The Marriage Lie(32)

Only Will, the only white face on the page, is not smiling.

“Sorry, Iris. It’s him.” Dave turns the book around so I can see. “William Matthew Griffith.”

It’s Will, all right. His hair is lighter and his face is thinner, but his eyes are as familiar to me as my own. The sight of him there—here, in a Seattle yearbook—hits me like a visceral punch.

I press a hand to my churning stomach and try to think through what I know. “Okay, so clearly, the bit about growing up in Memphis was a lie.”

“We don’t know that. Maybe he only transferred here for his senior year,” Dave says, playing devil’s advocate. “Hang on, let me get the earlier years.” He jumps up from his chair and heads back into the stacks.

But Will’s picture is there, too, and in all three, scowling at the camera in a way I’ve never seen him do, not even when our flight back from Cancun was delayed five times in twelve hours.

Dave rests a hand on the back of my chair, leans in to inspect the pictures. “Why does he look so angry?”

“Because that’s what he was. His dad was dead, and his mom was sick. She died his junior year. On top of school and caring for her, he was working two jobs, running the house and paying all the bills.” As I say the words, it occurs to me that any or all of this could have been a lie, too. “At least, that’s what he always claimed.”

Dave sinks into his chair, reaching for the 1999 yearbook, the one where Will was a senior. He taps the white space under his picture. “How come everybody else has a favorite quote and list of extracurriculars, but there’s nothing under Will’s name. Wasn’t he some kind of wrestling champion?” Dave flips to the wrestling page, and there’s no Will.

It never occurred to me to question him, but now that I think about it, when would Will have had time for the wrestling team? I press both hands to my churning stomach and swallow down a surge of sick. Who is this man I married?

Dave leans back in his chair, running a palm through his dark hair. “Okay, let’s think this through—1999 isn’t that long ago. I’ll bet you at least one of his teachers is still working here. Maybe they’d remember him.”

“India might know someone we could ask.” I reach for my bag and stand.

Dave gathers up the yearbooks. “You go ahead. I’ll put these back and meet you up front.”

I find her behind the information desk, sorting returned books onto a rickety cart. She looks up when she hears me coming. “Did you find what you needed?”

“Sort of. I was wondering if any of the teachers who were here in 1999 are still here now.”

“Oh, sure. A bunch of them. You wanted to see if one of them remembered your husband?”

I nod.

“Well—” she leans on the cart and thinks for a moment, and then her face brightens “—I’m pretty sure the baseball coach graduated from Hancock in 1999. I don’t know if he knew your husband, but he’d be the best place to start.” She checks her watch, taps the face twice with a finger. “You have about an hour before practice starts, which means you can probably find him in the gym.”





13

Dave and I find a man matching Coach Miller’s description in a dim hallway at the back of Hancock High’s gym, lugging a metal basket of baseballs into the hall. Above his head, a lone tube light buzzes and hums.

“Are you Coach Miller?” I ask, moving close enough to get a good whiff of his cologne. The man is bathed in it, an overwhelming stench that burns the back of my throat, especially when combined with the other odors hanging in the air, Bengay and sweaty socks.

He looks up, his eyes half hidden under the bill of a Hancock High baseball cap. “Yup.”

India wasn’t kidding when she said he was built like a linebacker. Coach Miller is massive, six feet and then some of bulky bones and fat-padded muscle under baggy street clothes, jeans and a long-sleeved polo. He ducks back into the room, reappearing two seconds later with another basket, this time filled with mitts.

“The librarian told us you graduated from Hancock in 1999.”

“Yeah, that’s right.” He locks the door with a key he drops into his back jeans pocket. “Who’s asking?”

“My name is Iris, and this is my brother, Dave. We were hoping you could tell us what you remember about a former classmate of yours. Will Griffith.”

“Nope. Don’t know him.” He leans down, reaching for one of the baskets.

I slide my phone from my pocket and wake it up, revealing a picture of me and Will. “This is him. William Matthew Griffith. Do you recognize him?”

With a loud sigh, he glances at my screen, then drops the basket and looks again. “Him? That’s Billy Griffith.”

My heart flips over. “Do you remember him?”

“Everybody who went to Hancock back then remembers Billy Griffith.” He cocks his head, and his eyes narrow in suspicion. “Who did you say you were again?”

“Iris Griffith. His wife.”

The coach gives a surprised puff, quick and sharp enough to stir up the hair on the left side of my face. “No way.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s just...” He gives me a slow head-to-toe, lingering on my curviest spots in a way that makes it hard to stand still, then follows it up with a grin, and I’m confused by the incongruity. His gaze was appreciative, but his smile isn’t the least bit friendly. “You don’t really seem like his type.”