rather go into it with all the necessary ammunition. “No. I don’t.”
“When you were younger, did you find it easy to speak up for yourself? To talk to your dad?”