“I didn’t believe it was true either. I mean, my guy would always come back with the same photos week after week. She was at home, at your house, out shopping. Pretty typical stuff on the surface and I almost called him off the job. I thought I was being paranoid. But then one day at dinner I happened to ask her about you. I said, ‘So, how has Claire liked being a freelance marketing director? Is it better than working for an ad agency?’ She said you hadn’t worked at home for years, that you’d been working sixty hour weeks at Cole and Hillman downtown. So I asked myself: If Claire isn’t at home during the day, who is Amanda going there to see? It can’t be Claire’s daughters. They’re in school. So...”
It took me several minutes to absorb what he was trying to imply, several more to even wrap my head around such a ridiculous assertion.
“No.” I shook my head. “No...There’s no way. There’s a perfectly good explanation if...” I picked up the packet of photos and flipped through them again.
They were all circumstantial: Amanda’s car parked outside my house—she loved my neighborhood’s walking course and often left her car in my driveway to do one of her “thought-walks.” There were pictures of her walking along the Hot Metal Bridge in the rain, sitting alone on a bench—probably crying about Barry not being at home again. But then there were pictures of Ryan, my Ryan, sitting next to her on that bench. Kissing her on that bench.
There were pictures of their cars parked outside the Hilton in Greentree—the next town over, pictures of them walking through the city park hand in hand, pictures of them having sex from the open windows of my bedroom.
The date on this bedroom photo is yesterday...
Barry lifted a photo from my hands. “I went to that Hilton myself...I followed them there in a cab. I waited thirty minutes before going inside and pretended to be her brother who happened to get lost on the way. I walked over to the front desk clerk and said, ‘My sister is always bragging about how nice this place is, how often she uses it for a getaway. You must see her a lot huh?’ You want to know what that clerk said to me?”
“No.” Tears fell down my face.
He took another gulp of his wine. “I’ll tell you anyway. He said, in the most annoyingly excited salesman voice, ‘Oh yeah...She’s been coming here off and on for over a year. She tips every time she comes and she just loves our room service menu.’ For over a year, right under my goddamn nose...”
His face reddened and he shook his head. “I wanted to go up there and confront them, but I knew I would’ve killed them—both of them. I can’t pretend that I don’t know anymore, Claire. I can’t pretend to be happy about a baby that’s not mine, and when I got this last set of pictures today, I made up my mind... I’ve hired a lawyer and I’m telling her it’s over tonight. I just thought I would let you know the real reason why before she lied to you like she lied to me.” He banged his fist on the table.
I looked through the photos once more, hoping that my eyes were playing tricks on me, that it wasn’t really my best friend and my husband in the shots—praying that I was in some type of sick nightmare.
But the images never changed. It was true.
“Cheers to faithful spouses.” Barry poured another glass of wine and practically forced me to drink it.
That wine was disgusting, but not as disgusting as the following weeks would be...
“It’s okay, Claire.” Sandra motioned for me to switch seats with her. “Let’s go home.”
Chapter 1.5
Claire
The summer my divorce was finalized, I wasn’t sure what to do with my life. Everything I’d ever known, everything I ever was, was all entwined with Ryan. He was a huge part of me, an engrained piece of my identity, and I didn’t know who the hell I was without him.
I wanted to do the whole Eat, Pray, Love thing—you know, travel the world and try to find myself while tasting new foods, soaking up new cultures, and having reckless sex with a young, hot Brazilian—but I knew that was completely unrealistic: I was in serious debt, I was terrified of planes, and too much time without my daughters would’ve driven me insane.
So, instead I opted for long walks in the park, walks that usually ended with me curled up against a rock—sobbing until my sides ached.
No matter how hard I tried pretending to be “fine,” there was always something that triggered a miserable memory of my failed marriage: A young couple playing with their children in the park, a flower stand vendor offering discounts on red roses, a group of college kids wearing their “University of Pittsburgh” T-shirts.
I tried reading books about divorcées who overcame their pain, hoping to feel inspired or enlightened, but they only made me more depressed. I tried hanging out with my other friends, thinking they would distract me from my agony, but they were more interested in throwing pity parties.
After months and months of non-stop bawling, I decided to attack my heartache in stages—well, “phases” if you will: