The kid handed her an envelope. “You’ve been served.”
She stood frozen as he jogged back to his late-nineties jalopy and drove off. When she’d collected herself, she tore open the envelope. “Jesus Christ,” she muttered, shutting the door and reaching for the phone. His voice mail picked up after three rings. “Jeff, it’s me.” Her voice was loud and shrill in the quiet house. She was grateful that the kids weren’t home—Aidan was playing soccer, and Hannah was at piano. “Lisa Monroe is suing us! We just got a summons. . . .” She scanned the letter, found the figure she was searching for. “She wants three million in damages. Three million!” Her voice cracked with emotion. She paused, tried to calm herself, but she was almost hoarse when she asked, “Where are you?” Jeff could have been in a meeting, he could have been with a client, but, more likely, he’d skipped out of work to go running. Or swimming. Or for a ride on his goddamned bike. As usual, her husband was sequestering himself in his training, avoiding his obligations, hiding from the people who needed him. . . . “Call me.” She hung up.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she dialed the number. As she listened to it ring, she knew it was a bad idea. She should hang up. She should deal with the summons. She should call her friend, Lara, who was a lawyer—family law—but she’d be able to recommend someone to deal with this complaint. Lara would refer her to a shark, someone who would squash this childish and vindictive action in no uncertain terms. And then Kim could go get her eyebrows done. But Kim didn’t hang up. And when she heard his voice, she was flooded with comfort and relief.
“Tony Hoyle.”
“I need to see you.”
THEY SAT IN his car, parked in a lot at Fort Mason. It could get busy here, tourists and locals drawn to the former army post for its galleries, food trucks, and spectacular views. But on a drizzly Wednesday in March, they had all the privacy they could want. Tony held her hand under the artifice of comfort, but even in her troubled state, she could feel the heat between them. “We don’t have that kind of money. Our homeowners’ insurance will pay only two hundred grand for personal injury. What is Lisa thinking?”
“I guess she’s thinking that she’s got medical bills to pay. And her daughter’s going to need physical and emotional therapy. It’s going to add up.”
“It’s not going to add up to three million,” Kim snapped, pulling her hand from his. “Lisa’s angry, and she wants to make someone pay.”
Tony calmly reached for her hand again. “You’re right. She’s being vindictive.”
Kim teared up. “We’ll have to sell the house . . . the cars . . . everything.”
“It won’t come to that. Amanda’s worked a lot of these cases. They usually go through mediation or arbitration and end up settling.”
For once, Kim didn’t feel an uncomfortable twinge at the sound of Amanda’s name. “Really? We could get a mediator to talk some sense into Lisa and we’ll end up paying a lot less?”
“That’s usually how it plays out.”
“I hope so. We’ve worked so hard for everything we have.” Even as she said it, it felt like a lie. Jeff had worked hard, of course, but since his technology strategy job at Fin-Tech was his raison d’être, it wasn’t exactly a sacrifice. And since he used it as a means to avoid intimate connections with his loved ones, it was hardly admirable. Kim had worked, too. After she left the ad agency, she had raised the kids, cooked, decorated the house, organized their social calendar . . . God, it sounded so meaningless.
She was suddenly aware of Tony’s thumb rubbing over hers. It felt comforting, private, and somehow, sensual. She looked at him, and their eyes locked. He was already leaning toward her and she knew it was going to happen this time. Despite her earlier resolve, she felt almost powerless to stop it. Kim was going to cross that line, she was going to be unfaithful. It was just kissing, but in some ways, that was worse. It was more romantic and intimate, less base and instinctual than actual intercourse. She had always looked down on people who got caught screwing around on their spouses. Where was their self-control? They were weak and their moral compasses were askew. Kim had always held herself to a higher standard. . . .
But with Tony’s mouth hot and wet on hers, the internal dialogue ceased and her higher standard dropped a few feet. She was in the moment, feeling not thinking for once. It was intense, passionate, exciting . . . and it was almost a relief. Sitting in a car, kissing a strange man was, more than anything, an escape. Desperate times, she thought, as her hand slipped down and unbuckled her seat belt, desperate times. . . .
jeff
ELEVEN DAYS AFTER
Jeff watched the digital read out on the treadmill: 166. 167. 168. . . . At what point would his heart explode? He was in great shape, but he was closing in on fifty. And he was running like he was being chased by something big, something with fangs: a grizzly bear or a lion . . . or a money-grubbing bitch trying to profit off an accident.
He’d been leaving a client meeting when he listened to Kim’s message. At first, he’d been stunned. He’d thought this whole mess was behind them when the police gave them the all clear. And now fucking Lisa was suing them for money they didn’t have. He’d never cared for Lisa. Even when the girls were little, practicing cartwheels on the lawn while Kim and Lisa supervised on rattan chairs with glasses of rosé, he’d thought she was a flake . . . but a harmless flake. Not so harmless now. Kim must be losing her mind. He should have called her back, he knew that, but he’d gone straight to the Bay Club. He needed to run it out.
Then, suddenly, he wasn’t running anymore. His ankle turned or his knee gave out, he wasn’t even sure which. But he was falling, his feet scrambling across the moving surface like some cartoon fawn trying to ice-skate. It must have looked hilarious—he’d seen enough YouTube videos of people falling off treadmills to know it did—but it wasn’t funny. People died this way. Still, even as he went down, he felt like a fucking idiot.
A young woman in a gym uniform hurried up to him. “Are you okay, sir?” Her concern was sincere, but he could tell she was stifling a giggle.
“Fine.”
“You’re bleeding.”
He looked down at his shin. The skin had been rubbed off on the track, leaving his leg a raw, bloody mess.
“It’s fine,” he snapped. He hobbled toward the changing room, listening for her laughter in his wake. He heard the girl cough, obviously covering up her mirth.
When Jeff had showered and dressed, the leg still smarted, but he wasn’t about to limp. He walked out of the gym with confidence and purpose, even as the fabric of his dress pants brushed against his raw flesh. It hurt like hell, but he strode on. Hopefully, no one would recognize him as the clown who bit it on the treadmill.