Tyler steps back from the doorway. “You can stay here while you wait to hear from her.”
In the light of day, his apartment appears different: a plain bachelor pad rather than a sumptuous studio. It has an open layout, similar to my own apartment sans the separate bedroom and eat-in kitchen. The living room has a large couch worthy of a dorm’s common room and an obscenely large flat-screen television on the wall. There’s no dining room. Instead, a breakfast bar with four high-backed stools separates the kitchen from the main entertaining space. The bedroom is in a nook at the back.
I push Vicky’s stroller to the side of the couch, away from the light pouring in from the windows. “She’s sleeping,” I say. “I really can’t thank you enough.”
His tight smile widens a bit. “I’m just sorry that you are going through all this. Can I get you some water or tea?”
I am a coffee drinker, and I certainly didn’t come here for Earl Grey. Still, I accept the tea. It’s a gateway to other things.
He removes two mugs from a cupboard along with a fancy glass contraption with a well and a filter. From another cupboard, he withdraws a tin of tea leaves. While his back is turned, I pull down the Columbia tank to show maximum cleavage and tilt my torso in his direction.
Tyler keeps his back to me as he takes the teapot, now with leaves added, to a standing water cooler in a corner of the room. He presses a red lever, and boiling liquid begins filling the well. Steam rises in the climate-controlled air. “We have to let it steep a minute,” he says, returning the clear pot to the kitchen counter.
As he sets it down, I see his eyes dart to my chest. The memory of his lips on my breasts can’t be that far gone. I round the breakfast bar, grasp his hand, and tilt my head to look into his eyes. He stares back, waiting for me to say something. Studies show that sustaining eye contact with a stranger for two minutes results in passionate feelings—even love. I figure I need twenty seconds for lust.
Tyler blinks. “This tea—”
I stand on my toes, grab his face, and plant my lips on his full mouth. For a moment, his eyes remain open. They don’t stay that way. His lids close. His lips part. When he kisses me, I know he understands why I came here.
We move to the bed. I inhale the musk of his skin. It works like incense, chasing away my mental demons. Here, with Tyler’s hands on my body, I can forget all about Jake and Colleen and what I did. It was a bad dream. This man, this bed, the pants falling past chiseled thighs, the fingers pulling at the drawstring of my sweats: this is reality.
As he slips off my underwear, he suddenly freezes. “What about Vicky?”
“We’ll be quiet.”
Recalling that my infant daughter is in the room changes his demeanor. Instead of the wild romp that it seemed we would have moments before, he kisses me as though my lips are chapped. His fingertips trace my neck and move to my breasts, the feathering stroke after a massage has ended. He slips on a condom and positions himself on top of me, bearing his weight on his elbows and knees so that I am not pinned to the mattress. When he enters, he doesn’t make a sound.
Such tenderness feels like love, not sex. I am not ready for this.
Images of Colleen’s crushed skull flood my vision. I pant from the force of them. Tyler slows his already lethargic rhythm as though he might be giving me more than I can handle. The images come faster. I see the pipe. The gun. The blood.
I start coughing, a violent hacking fit that doubles me over and waters my eyes. Tyler withdraws from my body like he’s spotted signs of a venereal disease. He tells me I need tea.
No amount of liquid will wash Colleen from my mind. I was stupid to think that I could rid myself of her and start my life anew. She’ll never leave me. I’ll never be able to forgive myself.
I start bawling, silent sobs that shudder through my whole body and blind me with tears. Tyler returns without a mug. He helps me sit up and then positions himself to my right, far enough away that there’s no chance of our naked bodies touching. Any desire he’d felt is long gone.
“Beth.” He speaks softly, subduing his accent. This is his shrink voice. “You shouldn’t feel obligated to sleep with me because I am letting you stay here for a few hours. In fact, we shouldn’t do anything besides talk. You need to process everything that has happened.”
“No.” The word barely makes it out between sobs. “There’s nothing to make sense of. It’s all over. My marriage is over.”
“Even if that’s true—”
I gasp. “I don’t want Jake anymore.”
Tyler reaches toward me. For a moment, I think he is going to pull me into his side and kiss the top of my head. Make me feel better. When I look at his outstretched hand, I realize he’s holding a box of tissues.
“Even if you intend to divorce your husband, you need time to feel good about not wanting him anymore. To mourn your marriage.”
The word “mourn” recalls Colleen’s dead body. I grab a handful of tissues and press them to my face. Tears swell my nose. My mouth can’t close from crying. As I try to wipe my face, tissue sticks to my wet lips and tongue, bits of wafer that won’t dissolve. I cannot be saved.
“It’s all my fault.” I repeat the phrase, sobbing. “It’s my fault. Something is wrong with me. I don’t deserve to—”
“No, Beth. No. Don’t say that.” Tyler gives my shoulder a supportive squeeze, reminding me that we can be friends even though it’s clear we will not be lovers again. “The disintegration of your marriage is not your fault. And whatever your husband did or didn’t do to his girlfriend is not your fault either.”
I wipe the tissue beneath my snotty nose and take shaky breaths, trying to compose myself.
“You need to be there for Victoria,” Tyler says. “You don’t need to be punished.”
I nod, though I know he’s wrong. A woman is dead. Punishment is coming.
LIZA
It’s dark by the time I reach the Hamptons house. Stars—millions of them, as opposed to the handful visible in Manhattan on a clear night—paint the sky. I see Antares, the heart of the scorpion, glowing red in November’s zodiac constellation. David taught me about that one.
I’m exhausted from the revelations of the past twelve hours. My legs shake as I exit the car, as though I’d been running a marathon rather than occasionally pressing a gas pedal. Fatigue flows through my blood like too many glasses of red wine. Everything has slowed. I can’t confront Christine like this.
After entering through the side door, I flop down on the first available reclined surface: the living room couch. I shut my eyes with a foggy intent to rest for a moment and then call my best friend.
Once my lids lower, the plan dissolves into ether.
*
A black screen fills with the sound of the ocean. Waves rush to an unseen shore in a furious crescendo, only to fizzle on the sand. Gazing at the sea are the watery eyes of a young girl. Ten, maybe older. She has the height of a preteen but lacks the telltale signs of puberty. I feel as though I know her or I did once, long ago. She sits, half naked, on a lounge chair. Her flat chest is covered in a poorly tied Hawaiian-print tankini. The bottom is missing. Her trembling fingers clutch a bloody tissue.
Grunting draws the child’s attention to a pool. The water is tinted like a bruise, blue fading into a purple spot tinged with red. A woman stands waist-deep beside the discoloration, her hands around a handle. Metal slams against concrete.