The Futures(79)

“Dot’s going to keep the foundation after the divorce. She’ll have plenty of money to keep it running. But she wanted to get rid of anyone she suspected might have slept with Henry. Which included you. So she made Laurie fire you. The story about having financial problems was a cover.”

I barked out a hybrid cough-laugh-sob. “Oh, my God.”

“I’m so sorry. I thought you should know.”

“Jesus.”

“Jules, for what it’s worth, this is only Dot’s paranoia. I told Jake that Julia Edwards is not like that. You just wouldn’t do that. Never, ever. You’re way too good a person. She’s a total bitch for thinking that about you.”

I felt a sick pain in my stomach. Maybe at one point I had been a good person, but not anymore. I couldn’t pretend to be offended or outraged at the insinuation. For so long I’d been able to cling to this purity, at least: my firing had been unjust. I was justified in my complaints—until now, suddenly, I wasn’t. I was a liar. I was a cheater. Maybe Laurie had seen that about me all along. This explained her cold attitude all those months. The things she must have thought about me. The roses on my birthday. Sucking up to Dot at the gala. Another pliable, too-eager-to-please young woman making a fool of herself.

The whole time, I’d thought I was too good for that place. But at last I knew the truth, and while the suspicion was wrong, the underlying moral lapse wasn’t. Abby was going on, trying to convince me it was going to be fine, fuck them, they’re terrible for thinking that about me. The knife twisted. That was the worst part, the unearned sympathy. Abby, my best friend, the person who saw only the good in me, who believed I was innocent. I hung up before she could realize how hard I was crying.

*

The 2nd Avenue bar that rainy Monday night was nearly empty. The bartender saw my wet hair and distraught expression and gave me one on the house. I felt like I was in the last stage of a long race, pushing for the finish line, trying to outrun whatever was chasing me, but I realized—after my second or third vodka soda, I can’t remember—that it was pointless. It was done. It was already over.

Evan was sitting on the futon when I opened the door, his head cradled in his hands, a weary cliché. My phone was sitting on the coffee table. He looked up.

“Julia. How could you do this to me?”

I was silent. I had no defense, no excuse. Only pathetic tears, invisible in the slick of rainwater that streamed down my face.

“How long?”

“Two months. Evan, I—”

He shook his head. It was almost like pity. He stood up, put on his coat, and picked up a duffel bag that was sitting by the door.

“I’m going to a hotel for the rest of the week. You can stay here, but you need to be out by Friday. I’m going to call the landlord and get you taken off the lease.”

I should have apologized. I should have at least tried to explain myself, should have thrown myself at his feet, but the expression on his face said he didn’t want to hear it. He looked like a person who knew better than to waste any more emotion on something that had been dead for so long.

He paused, one foot propping the door open. A memory flashed—the day we moved in together, Evan turning to me before going down for the boxes that hot June morning. “Julia,” he said finally. “It’s over. I don’t want to see you again.”

*

“Mom? Dad?” My voice echoed in the front hall, the screen door slamming behind me. Abby’s words were running through my head, loud and clamoring.

“We’re in here,” my mom called from the living room. She and my father were sitting on the couch, the Sunday paper spread out between them. My father looked at me over the top of his glasses. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Did you know the Fletchers were getting divorced? Did you know why?”

My mother glanced at my father, panic skipping across her face. “Sweetie—”

My father interrupted. “Why don’t you sit down, Julia.”

“Do you want to know why I really got fired? Or did you know the whole time and you just didn’t feel like telling me?”

He took off his glasses, placed them carefully in his pocket. “Julia. You know I’m bound by attorney-client privilege. You know what that means.”

“I’m your daughter. Doesn’t that mean something?”

“Of course it does,” my mother said. “Honey, it just didn’t seem like it was going to make it any better. You were already going through such a hard time. We didn’t think—”

“What? You didn’t think I deserved the truth?”

“Watch your tone,” my father said, his voice snapping into firmness.

“James, that isn’t necessary.”

“Nina, don’t coddle her. And Julia, for God’s sake, this isn’t all about you.” This was the voice I’d overheard through the years, during so many fights and arguments. His end-of-the-rope voice. I’d never before been on the receiving end. I’d never dared. But a new anger was bubbling up in me. My parents, all that time, listening to me complain about my firing, letting me humiliate myself with every retelling of the story, choosing to keep quiet about the truth. The knife twisted again.

“So you were fine with it,” I said. “You were fine with them thinking I was some stupid slut. I guess that’s more important to you, right? I mean, God forbid you defend me. You would never want to stir anything up with the beloved Fletchers.”