Tobey was asleep. I stood, shocked, in our bedroom doorway, the rising sun hidden behind our blackout shades. I had practiced a variety of defenses and excuses, fully prepared to walk in the door to a distraught husband. Yet, three or four hours after I normally got home, he was asleep, his hand stretched out on my empty side of the bed, the blankets bunched around his waist, his upper back exposed. I dropped my bag by the door and walked quietly to his bedside table, picking up his cell and unlocking it. His ringer had been off, two missed calls, two voicemails from the stadium, my text unread. I unlocked it and deleted the missed calls, the voicemails, and my text. Then I replaced it, pulling off my clothes and stepping into our bathroom, my shower quick, my sneak into bed done without waking him.
I carefully lifted his hand and slid next to him, his body rolling to his side, eyes remaining closed, his features relaxed in sleep. I studied him for a minute, the first in a long time. When we’d first married, I’d often stared at him in the night, wondering about the man I had walked down the aisle to, so much about him unknown. I had thought, back then, that he was handsome. He’d changed, his boyish good looks faded, his features harder in their lines as he lost any youthful fat. But he was certainly a handsome man. One who turned his fair share of heads. And he loved me, something I seemed to constantly remind myself of. I’d done that for a long time. Overlooked my own depth of love because of our friendship, the strength of our marriage. This would all be easier if he was a jackass. This would all be easier if he had a mistress, or a stable of affairs, or if he was unhappy. I had no excuse for my behavior, nothing to blame it on, except that I’d never really been in love with him. My heart, it just hadn’t been available to give.
And maybe that was the only reason that mattered. Maybe if I had loved him, and he had been a bunch of terrible things, then I would have overlooked all of them, just as he overlooked my lack of love.
When his alarm went off, I closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep.
90
The email was on my phone, waiting there, when I rolled over, light filling the room. Tobey’s side of the bed was empty, the house quiet. I didn’t see it until after I was dressed, a bagel in hand, stepping out onto the porch to eat. I hadn’t expected an email, my hand stalling as I lifted the bagel to my mouth. I sat in one of the rockers, and clicked on the email, one sent to my Boys and Girls Club email, Chase’s name in the sender’s column.
Ty,
When can I see you again? Call me. 329-222-0114.
I love you.
Chase
I replied to his message, my fingers slow, mind struggling to find the right words.
Chase,
I just need some time. Please give me until the end of the season. But know that I meant everything I said.
Ty
It didn’t feel right, typing I love you into that email. Not when I was sitting in Tobey’s home, wearing his ring. I was still married, despite the things I had done the night before. I sent the email, then stood, resisting the urge to chuck the phone off the side of the porch and to its death.
91
That’s three weeks away. I meant what I said last night. If I see you, I will touch you. Kiss you. Take you. And it won’t be as gently as it was in that hotel room. That was my worship of you. I have a hundred more ways to make you scream my name and all of them are filthy.
I love you. I want you. Every day for the rest of my life.
Chase
I read the email a second time, memorizing its lines, then deleted it. Sliding my phone into my purse, I smiled a thank you to the waitress, sitting back as she cleared my plate. I watched as Tobey returned, his eyes on me as he strolled toward our table.
“Guess who I saw in the men’s room.” He sat down, pulling up his chair to the table.
“Who?”
“James Singletary.”
I raised my eyebrows in interest, the lines of Chase’s email running through my head. “How’d he look?”
“Good. And sober. He said he’s with the Mets now.”
“I’ll ask Nancy about it next time I see her.” James had been a pitching coach for us, had helped Dad for a bit, until his drinking had gotten out of control and he’d been fired. I took a sip of my tea, my fingers tightening on the china.
“Everything okay? You seem…” he tilted his head, studying me, “subdued.”
Subdued. Maybe that was what depression dipped in false cheer looked like. That was how I felt: depressed. Depressed and deceptive. These three weeks would be hell. I tried my best to smile. “I’m fine.”