My God. My God.
Brad caught up to me. I smelled his cologne (new, goddamn it!) before I saw him. He grabbed my elbow to stop me.
“Of course you had to make a scene,” he said, brushing a glob of cake out of his hair. “I thought we could talk like adults, but apparently not.”
“Don’t you lecture me!” I shouted, bringing the pedestrian flow to a halt. “You’re having an affair! Twenty years of marriage, twenty years of me having your back and loving you and raising our son and being fantastic to your parents, and you’re cheating on me! And you dump this on me the night before our son’s graduation? How dare you!”
“Preach it, sister,” said a woman. “Let him have it.”
“You are a class-A turd, mister,” said a very beautiful shirtless young man.
“Nice, Lillie,” Brad said, the condescending prick. “You always did love melodrama.” He looked at the gathering crowd. “We’ve been growing apart for years,” he said.
This was happening. This was really happening. My marriage was dying in front of a dozen strangers. My mother was going to feast on this. What about Dylan? What about our son?
My anger went out like a match in the wind.
I didn’t want a divorce. I loved being married. I loved our little family. I loved our life. Could he just . . . just end it? With no input from me whatsoever? Was that even legal? Two people had to consent to marriage. Shouldn’t two people also have to consent to divorce?
What could I do? I started walking to the car as fast as I could, dodging the tourists like a ninja, outpacing Brad. Thank God I’d grabbed my purse when I left the restaurant. Brad could call an Uber or Cape Cab. He sure as hell wasn’t getting a ride from me.
Was my dad around? Should I drive down the wharf and check the boats? Should I circle around and head for Mom’s? Ha. When had she ever been a comfort or support? No. I shouldn’t talk to anyone right now. Maybe this wasn’t really happening. Maybe it was a joke, or a momentary lapse on Brad’s part. Maybe he had a brain tumor, and so he was sick and didn’t know what he was saying.
I pulled out of the lot and inched down Commercial Street. Past the intersection where the cop jauntily directed traffic; past the Portuguese bakery run by my fourth cousins, where we bought malassadas every time we came here with Dylan; past the clothing shops where Brad had blown two months’ income. Couples were everywhere—Provincetown was a romantic place.
Not for me. Not tonight. My husband wanted joy, and apparently not from me.
The filho da puta.
My brain was in shock, the poor thing, and a high-pitched whine was all I could hear.
When I got home, Dylan’s car wasn’t there. Good. I went up to our bedroom—mine now—and ripped off my clothes, got in the shower and let the water get so hot it burned. Scrubbed my skin with the scrunchie as hard as I could, because I felt filthy. Contaminated.
He was leaving me. He was leaving me. If I was honest, I’d always thought he’d won out in this deal of ours. He was (had been) a good enough husband, but I was an incredible wife. I made our home what it was. I created our family life, arranged our social life, organized our holidays, kept Brad in the loop about Dylan, because Dylan told me more. I listened to Brad, far more than he listened to me, because, as he’d once said, “I can only hear so many birth stories, Lillie.”
I’d never said, I can only stand so many client stories, Brad. Never said, Your book is unsuccessful because it doesn’t have an original sentence in the entire thing. I always told him how proud I was of him. I thanked him for working so hard, shouldering people’s troubles, helping them find the right path. And now he was having an affair.
An hour later, as I sat on my bed in my pajamas, I heard a car come into the driveway and Brad’s voice. The Uber. Brad slammed the front door to make sure I knew he was angry at having to get a ride. When I heard him stomp down the stairs to the guest bedroom off the kitchen, I came out and went into the living room.
Our home looked so sad. Was that possible? That our house, which was such a huge part of our family, our history, our holidays, our marriage, knew that our family was crumbling?
The mother swallow was chattering to her babies, clicking and squeaking at them. As it got darker, she quieted. I went outside to look in on them—she was there, her black eyes looking at me, snuggled in with her babies. Then, in a flutter of wings, her mate arrived, and they both settled in. After a minute, I went back inside and sat on the couch, unsure if this was how people sat. My body didn’t feel like my own.
Some time later, Dylan’s car turned into the driveway. I always waited up for him. Of course I did.
He came in with a rush and a thump, incapable of being quiet. Dylan, the best thing I’d ever do, so tall, so good-looking, the best of the Fairchilds and Silvas. He had my father’s unruly hair, but it was blond, like Brad’s. My dark eyes and some ancestor’s long lashes. Once upon a time, I’d held that little boy there against my shoulder, tucked him on my hip, never wanted to put him down.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Pippa had a flat tire, and she didn’t know how to put the spare on, so I helped her. Grandpa will be wicked proud.”
“Yes. He sure will be.” My father showed his love by teaching important life skills, which meant that there was little Dylan and I could not fix or figure out.
“How was your dinner?”
“Ah . . . good. Yeah. Crap. I forgot your cake, honey.”
“No worries! I’ll get some before I leave home. Well, I’m whipped and should go to bed.”
“Okay. Sleep tight.”
“You too, Mom.”
I stood up and hugged him, and he patted my back in an obligatory way. Then he went upstairs, his big feet thumping, and closed his bedroom door.
CHAPTER 2
Lillie
Less than twenty-four hours after my husband told me he was leaving me to pursue joy, our son graduated from high school. Brad and I sat next to each other, my body stiff and hard. “This doesn’t mean we’re not a family,” he whispered. “We still have our wonderful son, and of course I’ll always care about you.”
I didn’t respond, too busy having an out-of-body experience. He’s leaving me. They’re both leaving me. My husband cheated. My baby is an adult. Oh, God, my husband doesn’t love me anymore. I have to cancel the trip to Europe. Should I go alone? I can’t afford it if I’m divorced! Dylan, why Montana? Why, you little ingrate? Who cares how beautiful it is out there? God, I love you so much! Shit, I’m going to be a laughingstock, a cliché, the abandoned wife. Oh, doesn’t Rami look so nice, he was always such a cute child. Brad is in love with someone else, and I didn’t even notice.
Was this real, or just a really long, detailed dream? This was Nauset High’s gym. Why couldn’t graduation be outside? It was gorgeous out. Dad is looking at you. Snap out of it. Whose cologne is that? Jesus, it’s my husband’s.
“Here we go,” Dad said. “They’re on the E’s. Finally.”
“James . . . Gabriel . . . Edwards,” the vice-principal recited in that slow, portentous way, each syllable thudding against the hearts of the parents. “Portia . . . Grace . . . Effinger.” A beautiful girl, Portia. “Gabriella . . . Maria . . . Calderón . . . Espinosa.”
He was next. My boy. My only child. My whole world.
“Dylan . . . Gustavo . . . Fairchild.”
Time stopped. My dad gave a piercing whistle; my sister, Hannah, yelled, “Yeah, Dylan!” and the Moms (as I called my mother and her wife) clapped. Dylan grinned in our direction, then walked across the stage and shook hands with the principal. He turned and smiled for the photo that would soon hang on the living room wall. My beautiful, beautiful boy. The lump in my throat had turned to a shard of glass.
“Milo . . . Jude . . . Feinstein.”
A sob came out of me, and my dad put his arm around me and squeezed.
Yesterday I had been happy. Today, I barely remembered what that word meant.