Confidential(66)

“Does he know you’re out here?” I said.

She started up the engine and yelled, “Get away from my car!” And I listened, because I had the distinct feeling that if I didn’t, she might just run me over.

It was only after she’d left, tires squealing just like last time, and I was alone on the pavement, that I wondered: Last time, she’d had a bruise on her face. Had Michael put it there?

And was she really his ex?





CHAPTER 52





FLORA


It hadn’t been my fevered, jealous mind. It was true.

The giraffe had called him “Michael,” and she knew about me. That must mean he told her. And he must have also told her he was done with me. Otherwise, why would she have talked about losing a man like Michael?

Her voice was kind, but she was threatening me. She was going to tell him that I was out there. I’d still been nursing the hope that he didn’t know. The apology the other night had gone so well, and so had the lovemaking.

No, it hadn’t been lovemaking. Not if he could turn around and tell the giraffe that he’d broken up with me.

My hands were shaking on the wheel as I drove. I knew I shouldn’t have done it again; I shouldn’t have gone back to watch the Wednesday lineup. But my intuition had guided me there. I’d known that however things appeared on the surface, the center could not hold. Our relationship was fragile. We were inside a snow globe, and it could be dropped, and shattered, at any time. Was it in the blonde giraffe’s hand right now?

He was lying to her, though. We weren’t over. I was the one in his bed, not her. He was ministering to me, helping me recover from the mugging.

But she was the one on his couch, and maybe that was the better spot.

I’d already apologized in a general way; I could get more specific. I could tell him that I’d gotten insecure and decided to check up on him. I could say, truthfully, that I hadn’t even known what I was looking for. It wasn’t like I thought he wouldn’t be there, that he was pretending to be at work. He was dedicated.

Too dedicated.

He was cheating on me with his client, and I was the one panicked about how I’d explain myself. He should explain himself. I was the one with the evidence. I could go to his licensure board anytime and blow the whistle. I had the selfies I’d taken in bed with him while he was sleeping, date-stamped. Almost like I knew it would come to this someday.

No, I’d just wanted to be able to see him throughout the day. To stoke my memory. To remember every second with him. To feel loved. To know it had been real.

My cell rang. I went ahead and pulled over, since I was shaking too much to drive safely. The highway overpass was on my left; beautiful houses were on my right. I didn’t know how they could stand the noise. But then, I did know that over time, the intolerable became bearable. It could seem almost normal.

Young was the one calling, and curiosity compelled my hand. “Hello?” I said.

“Hi, Flora. It’s Young. How are you?”

“Fine.”

I didn’t sound at all fine, but he wasn’t going to step in that. “Good! Me too! I mean, I’m fine, too. A little better than that, actually.”

“Glad to hear it,” I said flatly.

“There’s something I wanted to tell you myself. I know it’s been a long time since we were together, and you might not care about this at all; you probably don’t”—he wasn’t normally a babbler—“but I wanted you to hear it from me and not the grapevine. Not that I’m sure if we have a grapevine between us—”

“What is it?”

“I’m engaged. We’re getting married in a few months.”

“Short engagement.”

“You always were astute.” He sounded admiring. The prick. “She’s pregnant.”

“On purpose?”

“We were planning to start a family someday, and God decided to bless us early.”

I felt like pounding my steering wheel. How did he get there first, the prick?

I’d met Michael so long ago, as early as I could meet him, really, and here was Young, happy and starting a family. And worried about how I’d take it. After everything, he was the one worried about me.

He wasn’t really a prick.

He went to couples therapy. He tried to save our marriage. He listened to everything our therapist told him, to the letter, and it all just made me think of him as weak and unattractive. He was sharing his feelings, being sensitive to mine, initiating sex in romantic and thoughtful ways, being an attentive husband and lover.

But it just drove me away. Like our therapist knew it would. Because our therapist had my number. He knew that what would get me was the push-pull: the “you’re my everything” paired with “no one can know about us.” The mixed messages. The drama. That was what had kept me in my marriage for all those years, that Young was . . . not indifferent but a little bit inaccessible. The same thing that had kept me in heat for two years, like our therapist knew it would.

He’d been playing me this whole time, hadn’t he?

Not Young, of course. He was too simple for that. Michael.

But why? Could it be because he really did love me? He was desperate to keep me. He knew that everything was psychology, including (especially) love.