“Oh, you’re lucky,” Megan says to Jennifer. “He doesn’t break that out for just anyone. That’s the good stuff.” Still leaning against Jennifer, she starts patting her, as if in comfort, on the arm. “I’m glad you’re here,” she says. “I’m glad you’re having fun.”
“Stop hanging on her like a spider monkey,” Sebastian says.
Megan flinches. She steps hastily away, flashing an apologetic smile at Jennifer. “Sorry, sorry,” she says. She reaches out as if to pat her again, then thinks better of it. “I’m a little handsy when I’m drunk.”
“I don’t mind,” Jennifer says.
“No, no,” Megan says, turning herself in a half circle. “No, no. Just came in for—ah.” She grabs an open bottle of red wine from the counter. “Back into the fray!” she says.
She’s gone, and Jennifer looks at Sebastian. “See,” he says, meeting her eye. “I’m the asshole.”
“I can see that,” she says.
He straightens his spine, clips off each cold word. “She does drink too much. You barely know her. You have no idea what it is to be married to her.”
She can’t stop herself from asking. “What’s it like to be married to you?”
“You might think she’s the world’s best wife,” he says. “You might think I’m so lucky, she’s so sweet, she’s so accommodating. But everything we do is on her terms. I don’t want to live in this crappy little nowhere. I can’t stand it here. The Southern sweetness. The small-town know-your-business clusterfuck. The goddamn crickets.” Over the course of this speech, he’s begun to lean toward her, his antagonist, and she’s been bracing herself for she doesn’t know what. But suddenly he collapses back against the counter. “Fuck,” he says. “I don’t even know you.”
“No,” she says. She’s clutching her glass hard. “No, you don’t.” Her throat is tight. She downs her whiskey so quickly her eyes water. “Do you cheat on her?”
“Why?” he says. “Are you offering?”
She makes a sound of disgust, and moves to go, but he’s fast, and he catches her by the wrist. “Please don’t tell Megan I said that,” he says, with such sudden sincere vulnerability that she nods, despite herself. Despite herself, which seems to be how she does everything. Is she being cowed or persuaded? Either way it’s weakness, and there is nothing she fears and dislikes more than her own weakness. But I love you, Tommy would say. I’d die for you. You know that, don’t you? I would die. She runs from him, from both of them, back into the heat and noise of the party.
She expects to find signs in Megan of the scene in the kitchen—a sheepish smile, damage in her eyes. But Megan is laughing exuberantly in a crowd of people, her face shining. Maybe Megan is not easily damaged. Maybe she hides the damage well. She catches Jennifer’s eye and skips over to her. “There you are,” she says. Sebastian’s criticism notwithstanding, she picks up Jennifer’s hand and laces their fingers together. “I missed you,” she says. And then she kisses the back of Jennifer’s hand with a loud smack and leads her back into the group, where Jennifer—unsettled, uncertain—no longer wants to be.
Smile, Jennifer. Maybe Megan isn’t the safe haven you thought she was. Smile anyway. Maybe the floor sloshes beneath her, but her feet are planted, her grip is firm on your hand. Can you bear it, Jennifer? Complication, imperfection? The possibility that you might be understood? Or would you rather be alone?
Nobody Loves Me
This morning I got what I wanted. I resorted to devious measures, but this is nothing that should surprise anyone at this point. I’m not sure why it still, a little, surprises me. A good detective has to be devious. If you’re a good detective, devious is the same as clever, manipulation an admirable skill. We call a flaw a virtue when we like the results. I called her number, and when she answered, I asked her if she had an egg I could borrow. I don’t know why I didn’t think of doing this before. I said I was baking cookies. Though I don’t bake cookies, or anything at all, which of course she couldn’t have known. She said she did have an egg. She said it slowly and as if against her will. I said I’d be right over and hung up before she could change her mind. I thought she might call back to say that she’d bring the egg to me, because I believed—and still believe—that she didn’t want to let anyone inside her house. So when the phone rang as I was gathering my things, and I saw her number on the caller ID, I didn’t answer. I let her think I was already on my way. Slow, perhaps, but unstoppable.