Hannah felt an inexplicable lump of emotion form in her throat. Her mom was trying to be nice, but she was treating Hannah like a toddler. It made her feel an almost overwhelming surge of pity for her mother. Kim’s life was so dull, so quiet, so . . . over. Not that her mom was old, but what did she have to look forward to? Forty more years of domestic puttering, of writing boring flyers, and a passionless marriage? Her parents’ relationship seemed to Hannah a utilitarian coexistence based on an unequal sharing of household and child-rearing duties and a bank account. There was no fondness, no affection, and certainly no passion. Hannah would never accept such a bland existence, would never live vicariously through her children, not realizing that they were pulling away, making their own lives and their own choices. Her mom would never understand the person Hannah was becoming. Kim was losing her, and she didn’t even know it.
“Pancakes would be good. Thanks.”
Hanging up, Hannah moved purposefully to the booze cupboard above the fridge. Her mom had obviously chosen this location because it was inaccessible to small children. But small children weren’t interested in alcohol. Now, at five foot eight, Hannah had both the desire and the reach. She pulled down a bottle of Grey Goose vodka, noting that it was three-quarters full. Her parents rarely had mixed drinks, her mom favoring wine and her dad low-carb, light beer. She bent down to the container cupboard and retrieved a tall, stainless-steel water bottle. Her hands were shaking as she unscrewed the lid and poured over half the vodka into the water bottle. She topped the Grey Goose bottle up with water and replaced it in the cupboard. She hoped her parents wouldn’t be making cocktails anytime soon.
Moving with a swiftness borne of fear, she hurried downstairs to the basement rec room. It was cold and slightly damp, but she was fond of this space. Her parents had ripped the house down to the studs, rebuilding it into their sleek, contemporary dream home. But the basement, with its wood paneling and ancient bathroom fixtures, was untouched. Unlike the stark and stylish decor of the rest of their house, the rec room was old-school. A ratty sectional sofa and a dated glass coffee table reminded her of the house they’d lived in when she was little, when her parents were young and seemed to laugh a lot more. And with a large flat-screen and decent speakers, it was a fine place to host her friends tonight. She dove on the tweedy surface of the couch and pushed the water bottle between the cushions. She stepped back and surveyed the hiding spot. It looked fine, but when she flopped back on the sofa, the metal dug into her tailbone. Kneeling, she shoved the bottle under the couch, tucking it into a torn piece of upholstery fabric.
There . . . Her party wasn’t going to suck after all.
jeff
THAT DAY
Jeff paced in a circle, his heart hammering in his chest, blood rushing audibly through his veins. He breathed deeply through his nose, feeding oxygen to his traumatized muscles, his overworked heart. In this moment, he was immune to the postcard view of the Golden Gate Bridge, the dark blue of the Pacific, even the endless stream of Crissy Field joggers struggling past. He was conscious of nothing but the pain in his legs, the pressure in his lungs, the mechanics of being alive.
Beside him, Graham crouched, dropping his bearlike head toward his knees. “Jesus Christ . . . Holy fuck.”
“That was good.” Jeff’s breathing was returning to normal. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the end of his running shirt.
Graham stood, with effort. “Let’s get a beer, mate. We deserve it.”
“I can’t.” Jeff’s response was automatic, programmed by a year of denying himself the simple pleasure of a beer with friends. “It’s my daughter’s sixteenth.”
“One beer . . .” Graham was from Australia, a culture where you didn’t turn down a cold one, no matter whose birthday it was. His wife, Jennie, was American, but she accepted Graham’s inherent “blokiness,” in fact, seemed to find it adorable. Jennie didn’t get pissed off over a training session followed by a couple of drinks. Jennie was cool, relaxed, fun-loving; she was nothing like Kim.
“Can’t do it. My little girl’s waiting for her birthday gift.” He was glad to have a legitimate excuse; otherwise he would have had to make one up.
“Suit yourself, mate. See you tomorrow.”
Jeff navigated his Tesla Model S through thick, Saturday-afternoon traffic, a low-grade resentment gnawing at him. It wasn’t that he was desperate to have a beer with Graham—he had to limit beer on his triathlon diet, and he spent enough time with Graham at work and on their jogs. But his refusal of his friend’s invitation highlighted the fact that Kim had him on a very short leash. On certain occasions, like now, he felt an almost overwhelming urge to strangle her with it.
He knew he shouldn’t blame Kim. He’d accepted the terms she’d laid down: the terms to staying married, to keeping his family together. It was only when a friend or colleague suggested something as innocuous as an after-work cocktail or a post-run beer that he felt like a scolded child. And he felt like Kim was his controlling mother instead of his wife.
Easing into a break in Van Ness traffic, he gunned the motor. It was a small burst of aggression, momentarily satisfying, but the bitterness soon returned. He had fucked up—he got that—but it was nearly a year ago. Was he doomed to be punished forever? Grounded for life like a recalcitrant child? He really did want to go home for Hannah’s birthday, wanted to be there when she opened the bracelet Kim had picked out for her. He just didn’t want to have to go home.
It had all started in Vegas (of course, Vegas). It was a conference for software vendors and major clients. Besides keynote speakers, roundtables, and breakout sessions, there were golf tournaments, dinners, drinks, and schmoozing. Jeff had played eighteen holes with a female development exec from Montreal, who may or may not have been flirting with him (he was out of practice; she had a French accent); an overweight colleague from the Chicago office; and the CIO of a large southern university. Naturally, numerous beers were imbibed, but he’d paced himself. When they sat down to dinner, he was still in control.
But somewhere between dinner and 3:00 A.M., tequila joined the party. And when Nathan McIntyre, a twenty-six-year-old wunderkind from their Austin office, suggested they take the party back to his room, things began to spiral. Nathan had a business card for some high-end hookers and he was keen for some Vegas-style debauchery. Jeff had no problem declining the invitation. The thought of partying with a bunch of prostitutes held no allure for him; he was a happily married guy, a dad. And he’d never understood the appeal of paying for it. It seemed desperate and tawdry. Besides his moral convictions, he was way too hammered to get it up, even if he’d wanted to—which he didn’t. In fact, he was barely coherent, his vision blurred, his brain fogged. And he was scheduled to speak on global growth strategies at nine thirty the next morning. He needed sleep. With their taunts of “pussy” and “lame ass” in his ears, he stumbled back to his room.
Jeff didn’t remember passing out fully clothed on his bed, but he did remember waking up. His head pounded, his mouth tasted burnt and poisonous, and his stomach threatened revolt. It took several seconds for him to realize that the banging was not just in his skull but at his door. He looked at his watch. Fuck! It was a quarter to nine. His presentation was in less than an hour and he still needed to shower, gather his notes, and probably throw up.