Back then, she told Kevin everything.
She wished she hadn’t told him about that, though. He asked more questions than she cared to—-or even could—-answer, including some that made her squirm. She even wondered whether deep down, her husband had a crush on her sister. Maybe he was drawn to the proverbial bad girl now that he’d dutifully married the good one.
At the time, Noreen couldn’t relate to wanting to walk on the wild side, though she can now. Not that she’d ever admit it to her sister, much less to her soon--to--be--ex--husband. Let Kevin take the blame for their failed marriage. She’s perfectly content to play the role of the wronged and heartbroken wife. No one ever has to know that isn’t quite the case.
Yes. You take your comfort where you can. Some nights, you find it in cozy socks and good wine; other nights, though not lately, between the sheets in an unfamiliar bed, in someone’s muscular arms.
Kevin would be stunned if he knew he wasn’t the only one who’d ever strayed. But he’ll never know or even suspect. If he goes through with the divorce, she’ll make good and sure that he’s the only villain.
Noreen may not have gotten much better at honoring certain vows over the past decade or so, but she’s definitely mastered the art of keeping a secret.
Her own, anyway.
Rush hour on the subway is always crowded, and today is no exception.
It might have been tolerable if Rick could have boarded the downtown express at his midtown stop and stepped off in Union Square five minutes later, but something has gone seriously awry. For the past half hour, he’s been stuck underground on a stalled train, standing shoulder to shoulder, chest to back, back to chest—-or perhaps breast; it’s hard to tell—-with a throng of strangers who are silently, and sullenly, resigned to their fate. The lone exception: a deceptively normal--looking businessman with frenetic eyes who’s loudly informed everyone, repeatedly, that there’s no cell phone ser-vice in this spot.
That means Rick has no way of letting Bob know he’ll be late for their dinner. Hopefully, Bob’ll figure it out. Or maybe he’ll assume Rick isn’t going to show up at all.
Maybe I shouldn’t, even if I ever get off this train.
Then again, he and Bob don’t have to rehash Vanessa, or—-God forbid—-Rowan, or the kids, or anything else remotely personal or unpleasant. They can just talk about sports or old times or Bob’s travels. Something safe.
The speaker clicks on to broadcast a garbled announcement from the conductor: something about police activity on the track ahead.
“What did they say?” someone asks from somewhere behind him.
“MTA code for someone jumping in front of the train” is the reply. “This happened the other day, too, and that’s exactly what they said. Police activity.”
“Yeah, well, it’s the holiday season. Suicide rates are up.”
“It’s the most . . . wonderful time . . . of the year,” a new voice sings.
“What, just because some idiot loser is miserable, we all gotta suffer now?” yet another passenger chimes in. “You gonna kill yourself, you gotta be considerate of others. You know what I’m sayin’?”
“Hell, yeah. Do it at home. Gun to the head, noose to the neck . . . No fuss, no muss. Well, maybe a little muss.”
The jokes roll on, because this is a city of extremes. When hordes of New Yorkers find themselves captive in a stressful situation, group interaction tends to go one of two ways: dark humor or explosive anger.
Rick is steeped in the latter by the time the train starts moving again—-backward. Downtown express ser-vice has been disrupted for the foreseeable future. Dispatched at the previous station, he opts not to wait on the platform to catch the next downtown local with the crushing crowd.