If she hadn’t hit a red light, she never would have found him. But she did. And as she sat at it, with another gas station and a drab insurance agency to her right, she looked down the cross street and saw a large Victorian with a tall white sign on its front lawn that listed the businesses housed within. And there, in the parking lot that branched off the side of the building under a wrought-iron fire escape, was Brian’s Infiniti.
She found a parking space six houses past the Victorian. Walked back up the sidewalk. The street was lined with old oaks and maples, the shaded parts of the sidewalk still a bit damp from the dew the trees had shed this morning, the May air filled with the scents of decay and rebirth in equal measure. Even now, approaching a building in which her husband hid the truth of himself—or certainly a truth of himself—she could feel the street and its odors calm her.
The sign on the front lawn listed three psychiatrists, a family practitioner, a mineral company, a title company, and two attorneys. Rachel stayed in the shade of the great trees until she reached the alley along the side. A large sign at the entrance to the alley warned that the parking spaces were for occupants of 232 Seaver Street only, while a series of smaller signs bolted to the siding identified whose spot was whose. Brian’s Infiniti was parked in the spot reserved for Alden Minerals Ltd.
She’d never heard of Alden Minerals Ltd., and yet it seemed vaguely familiar, as if she had heard of it. But she was certain she hadn’t. Yet one more paradox in a week full of them.
Alden Minerals Ltd. was on the second floor, suite 210. Seemed like now would be as good a time as any to storm up the stairs and burst into the suite and see exactly what her lying husband was up to. Yet she hesitated. She found a spot under the fire escape and leaned against the building and tried to ferret out if there could be any logical explanation for any of this. Men sometimes engaged in elaborate hoaxes on their wives if they were, say, planning a surprise party.
No. They didn’t. At least not to the point where they claimed to be in London when they were in Boston or claimed to be flying to Moscow when they were driving to Providence. No, there was no acceptable explanation for this.
Unless . . .
What?
Unless he’s a spy, she thought. Don’t spies do this kind of thing?
Well, yes, Rachel, a sarcastic voice that sounded like her mother’s agreed, they surely do. So do cheating husbands and sociopaths.
She leaned against the building and wished she still smoked.
If she confronted him right this second, what would she gain? The truth? Probably not, not if he’d been lying to her this successfully for this long. And whatever he told her, she wouldn’t believe it anyway. He could show her his CIA credentials and she’d think of the selfie he’d “sent” from London (how did he fake that, by the way?) and tell him to take his fake CIA credentials and find a way to go fuck himself with them.
If she confronted him, she’d get nowhere.
Harder to admit, of course, was that if she confronted him, whether he lied to her in the moment or not, the relationship—or whatever she’d call it from here on—would leak out on the floor. And she wasn’t ready for that yet. It was a humiliating realization, but at this moment she couldn’t stomach the loss of him from her life. She pictured their condo emptied of his clothes, his books, his toothbrush and titanium razor, the food he liked gone from the fridge, the scotch he preferred removed from the liquor cabinet or, worse, forgotten and left behind as a reminder until Rachel poured it down the sink. She pictured the magazines he subscribed to still showing up months after he left and her long empty days bleeding into long endless evenings. Since her on-air meltdown, she’d lost most of her friends. She had Melissa, yes, but Melissa was the type of friend who expected her to “buck up” and “think positive” and—Excuse me, waiter, could I have one more of these with less ice this time?—“shake it off.” Beyond that, her friends weren’t friends at all but casual acquaintances; it was hard, after all, to maintain social contact with a virtual shut-in.
These last few years, her one true and constant friend had been Brian. She relied on him the way trees relied on their roots. He was her world in full. And the rational part of her knew that, of course—of course—she would have to divest herself of him. He was a fraud. And theirs was a house of sand. And yet she—
He walked out of the back of the building and crossed directly in front of her. He was texting someone as he walked to his car and she stood less than six feet away from him under the fire escape. She waited for him to see her. Tried to think of what she’d say. He’d changed into a dark blue suit with a white shirt, silver-and-black-checked tie, and dark brown shoes. He wore a brown leather laptop bag over his right shoulder. He climbed in the Infiniti and shrugged the bag off onto the passenger seat, still texting with one hand as he shut the door with the other. He pulled the seat belt strap across his chest. He started the engine, still texting, and then must have hit “send” because he flipped the phone onto the passenger seat and backed out of the space, his eyes on his rearview. All he had to do was move his gaze down six inches and he’d be staring at her. She imagined the shock would be so great he’d forget he was in reverse and back straight into the light pole across the alley. But it never happened. He backed up, turning the wheel as he did, and then he was facing forward, looking out at Seaver Street. He drove out of the alley and turned left on Seaver.
She ran to her car, thankful she’d dressed in sneakers as part of her “workout” ruse. She got in the car and turned around, drove up the street and went careening through the intersection as the yellow turned red. A minute later, she spotted him on Broadway, three cars ahead.