“You’re misinterpreting things again. You wanted a solution, I found one. I don’t have to leave Triple B, and we get to keep my salary and my 401(k) and the health insurance, and no one knows a thing about the affair. Can you imagine those bitchy book club friends of yours if they knew about this? They’d eat you alive.”
He comes over to me and takes my hands. “Seems to me like we all win here,” he says in a gentler voice. “Honey. She’s gone. I’m here. I’ll probably never see her again. Can’t we put this behind us? Please?”
“I want to, Adam, but it seems like every time I think we’re moving ahead, I learn something new, find out some other little lie.” My voice picks up speed. “I want to move on, but you’re the one who brought this into our lives. You’re the one who changed me, and I never wanted to be changed to begin with, and I hate myself these days!”
With that, I burst into tears. Sobs jerk out of me, taking me by surprise, and I cover my face with my hands, unable to stop the noises.
It’s the first time I’ve really cried in front of him since I found that horrible picture. “Oh, sweetheart,” he says, pulling me into his arms, and I hate that it feels so good to be held, and I hate that we fit together so perfectly, and I love that he knows just how to rub my back and stroke my hair. I love him. I hate him. And I’m so tired of feeling both ways.
“Baby, please don’t cry,” he murmurs. “Let’s go away together. Let’s have a second honeymoon. I love you, Rach. I love you so much.”
I nod, simply because I’m too tired of being angry. I’ve got nothing left. Except for the girls, I’m empty.
“We’ll have the girls stay with my mom, or Jenny,” he continues. “We can go to Paris, how’s that? Or Turks and Caicos, you always wanted to go there, right?”
And so it’s decided, when I’m done crying, that we’ll go the week after Jared and Kimber’s wedding. Adam will call the travel agent. I won’t have to do a thing. “And I get to see you in a bikini,” Adam says with a wink.
So because of their affair, Emmanuelle gets a promotion and a raise, Adam gets a vacation, and I got an STD panel.
Through my bleary, weary eyes, I can see that the kitchen is sloppy and sticky with crumbs, as Adam offered to do cleanup tonight. It’s still lovely, but up close, it’s grimy. The stove pans need to be scoured, and there’s spatter over the knobs. The flowers I picked last week are dying in the mason jar, and I can smell the hint of decay.
It feels like this house will never be clean again.
Jenny
Despite Leo’s “recreation only” warnings—a phrase I’m becoming heartily sick of—this feels an awful lot like a relationship. He’s been wonderful since the fight in the street. We drove upriver to the Vanderbilt estate and strolled around, held hands, even, then ate at a diner where the cheesecake was apparently made by God. Last night, we went to an utterly terrifying movie about demonic possession, which made Leo laugh and me cower (though that may have been because he put his arm around me when I did). When we came home, we ended up making out on the couch, then the floor, then my bedroom, where several home runs were scored.
So I’m pretty sure I was right about him. The recreation-only thing... That’s temporary. That’s what men always say. This particular man just needs to relax a little, to trust again. How special and meaningful those words sound! Once we’ve spent a little more time together, he’ll see. I’m very trustworthy.
And he’s getting there. Just the other night, I woke up in the middle of the night, and Leo was looking at me, his head propped on his hand. Just looking. I started to say something, but he put his finger over my lips and kissed me, soft and hot, and pulled me on top of him, and he smiled at me. You know who does that? Men who are in serious relationships, that’s who.
This is driven home when I come home on Tuesday night. It’s pouring, a lovely, soaking rain tap-dancing on my Monet–print umbrella as I walk down the street from where I parked to dear #11, my favorite house on the street.
There’s a bizarre sight—Leo Killian on a ladder in front of my door, cleaning out a gutter. It’s bizarre, because I can’t imagine that Leo knew gutters needed to be cleaned. But there he is, soaking wet, his hair plastered to his forehead, his T-shirt—More Cowbell—clinging to his lean frame, jeans soaked.
My ovaries twitch as I walk up the steps.
“Hello, tenant,” he says, scooping out a handful of leaves. “The gutter is clogged, and I didn’t want you to get wet, fair maiden that you are with all those expensive clothes and cruel shoes.”
“So you’re actually taking care of this building,” I say. “Let me document this historic moment with a photo.” I pull out my phone and snap a shot, and there he is, smiling down at me, that wide, cheeky grin, his blue eyes crinkling. I’ll be keeping this one, that’s for sure.
Leo throws down another handful of wet leaves, then waits a second, assessing his work. “There. That wasn’t so hard after all.”
“You sound surprised. Scooping leaves out of gutters is hardly Rachmaninoff’s Third Piano Concerto.”
He jumps off the ladder and pulls off his work gloves. “My God. You know who Rachmaninoff is! I’m so turned on right now.” He cups my face in his big hands and kisses me.
“Don’t get too excited,” I murmur against his mouth. “I just looked up ‘hardest piano pieces’ so I could work it into the conversation and impress you.”